Sounds for a cool Yule

One of the unwritten rules in our house is that Christmas should never be mentioned until a few days before the big day. Mrs Spencer gets into a state in the run-up to the festive season, not least because, as a teacher at the Royal Ballet School, she has rehearsals of The Nutcracker to attend at Covent Garden, in which the school’s pupils always appear, as well as end-of-term reports to write.

When she is in the thick of all this, the idea of writing Christmas cards, buying presents and planning the catering brings on acute anxiety attacks, and if I so much as mention how much I am looking forward to the festivities all hell can break out.

But secretly I am looking forward to it, tremendously. We always spend Christmas in Dorset and the feeling of relief and peace when we finally get there is overwhelming. Years ago there was a Hanif Kureishi film called London Kills Me, a title that increasingly reflects my own feeling about the capital, especially at this time of year.

In my drinking days, I used to hate the festive season because the pubs were always filled with office parties and there was no space, or peace, for serious boozers like me. It’s even worse now I am sober and I find myself surrounded by screaming bimbos, macho lads spoiling for a fight and amateur drinkers throwing up in shop doorways as I head back home after a West End first night. At this time of year, Leicester Square resembles a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. Why I used to think getting wasted was a great idea is a mystery I still cannot fully fathom.

I got sober on 31 October 2000, and it was tough being on the wagon that first Christmas.