It’s Christmas Eve and I’m stood in the glow
Of the oven light flickering—mocking me, I know.
I swore this year I’d nail it, rise above the stress,
But the fire alarm sings louder than the carolers, I confess.
The gravy’s turned to charcoal, the sprouts are kinda grim,
The timer lied, the turkey cried, and things look rather dim.
So am I a gastronomic god or a gremlin in disguise?
One minute I’m majestic, next I’m burning the mince pies.
I’d have made some sausage butties but we’re all out of bread—
Now I’m googling “open curry houses” with a festive kind of dread.
But when it works, oh when it works—
My roast potatoes taste divine…
Tell me, Christmas, tell me true—
Is the kitchen my domain, or am I crossing the gremlin line?
The parsnips look heroic, the stuffing’s holding strong,
But my Yorkshire puddings mutinied—they knew something was wrong.
You’d think with all these cookbooks piled up like winter snow,
I’d manage not to set the brandy pudding fully all aglow.
I nearly ordered pizza, but they shut at half-past two,
And Deliveroo keeps judging me with every order I run through.
So am I a gastronomic god or a gremlin on the run?
One moment I’m Delia-worthy, next I’m crying “I’m done!”
I’d have made some sausage butties but the cupboard’s looking bare—
So I’m stirring hopes and dreams instead, and slightly singed despair.
Still when it works, oh when it works—
My turkey’s perfect, golden, fine…
Tell me, Christmas, tell me please—
Does greatness in the kitchen count
if it only works sometimes?
Maybe being festive isn’t flawless, isn’t neat—
It’s laughter in the chaos, it’s burnt and brilliant treats.
It’s dancing round the mayhem, it’s sharing what we’ve got—
Whether curry or roast dinner, it’s the company that counts a lot.
So am I a gastronomic god or a gremlin full of cheer?
Maybe I’m a mix of both, depending on the year.
But pizza, curry, turkey—whatever ends up on the plate,
It’s Christmas, and it’s messy… and honestly, that’s great.
’Cause when it works, oh when it works—
It’s magic that no flame can end—
And when it doesn’t… that’s okay.
I’ll just blame it on the Christmas gremlins,
my unpredictable little friends.