Christmas is for children, and, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I am in fact an adult, and I have no offspring. I am no Scrooge, but I am far from an enthusiastic participant. Fortunately, I am in a situation where I can celebrate on my own terms (one of the perks of growing up).

I find Christmas overwhelming, especially in the UK, where you don’t get the festive speed bumps of a decent Halloween and a comforting Thanksgiving. (As much as I enjoy the history of it, Bonfire Night is really pretty lame. Does anyone lie awake in bed thinking, “Only ten more sleeps until Bonfire Night!”? No. No, they do not.) The streets are clogged with shoppers, pot-bellied men who try to pass off their shitty sartorial choices as “ironic”, and drunks. So I hide in my warm little room, experiencing Christmas via video games and books at times and in dosages of my choosing.

We do have a nice little tableau in front of the non-functional fireplace (since converted into a non-functional gas fire). There are presents to be opened and a few cards. It’s modestly jolly. A tableau that has just finished its second drink, if you will.

I do have at least one tradition these days, and that is following the Sheriff’s Riding in York on the winter solstice. (You can read a brief history of it here.) Beginning outside Micklegate Bar, the Sheriff, accompanied by the Lord Mayor, proclaims:

Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! We command that the peace of our lady the Queen be well kept by night and day but that all manner of whores, thieves, dice players and other unthrifty folk be welcome to the city, whether they come late or early, at the reverence of the High Feast of Yule till the Twelve Days be past. God save the Queen!

Then, if you are so inclined, you can answer with your own shout of God save the Queen and doff your cap. From there we parade around the streets with musicians in red Tudor dress playing medieval instruments and directing traffic with torches (the fire kind, not the electric kind). The leader of this motley crew bears the York flag, a Saint George’s Cross with lions. The proclamation is repeated at Monk Bar, the Minster, and Bootham Bar. The Riding ends in Saint Helen’s Square in front of Mansion House.

It’s wonderfully pagan and atmospheric and slightly bonkers. So, just my cup of tea. Between the darkness and the mist and the glow of the Christmas lights, it’s just about impossible to take a photograph. I like that; it adds to the mystery, and reminds you of the value of going out and experiencing something in the real world rather than just watching a video of it on YouTube.

As for New Year’s Eve and Day, I don’t do a damn thing. It’s tradition.