The 2nd edition of an improvised Christmas tree (this time around using a ladder), and keeping a tradition of adding one new stolen decoration. Much to my shame, this year I've stolen one from a Christmas tree at my beloved Candid Cafe on the same day that the owner - a lovely miniscule Italian lady - just before closing up, equipped us in the spirit of Christmas with leftover croissants and seven portions of an amazing homemade lasagna that would otherwise go to waste, and which kept us fed until the pay day on 23rd. Boo.

On the 24th we have committed the crime of last minute shopping (turkey deemed too expensive, we decided to combine the best of Czech and French tradition for the Christmas Dinner - yes, goulash - that I've never prepared before, and foie gras), which resulted in me and Lawrence collapsed on the floor of the shopping centre for hours, waiting for David and Mimi to finish their tour de Primark, with fellow-shoppers tripping over our lifeless limbs, forever contemplating if popping a bottle of prosecco right there and then would seem perhaps a bit vulgar.

Whilst the girls were decorating the flat with the most atrocious decorations we could find in the poundshop, I've started cooking THE goulash, being vigorously coached over the texts by Tereza by a string of very specific instructions (still confused about the need for mathematical precision in adding the paprika, in a moment accurately calculated according to the alignment of planets whilst repeating ancient alchemy formulas and invocations), calming my nerves by just about any liquid with ethanol that kept jumping in my hand
(not that I need an excuse, but hosting Christmas is kind of stressy alright? ALRIGHT?!)
and forever arguing who will cut all that fucking onion.

(Only for David re-heating, by then magnificent goulash creation, a day later, forgetting it on the stove for three hours, and thus turning it into a Triassic charcoal... BTW I still ate it in a revolt not dissimilar to my mum's brave attempts to aggressively finish even the most heinous of her cooking fails).

To my credit - goulash aside - I've already contributed to our international Christmas with a very Czech and very delicious christmas cookies (which Corinne later described as motherly kisses and hugs manifested in a form of sugar and cream) that my mum shipped over from the homeland in a festive package, this year sadly lacking her particular selection of completely disastrous underwear, but at least packing in some truly diabolical socks!

Our Christmas Eve traditions included

• having shots of Czech plum brandy with honey from the little Harry-Potter-potion-class-like flasks I've collected whilst visiting Poitiers

• doing extremely lame Marvel superheroes inspired xmas crackers

• using the shells of walnuts as tiny boats with little candle inside, letting them float in a water basin to predict what the year ahead holds for us

• and repeatedly indulging in an absinth ritual (with my mum being a good sport and sending me a proper Czech Absinth in the christmas package, plus Santa getting David an absinth-ritual-kit).

One part of the festivities, that's not even negotiable, is a virtual fireplace projected onto the wall - a several hours long loop of various hearths, crackling and hissing of the logs included - that progressively got more and more bizarre - from the festive settings, to a cute dog and cat chilling in front of the fireplace, followed by a dog and a HORSE tandem standing in front of the fire, to finally a newly discovered youtube sensation - BUBS (which incidentally - or maybe not? - is how David calls me since as far as I can remember) - who's a brain damaged crosseyed kitten with his tongue constantly sticking out... ahem..

And most notably playing the CARDS AGAINS HUMANITY to a bloodcurdling results, some of which I can't even publish here, and texting Ola vigorously as the midnight was approaching and I really intended for the rest of us to eat the Christmas dinner on the 24th!

25th is a day when you're banned from leaving your onesies and a sofa. The laziness reached a completely new level when we brought the toaster into the living room so we could avoid the pilgrimage to the kitchen, I've prepared a mulled wine and we kicked off the Love Actually, and it being Christmas, surrounded by a bunch of bizarro-wondrous friends and all, I cried a little...

I know I seems an insane person - because I hardly knows you - but sometimes things are so transparency, they don't need evidential proof. And I will inhabit here, or you can inhabit with me in England.

We've received an unexpected visit from David's colleague Nassera Dahmani, who's an Algerian fashion designer (honestly check her stuff online, it's kind of genius) with undisputedly the coolest hair of this Christmas, and lives in a red postbox on the same street, hanging upside down inside like a bat, and I promised to pour a scolding coffee through the letter slot every morning when I'm passing by to help her wake up (yes, we've been drinking continuously for two days by than, so the reality started warping ever so slightly). She came accompanied by a somewhat confused female(or was it?), who looked like her drink has been spiked in the trashiest club in Beckenham, but is in fact a professional mineralogist, who assesses various precious stones before they go on auction. Mirage.

As with every beautiful limbo like this, it inevitably must come to an end, so we can appreciate it more, and retrospectively recognise it as the GOOD TIMES.

Some unlucky people had to roll themselves over to work (five pounds heavier and with liver functionality reduced to 20%), and I had a little staycation with Mimi and Carol (details of which coming up later on the blog) - only for all of us to re-assemble at the flat on 31st to welcome the New Year together.

I remember feeling genuinely relieved 2016 is coming to an end, thinking there's not much more damage left to be done and people to be taken from us, only to bite my own tongue later when we all stared at each other in shock of George Michael's passing
(minus some of us, no names mentioned, who'd just shrug their shoulders noting that "I guess this really was his Last Christmas."), and later on - oh yeah, sure, Carrie Fisher, of course, keep it coming 2016.

Sadly this end-of-the-year departure of good people touched a family of my friend Tereza too, so before unleashing the New Year's Eve craziness, I've crawled under the table to call her, to talk a bit and force her (as well as everyone who came to the party) to come up with a question for our upgraded Christmas djenga.

Our pixie from another planet Corinne started her studies in music business not so long ago, and already had a multitude of brushes with celebrities, one of which being sat next to the Olly Alexander from Years&Years, at a dinner, thinking this gay androgynous demigod (very much a manifestation Corinne's type in men) must surely be someone cool.

Later on upon doing her bit of online stalking and realising him being the voice of Years&Years, she became somewhat obsessed with his music, and we made a pact right there and then to memorise some of his crazy choreographies and go dance our asses off at his concert.

Here we are following his YouTube music videos to some very mixed but enthusiastic results.

So that was our Christmas and New Years Eve.
A hot mess balancing constantly on the edge of hyperactivity and complete laziness.
The times of weird conversations, weird combinations of people/activities/drinks.
Also of course some completely stupid arguments and getting over them (on the bathroom floor), and an ingenious Real Housewives of Beverly Hills drinking game* to finish off all the (disgusting) alcohol leftovers (I swear at one point Lawrence combined Baileys with Absinth and Amaretto - but than again - she's American).

Although the NYE was widely defined by various people passing out...

... I think a very symbolic conclusion to the evening has been the midnight fireworks that we kept hearing all over the place, but never managed to actually see any of it, no matter how far we walked on our mission to get some more gin from Off-Licence, with Corinne having an ingenious idea to at least do the Katy Perry fireworks which resulted in some serious neighbourhood disturbances:

So suck it up 2017. Even if you decide not to give us a glimpse of the fireworks, we shan't despair. We'll find a way, and prance and laugh and be silly together. Just try and throw the manure at us, it doesn't really hurt that much, when you have awesome people like this to stand through the shitstorm together.

When remembering Christmas of 2016 years from now, it's going to be the little special moments.

Like Corinne demonstrating to me in the kitchen the moist sounds of an excited vagina by abusing lasagna with a fork, just before we served it to other people.
Finding out the supposed friends killed their Christmas Tamagotchi straight away after just few hours by a buildup of poo (same as Elvis).

The buzz of the house waking up, people doing their showers, coffee, meeting downstairs all still a little bit sick from all that food and alcohol indulgence, but ready to brave some more.

Corinne and David falling asleep on top of me and Carol Lawrence, in a bed that was clearly designed for just two, trapping me inside the blanket (sleeping alcohol-coma-bodies are really heavy, you know?!) killing the circulation in my legs and bringing my temperature up to 45 degrees.

I'll remember the constant hustle and bustle and laughter, and love even in the moments when you want to kill each other.

Just like with any other family.

P.S.: I love Ellen, but we really suck at playing HeadsUp. Mainly Corinne though. Still can't believe we've collectively pulled the most ghetto Bronx and Sicillian accents, gestures and gun-wielding impressions for the word GANGSTER, and the best guess she could come up with was: "50 Cent???"

*You need to take a sip of your drink every time someone in the show drinks, says 'Oh my god' or flashes a fake smile.