This was published 7 years ago
From incinerated turkey to runaway mice, our columnists remember festive fiascos
Jane Caro
"Happy Christmas, Jane." "Thank you, Alan." My father-in-law had just handed me a small present with a smirk. He and I always had a fraught relationship (he's been dead for 20 years).
He was a very British, very conservative man who was a stickler for what he considered the right way to do things. In 1984, I had spikey, asymmetrical, multicoloured hair to match my spikey, asymmetrical, colourful opinions.
From runaway animals to stubborn parents-in-law, Christmas is rarely smooth sailing. Credit: Stocksy
He deeply disapproved of me. Indeed, I sometimes wondered if my husband only married me because he'd found the perfect woman to get up his dad's nose. I opened the gift. It was an album – the collected hits of Pat Boone.
Wendy Squires
Wendy Squires.Credit: Mike Baker
One year I decided to give my girlfriend a copy of the hilarious feminist book How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran.Unfortunately I put the wrong gift tag on the present and my friend got a book meant for her husband instead.
Christmas 1984 brought with it Pat Boone for Jane Caro. Credit: Damian Bennett
I hounded her for weeks afterwards asking for her review. Eventually she replied, "I know you loved this book but I have to confess I'm just not that into Ricky Ponting, or cricket." Needless to say I didn't hear from her husband for a while, either.
Perhaps he was struggling with the chapter on menstruation.
Kerri Sackville
Every holiday season, the kids and I visit my parents on the NSW Central Coast. A few years back, as we plonked ourselves on the couch on Christmas morning, we heard a violent squeaking and discovered an entire family of rodents in the cushions. I became hysterical, locked myself in the car and had to be restrained from driving straight back to Sydney. The rest of the family spent the morning hauling the couch outside and chasing the mice into the bush. Then they cleaned up the poo as I drank heavily to recover. It was very festive.
Jo Stanley
One Christmas Eve, after the kiddie's bedtime, we snuck out to the backyard to pop up a spring-free trampoline, thinking we'd be done by the start of Carols by Candlelight. At 2am we were still out there, pulling, pushing, stretching, fighting and swearing like Samuel L. Jackson as we tried to get the stupid thing together. We eventually fell into bed around 3.30am, and when the kid got up only three hours later, squealing with excitement at her backyard surprise, we stood there, delirious from lack of sleep while Santa got the credit.
Kathy Lette
My new husband's family were coming for Christmas lunch. But the eggnog at the Christmas Eve party must have been spiked, because I collapsed into bed around midnight wearing nothing but felt antlers – only to wake with a jolt, pre-dawn, to the horrible realisation that I'd forgotten to take the turkey out of the freezer. What this meant is that my in-laws arrived to find me trying to defrost the giant bird with a hair dryer while heating up a packet of frozen mince pies under each armpit. The turkey was raw, and my goose was well and truly cooked. On Christmas Day I only make one thing now – plans to eat at someone else's!
Tracey Spicer
It started with a baster and ended with a turkey. (No, my IVF insemination wasn't DIY, but I quite like that line.) On Christmas Eve, 2004, we brought home our premature baby, Taj. The extended family came down from Queensland to celebrate – in other words, "get on the turps". On a hormonal high, I decided to cook Moroccan-spiced turkey for five hours. At 2.37am, the fire alarm started screaming; so did the baby. Seems I'd fallen asleep on the lounge. Everyone was in bed except for Dad, who was drunk. It's a Christmas miracle that we survived unscathed. Except for the turkey. Which was cremated.
Jacinta Tynan
"I have a question, and be honest," said my six-year-old. "Is Santa real?" I lied, of course, so raw are my memories of rumbling the great Santa ruse. The giveaway: the very same doll I'd seen in Mum's cupboard "delivered" by Santa on Christmas morn. For my youngest sister, it was catching Mum in the act of spelling "S-T-O-P" to our oldest sister as they stuffed pillowcases; at eight, she could spell, too. The lie is worth it for the fantasy of Santa's "snow" footprints, chewed carrots and full sacks.
Meshel Laurie
My ex-husband's family put on an imperfect Christmas every year, completely and utterly on purpose! They have a twist on the Secret Santa idea in which they all deliberately give hideous gifts. Each recipient has the opportunity to swap their prize for someone else's – and because she's either a very good sport or has terrible taste, my former mother-in-law invariably ends the day as pleased as punch with the absolute worst gift imaginable.
Jessica Rowe
Jessica RoweCredit: Damian Bennett; Nic Walker
Aged six, I remember hearing Santa's sleigh bells as he zoomed across the Milky Way. I'd managed to squeeze my eyes shut, fearful that he wouldn't slide down our blocked chimney if I was awake. Top of my wish list: white-boot roller skates. When I woke up, at the bottom of my sack, I found clip-on, extendable skates. My practical parents had hesitated because my feet "were still growing". I should have been grateful, but I knew my street cred was going to take a nosedive.