… and foodies wouldn’t have it any other way. But sometimes you get a very nice vintage – and a visit by a toppled Tory prime minister

CHRISTMAS IN THE WEST is that special time of year when you gather around the family hearth and count your blessings. Presents are exchanged, and vast and complex meals are consumed  – along with a merry amount of alcohol in all shapes, strengths and sizes. In grander establishments, there might be a choir of local urchins dressed for the occasion and a fleeting visit by Santa Claus and his sleigh. It’s all snowflakes, fond emotions and goodwill toward all.

Right?

The reality for most is a Christmas where you are forcibly reunited with all those far-flung family members you have avoided the previous 11 months of the year. There are disputes about the most trifling things, like who does the table settings or how the potatoes are peeled. Yes, potato peeling. I witnessed this once and the aggrieved mother stormed out of the house for a walk around the block until dinner was served. Then there was the malevolent soft drinks heiress in the shires who used to torture her daughter-in-law by banishing her to the children’s table for Christmas dinner. I dread to think of how many millions are squandered each year by desperate sons and daughters booking last minute tropical holidays just to get out of harm’s way.
And don’t get me started on the internecine warfare triggered by which divorced family member may come for Christmas or Boxing Day.

A very close friend of mine (well, okay, my wife) is blessed with a charming mother, who occasionally shows signs of, shall we say, eccentricity? She telephones her daughter in early December every year and demands to know “What date is Christmas this year?” When told that it hasn’t changed for more than a millennium, she retorts that she is convinced they are always changing it. My yearly advice is to play along and tell her some inappropriate day at the end of the month when everyone has gone to the country.

Which brings me to the food. If Christmas is such a special dining day, why are we forced to consume turkey: the dreariest, driest and most tasteless bird of them all? Recently there has been a move towards serving goose; and no wonder, since supermarket and wholesale butchers insist on charging upwards of £100 for an allegedly organic turkey. Better to ignore these artificial traditions and follow what a number of friends do: purchase the best roast rib of beef you can afford and have food you really enjoy.

The most bizarre Christmas meal I ever attended was gate-crashed by Margaret Thatcher a month after she was ousted from power in 1990. At the time, I was not one of her most fanatical followers and at no time had I ever wished to sit at her table. My host felt pity after hearing from one of Mrs Thatcher’s devotees that nobody had invited her to any Christmas festivities. It seemed that in all her obsession with power over the years, she really didn’t have many – or any – close friends. Talk about being lonely at the top. At least we were spared what would have been a true horror: the presence of her erratic son, Sir Mark Thatcher. As soon as he heard of mum’s good fortune, he got onto the telephone and demanded to be invited too. He was assured, through grated teeth, that he would be most welcome. We were in luck, he had a better offer.

The presence of a major celebrity at a private dinner is a downer, as they really are the 800lb gorilla in the room that everyone has to pretend is just another guest. And the most memorable dinners are not the ones where you have to be on your best behavior.

All this is a far cry from my early years in Australia. Strangely enough, it never seemed strange that we would have such vast and inappropriate meals, along with Christmas puddings laced with threepenny bits in the middle of scorching summers. We didn’t know any better.

My most satisfying Christmas was a surprise. I had been in San Francisco in pursuit of fame and fortune during the dotcom bubble and returned home to England to be told I would be participating in that game specially designed to torture wine lovers, “Guess the Vintage.” I had no idea what the wine was except it was red Burgundy and probably the most glorious wine I had ever tasted. Amazingly, it turned out to be a La Tâche 1942, made by Domaine Roman?e

Conti, the most hallowed name in wine. I suspected an unmentionable act must have been performed to secure such a bottle.

It transpired that the high-living business manager of a famous rock group had recently sold off his very old stock of Romanée-Conti. He had tried a bottle of 1954 Romanée-Conti and found it lifeless, so he wrongly assumed that all his older bottles would be the same. He didn’t know that 1954 was an indifferent vintage, but that 1942 definitely wasn’t. (All the 1942 bottles had stickers on them from the Nazis declaring they were not for sale in Britain or the United States.) I don’t really have the ability to describe the taste except to say it was ethereal and showed no signs of flagging despite its age. To make matters even more satisfactory, my wife had rashly purchased the 1954 Romanée-Conti bottles, but I was able to flog them off for more than double what she had paid, making our own case of mixed bottles gratis.

My advice for enduring the Christmas season is to keep it small and simple with the least number of people you never want to see during the rest of the year. If you really have to take any horrors, you can always invent a party you have to attend later in the afternoon. Another tip: host a large party for your real friends the day after Boxing Day, which is when most people encumbered with relatives feel like calling the help line. You will generate so much goodwill that they will repay you in hospitality forevermore.

And if Mark Thatcher calls, invent an outbreak of an infectious disease. Merry Christmas!