Imagine a large table with a bunch of people sitting around it, eating beyond their means, Alka Seltzers struggling to create a protective film in their stomachs resembling a Vietnam sunrise. Red ribbons warring with beige ones that seem more distinguished but are just as rough. Colourful lights flashing in bursts made in the best little town clubs, faded plastic decorations, a toy Santa sewn by (possibly) exploited people climbing up the balcony, relatives struggling not to choke to death on exorbitantly priced oysters with their current accounts begging for mercy. Or a loan. Taboo topics, your conspiracy-theory uncle, drunk people, the €10 Secret Santas that will only make you take home a crappy, useless souvenir that will amuse you for just about 10 minutes. And
that’s if you’re invited. You may have to go through this process alone; it may be even worse. Or maybe not. Will anyone remember a hippie saviour who died for our sins? Or are we celebrating his resurrection? Is the critical thing to get together or to survive these days? What kind of mess is this? Imagine the scene: Happy holidays, it’s Christmas.