It’s the day you’ve been looking forward to all year. A chance to relax with the family you spend so little time with these days. The prezzies have been opened without a hitch. Mum’s slippers fitted perfectly. And Dad’s usual bottle of Drambuie went down a treat. Everybody’s in great spirits, and the laughter has flowed as freely as the wine.
But look, now we’re halfway through dinner. You’ve been chugging down the fizz like it’s low-strength beer. As for Dad, well, perhaps that Drambuie went down a little too well. Between the crackers and the Christmas pud he leans forward with purpose, fixes you with a woozy glare and tosses a verbal incendiary bomb into the the middle of the table:
“Of course, I’ll be voting for Farage next year. He’s the only one of those bastards who speaks any sense”
Mother lowers her head. The children are ushered away from the table. Grandpa pretends to fall into a deep deep sleep.
Your move. Do you: