’TWAS the fight before Christmas (dinner)... and all through the house, Just one creature wasn’t stirring; they just couldn’t rouse The youth hung-over with a head like a bear, Slumped on the floor, wishing no one was there...

I admit it. I was that shameful teenager who, decades ago, was in such a state one Christmas that I couldn’t even face looking at the magnificent dinner my mother had spent hours cooking. She was upset, the rest of the family fumed...and I crawled to the closet to emit self-pitying moose noises down the great white telephone.

We didn’t exactly have a row on that festive day but a frosty wind made moan.

That is one of only two Christmas Day frictions I can recall in our family. The other, circa 1971, involved whether to watch Butch Cassidy or play games. (We watched Butch after a relative entered the debate like Sundance, with all guns blazing.)

In other families, however, a survey suggests festive rows are so commonplace they are now regarded as Christmas rituals. How sad is that?

I have five pieces of helpful advice to fellow merry gentlemen to avoid Christmas clashes:

• Be flexible over TV-viewing. Even if Butch’s on;

• Decide in advance when to wash up;

• Don’t ask Cousin Cuddly if she is sure she should have that extra helping;

• Turn a blind eye to Britney wearing the T-shirt with that slogan even though Uncle Prig’s coming.

• Christmas, of course, falls hardest on the shoulders of men who have to do so much preparation for weeks beforehand and carry the major burden on the day.

Rule five. Don’t dare even think that.