Christmas away from the Shire. Not really ever happened before. Let alone combined with winter sports. Still, no anticipatory thoughts could have geared me up for the Christmas day spectacle that, had it happened over 2000 years ago, might have taken the shine off Baby Jesus for a bit.
So, after a six course dinner and several glasses of Gluhwein, people had begun to get a little tired of shouting out "YOU SCUMBAG YOU MAGGOT", all in the name of festive Pogue spirit, natch. The Christmas CD was getting onto it's seventh rotation and it was clearly the best time for Mum to crack out 'party CD 2' playlist on her iPod. After a few civilised nods to efforts from The Kinks, the best of the Beatles' back catalogue over games of Jenga, I, for some inexplicable reason, started demanding Mud's 'Tiger Feet'.
So, over to the sound system armed with Mum and two new friends of a similar generation to entertain/embarrass teenagers with what Dad refers to as 'bopping'. Once 'Tiger Feet' had finished, however, Sting and The Police's 'Roxanne' popped up on shuffle - that's one hell of a playlist there.
One thing led to another and I was nearly dying from exhaustion keeping up with the dancing queens (thankfully Abba was, in this case, excluded). They, meanwhile, were owning the length of the bar with some side-stepping, air-guitaring, pointy-handing synchronicity. There's a reason clubs used to be called Dance Halls.
It had got to the point where only a bit of sloppy Carole King action would calm them down. However, the opening bars of 'Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow' went down like a lead balloon, to the mixed cries of 'you're a crap DJ' from my brother and 'GIVE US TINA' from the three-strong crowd. I left them with some Tina, which sounded surprisingly like Yeah Yeah Yeahs' 'Date With The Night' and wheezed up the stairs to bed.
Just as I was drifting off I heard the catcalling of 'In The Bleak Midwinter' down below. Well, it was a White Christmas.