My Christmas Eve was spent in my nasty ass pajamas, eating some sort of chicken leg with my hands and drinking red wine out of a bottle (it’s all my mom had) while watching the Top Chef marathon and giving my family members the evil side-eye. The Beckhams obviously do shit differently. Posh wore her normal “sexy secretary going to a funeral” get-up and the Beckham men all wore suits to have Christmas Eve dinner at some fancy ass restaurant in London.
I never understood when families spent their Christmas at a restaurant. Maybe because it forces them to behave and shit? I was never into that. How the hell am I supposed to get drunk and act the fool with my family with all those dumb strangers around judging me?
Posh and her family probably sat at a table together and barely spoke. She nibbled on her lettuce ends while the rest of them stared at her, fighting the urge to climb her damn clavicle bones. Seriously, how is that fun? It wouldn’t be Christmas without a good old fashioned drunk family fight that ends with all of you passing out on the couch together while It’s A Wonderful Life plays over and over again on the TV. Or in my case, while a Top Chef marathon plays a million times. I think I watched every episode at least five times.