I am not a homophobe. However, whenever I hear the term ‘partner’ as in the sentence… ‘this is an invite to you and your partner’, I always associate the word ‘partner’ to mean that as the same sex as the recipient. The point of my irreverent bleating is that I recently received a Christmas card from my nan saying ‘Happy Christmas to a grandson and partner’. Now, my nan has met Lysey, and she has also known me throughout my existence, so she knows whom I bat for, but to me that particular card greeting sounds a little bit gay. Nevertheless, we were both really chuffed with the card, and I have personally thanked my nan for the thought. Clinton Cards really does accommodate for every type of scenario.

On the issue of Christmas, it’s only nine days away, but it still doesn’t feel festive at all over here. We put our tree up this week – in the heat of the summer (it was 34 degrees here on Saturday – 12/12 – how unfestive is that?) – and to me it doesn’t feel right. Moreover, here in Australia we are not saturated with television adverts showing the latest must-have toys, or the tannoys in any of the department stores do not pollute the airwaves with intolerable Christmas carols.

All the natives will have it that Noel should be celebrated in the summer, but as I point out to them, Father Christmas and his reindeers set off from Lapland (not that dodgy ‘theme park’ in Hampshire where bouncers and elf’s were getting beaten up, but the place in the North Pole), where it is regularly cold, and not a place where it is regularly hot, such as Kenya. Therefore, I know I am justified in saying that Christmas is best served cold.

Upon mentioning the fact that Saint Nick is not based in Kenya, it got me playing the race card. Why is it that you never see a black Father Christmas? Indeed, I have made my own attempts to highlight the plight of coloured Saint Nick’s, but I am still yet to see one for real. My dad is a butcher by trade, and during my college days, mother bought the family a computer so I could type up all my assignments. (Stick with this – it’s good). Well, Microsoft Word has an amazing program called ‘Word Art’, and my dad, acting in his Alan Sugar demeanor, wanted me to print out some festive pictures so he could put them in his shop window. Amusingly, I decided to print out pictures of black Santa’s rather than your traditional white one (that sounds so racist), and because he is not that computer savvy I knew he wouldn’t be able to change it. The village of Stogursey, it has to be said, is not the most open minded of places judging by their reaction; I gather they were a little taken aback by the black Santa’s that appeared in the butcher window that year.

Continuing with a Christmas theme, many moons ago, during my days of dating Laura, she invited me to her works Christmas party, to which I agreed attend. Twenty minutes into that very party I vowed never to attend another work Christmas party where my partner has invited me. Lysey, to her knowledge, wasn't aware of my stance, but I feel vilified in my decision.

During that night in Exeter, perhaps five years ago, Barclays Bank, her employer, put on a meal for all members' of staff plus their other halves. Moreover, they also had a DJ (I use the term 'DJ' in the loosest possible term. If you count an individual dropping hits from 'Now 59' and 'The best Christmas songs....ever!' as DJing then you and I have a difference of opinion), and there was also a fully stocked bar. Naturally, all the workers talked shop leaving us, that's the 'other halves', to congregate around the bar and make idle small talk. A typical conversation that night would have gone as follows:

Me: You all right mate?

Him/her/it: Yeah, thanks. (Note the lack of tag questioning on their behalf. Why do people never enquire about the other person's welfare?)

A long pause would usually follow such an opening, followed by some irreverent chit chat about how bad the DJ was and how nice the food was. (By the way, I had to pay for the meal despite us being in the pre-global recession days).

Me: What do you do for a living? (Not really caring, I'd merely ask to keep the conversation going and to drown out the noise of DJ Otzi's 'Hey Baby' polluting the background)

Him/her/it: I work in accountancy.... (there's a sure way to keep a conversation going!)

An even longer pause would follow. How do you respond to that sort of an answer?

Me: Have a good night, mate. I'll see you later on.

Multiply that riveting extract by roughly 30 (the amount of other halves) and you can see why I vowed never to attend another such party. The bank workers, at this time, were mainly drunk and dancing the night away. In short, they were having a good time, whereas I got the impression all of us left at the bar were getting the sort of enjoyment akin to pulling teeth. It wasn't the workers fault, they earnt their right to let their hair down, but they should only invite people who are affiliated to the company.

For Lysey's Christmas party they came up with a theme, so everyone had to dress up. The theme was 'a night at the Oscars', so people could either go as a movie character or in tux. Lysey, to her credit, was on meeting/greeting duty, plus she had to help out with the organisation on the night, so, as she put it to me: "I am not babysitting you all night". This, it must be said, made my decision ten times easier; not only would I be dressed up like a twat, but also I'd literally know no one in attendance. Despite the lure of free alcohol and food, the idea of me being dressed up as Jim Carey's character in The Mask and having to entertain myself didn’t appeal. I admit that I am perhaps the most boring person around, but I will honestly live with that.

All this negativity surrounding the 25th of December makes me sound like a Jehovah Witness, but I am anything but. Indeed, I have my own story of an encounter I had with a Jehovah Witness during my university days in Southampton, but as I do not like attending Christmas parties – including my own – I shall save it for next week. After all, I have to find something to write about.

It’s not all ba’ humbug for me, however. Last Tuesday (9/12) I was again knocking on a pub door at the ungodly hour of 7am to watch the Tottenham West Ham game. Back home I was never a fan of the Monday night kick-offs, simply because it meant having to wait an entire weekend to see my team in action, and also Match of the Day was never as appealing. However, over here I look forward to them as I can see my team before work, and this time I was joined by a dozen like minded folk (which was about 11 more than my last visit when I watched the Watford match).