Christmas will make you happy.
It will get you laid.
It will be reasonably priced.
There will be peaceful and loving times with your nearest and dearest.
Angels will sing from golden vaulted clouds.
The cat won't knock the tree over three times a day.
Santa will fly over on his sleigh momentarily masking the Star of Bethlehem.
You'll be so pleased you started on yet another Mince Pie.
And glass of Mulled Wine.
The Carol Singers won't actually be casing your home.
You won't squirm when your brother's new girlfriend sings along with Christmas Songs of Praise and leeringly encourages you to do the same.
Your mother won't overhear your father on the phone to his Schubert-obsessed mistress in her mobile home in the New Forest and destroy your ballerina musical box by piledriving it into his scalp when he's fallen asleep during Morecambe and Wise.
Morecambe and Wise will be funny.
Photocopying your genitals at the work Christmas party will be hilarious.
Signatures in Christmas Cards will be legible.
A and E will be free of assault victims.
Letty won't abscond with the Christmas Club money and leave the residents of Gelligaergwellt Avenue hamperless.
Your four-year-old nephew won't have you retrospectively wishing King Herod on him.
The suicide rate will drop.
Your four-year-old nephew won't get up around midnight to see if Santa's been and catch you wanking in front of Eurotrash.
Amazon will deliver.
You won't hope that the child in Miracle on 34th Street dies horrifically.
You will go to Midnight Mass sober.
You won't discover that your father was taken away from his mother for neglect then adopted out of the workhouse by his grandmother when your step-nieces put on stilettos and he lashes out at them because the sound they make reminds him of those women in their bonnets and clogs walking down the ward to his cot to peer down at him.
You'll go to Oxford Street at that special crowdless time.
The elderly will think with Kafka and Goethe about being alone.
You will do that Gordon Ramsay thing this year with sprouts.
No, your father and his neglectful mother will reconcile touchingly when she comes up from Bargoed to watch him at his Country and Western residency at the Nashville - of course she won't get trolleyed on Warninks Advocaat, call your mother a whore with her previous bastard in tow and fall off the toilet seat showing two-year-old you her parts while she pleads with your grandfather to take her false teeth out with the pliers as she's going to be sick.
The married man you're having an affair with will find time to have a second Christmas Dinner alone with you.
Mary Poppins won't make you a basket case.
The email from HMRC stating their intent to audit you won't arrive on Christmas Day.
You won't at any time put one pig minus its blanket up each nostril.
You won't get drunk and so randily maudlin you try and get hold of your imprisoned ex of twenty-six years on E-Wing to have pay-phone sex with him.
Yes, exactly - stop with the expectations already!