Guest blogger - Merry Christmas from the butler

Preparing the house for Christmas is not unlike preparing it for any holiday weekend, or indeed any weekend when guests might arrive, except with more tinsel. One does, however, have to take precautions, like hiding all the best booze.

It is at Christmas that a large household comes into its own. Nothing does justice to a traditional Christmas dinner quite like a large kitchen staff and I believe the guests delight in being roused from their slumbers before dawn to the sight of half of the kitchen staff chasing the geese that have made a last break for freedom before being rounded up and beaten to death where they have been run to ground. Those of a delicate disposition are so affected by the scene of feathery carnage that they can hardly manage second helpings at lunch.

There are also seasonal delicacies to be considered. In particular, pickles, and the Master is very particular about his pickles. Normally the household source pickles from a very reputable pickle supplier, but for Christmas, the master insists on purchasing home-made pickles from Mrs Crone in the village. With but a single tooth and a singular passion for pickles, Mrs Crone dedicates her garden to cultivating the sort of things one normally finds in a pickle jar, such as onions, shallots and beetroot, as well as the sort of twisted shapes that can only be guessed at. The woman even brews her own vinegar. The taste is, I am reliably informed, remarkable and the kitchen staff inform me that the vinegar itself is like nothing else for getting the tarnish off of silver, or indeed unblocking drains – useful with an entire country house on a rich diet.

Of course Christmas is very much a time for traditions. The Master delights in setting the Christmas quiz and as it is announced one can see the bright young things up from university keen to prove that their grinding student debts are being invested in a fine education straining at the bit to show off their expensive knowledge, only to have their hopes dashed as the quiz is revealed to be an entirely scandalous and borderline libellous test of what has happened in the village that year, which inevitably ends with fisticuffs over the question of ‘which bounder got little Marion up the duff in March’ or a more serious thinly veiled accusation of cheating to retain the village cricket trophy.

As butler though, there is no greater privilege than being trusted to distribute the various clues and prizes in the treasure hunt. And of course the tradition of booby-trapping the suit of armour in the Great Uall is always satisfying, especially when one sees the end result. Is there a greater thrill than seeing a young chap almost faint with embarrassment as the thing clatters apart at the merest touch as he moves to retrieve a clue from the visor, or hearing his shrill scream of terror as the axe that was previously upright falls quickly forward, shaving to bristles the hair on one side of his head before embedding itself three inches into the solid oak floor? As I always say, smelling salts and a clean pair of trousers for the guest are the butler’s friend at Christmas.

But no mere parlour games, not even the traditional ones the Master insists are played at Christmas; ‘bloated goat’, ‘slap the leather’, ‘soapy dog’, ‘goose fat twister’, ‘chimney surfing’ or even ‘sherry gargling kareoke’ compared with the glorious sport of the Boxing day hunt. Or, as the Master says: ‘the Boxing Day hunt, thank Christ they’ve outlawed it’. Gentry in general love the idea of hunting, as a class they love leather, love borderline bondage and tight clothing obviously to hold well-fed guts in, but having it all tied up with hunting a fox on horseback with hounds is just not on. As the Master explains, the best way to get rid of a fox is with a gun, or shovel, or increasingly as more of the village lads return from a tour of Afghanistan, a young man toting heavy duty contraband weaponry aided by night vision goggles.

Merry Christmas!