Welcome to the Merrineum

It’s the least wonderful time of the year. Bah humbug, one and all!

I bet you’re full to bursting by now. Photo by Jed Owen on Unsplash.

I’m sorry to piss on your roast potatoes, but it’s 27th December and Christmas has officially shot its load. It’s spunked all its gravy and bread sauce everywhere and is totally spent. And yet, we’re expected to be festive for six days after the actual event. Apologies, but this is bullshit.

They call it the ‘Merrineum’ - a pun on ‘perineum’, probably because it stinks. It’s the bit between Christmas and New Year, and I absolutely hate this time.

NB: I know that if you have a full-time day job, the Merrineum is often your long-awaited holiday. And that’s fine. I’m not gonna tell you how to spend your holiday. I’ll just rant about why I detest it and what I’m choosing to do instead, hopefully in an entertaining fashion!

Now, don’t get me wrong: I love Christmas. For me, Christmas starts the day after Halloween: the wreath goes on the front door, the decorations come out, and I start writing all my Christmas cards.

I love light in the darkness, feeling jolly despite the gloom outside, and spreading cheer. And I enjoy the build up to the big day, which is extra-special when you have a child: their excitement at opening Santa’s stocking, then enjoying the Christmas presents you’ve bought them.

Let the bells end. Photo by Rodion Kutsaiev on Unsplash.

Christmas dinner is delicious with all the trimmings. It would have been even more delicious this year if I’d been allowed to eat meat, but the 12yo is quite rightly a militant veggie and she’d kick off. She correctly said recently, “Pigs in blankets is such a cruel and offensive name!” And she’d have shot me death stares across the kitchen table if I’d dared eat turkey. She herself enjoyed a plain baked potato for Christmas lunch. Not even with any butter. No wonder she’s so skinny.

So I had a nut roast, crispy browned spuds, gravy (from chicken - shhh!), sage and onion stuffing, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts and parsnips, all washed down with chocolate milk. Dessert was Christmas pudding with custard, mince pies, Roses, Quality Street and trifle.

Go big or go home, right? And I was already at home.

I’m not alone: most adults gorge ourselves like ducks being fattened up for foie gras. My lovely friend Gary said on Christmas Day, “I've eaten so much that it genuinely feels like there's food resting in my neck.”

I don’t know why we do this to ourselves. If it were up to me, Christmas would have ended at 11.59 on 25th December. Yet it’s as bloated as all our bellies, and drags on pointlessly for another six days.

So you have to sit like a slug on the sofa next to Racist Uncle, watching shit telly as he makes insufferable comments about all the ‘wokies’ and how the BBC now stands for ‘Blacks and Browns Corporation’, before demanding you switch channel to GB News.

I once took a £30 minicab all the way across London on Christmas Day, from Pinner to Leytonstone, to avoid spending Christmas with my mum and family. Because lunch was so wretched, I couldn’t bear a second more of it, and preferred to shell out several tenners rather than put up with a minute more of their company.

These days, I don’t invite Racist Uncle (or Racist Anyone, for that matter). If Lily’s not here, I’m spending Christmas alone.

Because then, aside from anything else, the food problems don’t occur.

Not pictured: Toxic Mum and Racist Uncle. Photo by Roberto Nickson on Unsplash.

A dangerous time for binge-eaters

I bet you’re stuffed and your stomach’s swollen, but you’re still reaching for the dregs of the Quality Street tub: the Toffee Penny and the Blue Coconut One. Because they’re there.

Well, spare a thought for those of us obese binge-eaters who really want to diet, but can’t, because we’re surrounded by junk food and it’s our kryptonite.

“Learn to take responsibility for yourself!” bleat unempathetic twats like my ex-husband, whose sole achievement in life was Being Thin, which he lorded over me like he had the business empire of Jay-Z, the muscles of Arnie and the looks of Ryan Gosling (spoiler: nothing could have been further from the truth).

He didn’t understand what being an addict is: you literally can’t stop yourself from using a substance if it’s in the vicinity. “Learn to take responsibility” doesn’t work when you have a mental illness.

You wouldn’t encourage a drug addict to keep syringes of heroin in the house, or an alcoholic to stock up on the booze. You wouldn’t say, “It’s Christmas - have at it, enjoy yourself!”

But people still tell those of us with binge-eating disorder, “A little of what you fancy does you good! Treat yourself, you can diet in the New Year.”

You’re basically saying to us, “Go on, empty that entire syringe of smack into your veins! Have fun. You can come off the drugs in January.”

I’ve spent the past decade beating myself up for compulsive eating, but you know what? This is my one vice. I’ve known people who drink too much or use cocaine. I’ve known emotionally abusive men, physically violent men, women with nasty tempers, women who bitch about literally everyone, rude people, lazy people, people with zero ambition…

We all have our flaws, but no one looks down on the people above as much as they look down on compulsive eaters.

Because “fat people are gross, ugh!” *rolling eyes into the back of my head emoji*

Christmas has a lot to answer for. Photo by Sigmund on Unsplash.

Here’s how to deal with the Merrineum

The Merrineum is boom time for several of the deadly sins, most notably greed, sloth and gluttony. I don’t give a shit about ‘deadly sins’ from a religious perspective, because I am a massive Godless heathen, but I do care about how being lethargic and over-full makes me feel.

It would be different if we were all happy stuffing ourselves to the gills and lying inert on the couch. But I don’t think we are. Perhaps I’m only speaking for myself here, but I feel miserable and useless when I’m so unproductive and inactive.

So here’s my plan for handling the Merrineum: