Ho, ho, no! Joly by name, not by nature - I suffer from Christmas depression

I loathe being told what to do – and that includes having to have a fabulous family time

"I love the concept of Christmas. It’s the reality that disappoints" (Rex)

Despite my surname, I suffer from Christmas depression. I don’t know why this should be: as a kid in Beirut I had magical Christmases. Sure, there was the annual fight not to wear a tie before we drove down to the English church on St George’s Bay. That church is no longer on St George’s Bay, but about half a mile inland as the rubble of war-torn Beirut filled up the surrounding Mediterranean to make a whole new reclaimed section of the Lebanese capital. The rest of the day was brilliant – back for presents under the tree and a big lunch, followed by the Queen on the World Service and the celebratory tracer fire arc over Beirut below.

Now I have a Canadian wife who adores Christmas. On my first Yuletide in Canada we all hopped in the car and drove down to Niagara. I thought we were off to see some display at the famous waterfalls. Maybe a Frenchman was attempting to cross them on a tightrope and would plummet to his death? That would have cheered me up. But no, we were there to drive around looking at the extraordinarily over-the-top lighting displays on opulent lakeside houses. “Ooohh, look at that one,” swooned my in-laws. I opted not to explain that, should you attempt that sort of thing in England you would be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood.

At subsequent family Christmases in the UK, I’ve played the “party pooper” with aplomb. My wife thinks I do it on purpose, because I can’t be bothered with the whole thing. She couldn’t be more wrong. I love the concept of Christmas. It’s the reality that disappoints. I start to get grumpy about now as I’m traipsing around getting presents for everyone I’ve ever met – presents I know they don’t really want.

Then a couple of days before the big day, my black dog turns up growling. If I cook, stress levels become insane as I try desperately to keep up with whatever Nigella has suggested we do with our turkey this year. Twice we attempted to avoid this by going out for Christmas lunch. It never works. Sitting in a pub being served triple-price turkey by underpaid Bulgarians on double overtime just makes you feel hollow and empty.

I think it has something to do with expectation. I loathe being told what to do – and that includes having to have a fabulous, wonderful, family time. To me all the best things in life are spontaneous and unexpected. The inescapable Christmas bandwagon starts rolling in mid-September. This thing is coming and you WILL have a merry, jolly, family, fun experience…

This year I’m off to Canada again. We should at least have the festive advantages of snow, as well as an enormous, pre-made Christmas-loving Canadian family. Doubtless we shall pile into cars and head off to Niagara again. Ah well, you never know. If we time it right there might be some Japanese adrenaline junkie going over the falls in a barrel.