Knowing, loving and losing my grandparents, 14 years apart

Gramps and I, December 2008

Things I remember about my grandma’s death. She died 13 days before my eleventh birthday, in November 2001. She’d started having headaches in about September. I remember because it was around the time of 9/11, and the combination of events made it seem like there was this sombre shadow over the world.

She was in hospital from about October. I remember sitting in the waiting room in Watford General. There was a vending machine that served what I thought was the world’s greatest hot chocolate. It was the kind made with hot water, which formed these little lumps you could scoop out with your finger and bite into to release a burst of sugared chocolate powder. I would take this full-scale stuffed toy dog with me every time we went. It was a Yorkshire terrier (non-dog speakers’ translation: little, long hair, yippy).

I remember the smell. It must have been a certain brand of disinfectant that smelled forcibly clean. It wasn’t overpowering or heavy, but it seeped through the air and into your clothes and into my grandma, pushing out her usual scent of cardigans and walks in fields and cigarettes.

I was only 10 and no one I was so close to had died before. I believed she was going to get better with the same level of helpless faith that I had in God with a capital G and true love and my parents always being right. Every time the adults had one of their conversations in low, worried tones, peppered with medical terms and the phrase ‘brain tumour’, I maintained that simple expectation that she would be fine. Of course she would be fine. I knew they were all worried, but my belief never faltered.

I can tell you the exact place I was sitting when my mum told us that she was going to die. I was in the back right seat of her Ford Mondeo. My sister was in the passenger seat, my brother was next to me. We were going round a bend on the A404, at the point where you can take a right and go to this tiny village that is basically just a pub and some bored sheep. She said, ‘You do know that Grandma isn’t going to get better?’ None of us answered, but it felt like something I’d put high on a shelf fell off and shattered. I could hear Claire sobbing in the front.

So I only had 10 and a bit years with my grandma. I remember her short grey hair and her big round glasses, which she was always pushing up the bridge of her nose. I remember she made really good tents out of bedsheets and read us stories about teddy bears going to a haunted house and let us run through their tiny bungalow and jump on the bed like little maniacs. I remember her long floral skirts. I remember the taste of her ham sandwiches: airy white bread, olive spread, and ham sliced to this certain thickness, all cut into squares. I remember long walks and feeding ducks and the time this swan went for me (they are seriously vicious bastards) and she stepped right between us, put her finger up and said, ‘No.’ You bet that swan backed the hell off.

I sometimes wonder what our relationship would have been like if she’d known me through all my teenage years and as an adult. Those are the tough ones, after all, the ones where your generational differences start to show and you have to find the balance between needing them and loving them all the time, and reminding them that you are your own person, capable of surviving away from them and making your own life decisions.

Life changed for us all after Grandma Diz died. We all called her Dizzy, but her actually rather excellent name was Audrey Beryl May. I learned that the world isn’t fair, in the way that kids only really learn things when bad stuff happens to them. Meanwhile, in grown up world, my dad and aunt had lost their mother and my grandad was coping with losing the love of his life.

I won’t pretend that I remember what my grandparents’ marriage was like, because as I said before, I was under 11 the entire time, and mostly concerned with my Anastasia Barbie and the fate of the Spice Girls. But I remember my grandad on the day of the funeral. He looked lost. Like someone who’d been dropped in a desert and left to navigate his way out alone, with no compass or map to help.

Slowly and with lots of help from my aunt and Dad, he put together a life. At first, he would still pick my sister and I up from school on a Tuesday. I would make us both tea – his very strong, one Sweetex – and we’d have to sit and try to make conversation across this enormous gap of experience and age.

A lot of people, including both my parents, several employers and café customers, have bemoaned my tea-making skills. But never Gramps.

So I went through my awkward teenage years with my quiet, withdrawn grandad instead of my lively, fun-loving grandma. He wasn’t a great conversationalist, especially not with a 13 year old girl. I would avoid talking about her for fear of upsetting him. These conversations were tricky, but I did learn about his life.

He was in the army doing national service, and was stationed in Italy at one point. He was a crack shot and won a medal in a shooting competition, but he couldn’t afford to keep it up after leaving. He worked in a metal workshop – he was very good at shaping it into whatever he wanted. He needed a constant supply of Wine Gums. He was the kind of loyal Arsenal fan who wouldn’t shout at the TV but just stick out the rough and smooth with determined faith. When he was younger he enjoyed playing football, and he was still into golf and snooker, but those things gradually left him when the call of the armchair in the bungalow he had shared with Grandma became more appealing than a bustling snooker hall.

What was most welcoming was that Gramps was not one of those people fiercely clinging on to outdated values purely because they can’t accept the world has changed. He lived in a sort of bubble, with two TVs and the curtains drawn. He wasn’t interested enough in the world to judge people beyond whether they were hurting others or not. I never heard him say anything racist or homophobic. His motto was ‘Each to their own’, even if he couldn’t quite make sense of the ins and outs of things.

Yes, he could be difficult, and his waning interest in leaving the house and life beyond knowing the lottery numbers, Arsenal score and that we were all OK was frustrating, especially for people who did a lot for him with very little thanks. He was stubborn and tactless, often telling me that he didn’t have much to say and he did nothing all day. Not the greatest conversation starters. But that makes it all the more touching that he did push aside the fog of gloom that descended when Grandma died in order to call us just to say hello.

He’d had headaches and neck pains and emphysema for many years, which made breathing and moving difficult. He still got washed and dressed every day, even if it was just to lie on his bed. His hearing was good enough to listen to a conversation, and it was only in the last few months over Christmas that he became forgetful and confused to a worrying degree. I got to tell him that I’m getting married, which he was delighted about. In January we found out that he had an infection in his pacemaker, which could possibly be treated but would result in reduced mobility. Ultimately, it was the combination of this and an intense hip operation that finally wore him down, and he died at around 8pm on 20 January.

I had an idyllic child’s relationship with Grandma Diz that never had to overcome divided opinions or tension or the strain of miscommunication. And I also feel privileged to have got to know my grandad’s white haired self, as well as a snapshot of him in his prime, over the years when our age gaps made communicating that much harder. He might not have been perfect, but he was him, and that was enough. And I will miss him for being perfectly, imperfectly himself.

5 songs to update your Christmas playlist

If you’ve been anywhere in public for the last three months, chances are your feelings on the standard Christmas playlist have evolved from warm anticipation to mild irritation to tuning it out entirely. Put the festive fun back into the season of goodwill and mince pies with these lesser-known tracks.

For the ones glued to their phones

‘Text Me Merry Christmas’ by Straight No Chaser feat. Kristen Bell

If work schedules, family conflicts or an inability to adequately define the boundaries of your relationship in time to admit you’d like to spend Christmas together has forced you and your beloved/person you like more than most others apart, this cheesy tune will have you half smiling again.

In the tradition of lovelorn duets, Kristen Bell is trading texts and selfies with a long distance lover from Straight No Chaser. Also known as Frozen’s Princess Anna (that’s the one not letting it go), Bell’s Disney-sweet vocals contrast with the crushingly realistic scenario of spending Christmas without your other half. It’s spot-on in its melodramatic tone of longing, and may be the only festive song to contain the word emoji.

Best line: ‘I’ll be right here waiting/For my pants to start vibrating’

(American pants, people)

For the too-cool indie fans

‘A Great Big Sled’ by The Killers feat. Toni Halliday

Fair warning: I love The Killers. My favourite Vegas exports have released a Christmas single every year since 2006’s ‘A Great Big Sled’, with proceeds going to AIDS charity (RED).

They often go bittersweet rather than all out ‘YAY FOR CHRISTMAS!!!’ The ten tracks are like a chocolate selection tin. Some are better than others - the toffee finger or Malteaser of the playlist - but even the less exciting ones are by The Killers, and therefore more interesting than listening to 'White Christmas' again.

The band’s trademark indie sound is more evident in ballad ‘Joseph Better You Than Me’, novelty number ‘Don’t Shoot Me Santa’, wistful Hollywood homage ‘Christmas in LA,’ and in joyful Latin-influenced number ‘¡Happy Birthday Guadeluope!’, but ‘Sled’ contains the bells, whistles and festive references required in a cheesy festive tune. Brandon Flowers’ knowing vocals lend a mature, edgy glamour in this upbeat number, which also features vocals from Toni Halliday.

Best line: ‘The snowman is shaping up to be an eight but not out of ten'

For the feuding couple

‘A Christmas Duel’ by Cyndi Lauper and The Hives

For every loved-up couple trading mulled wine-flavoured saliva under the mistletoe, there’s a quietly seething duo trying to make it through another tinsel-laden season without googling ‘cheap divorce’.

If your ideal Christmas song is less ‘Little Drummer Boy’ and more ‘Fairytale of New York’, try this modern update on the ‘I really hate you right now but I can’t imagine life without you’ dynamic that comes with being told to be joyous and good-willed for the busiest month of the year.

Admittedly, the pair in this song have taken things quite far. It starts with him sleeping with her sister and spirals from there. There’s a drunk wedding, a hitman and a minor incident of arson. But don’t worry, its has a happy ending. Sort of.

Best line: ‘I bought no gifts this year/And I slept with your sister’

For Netflix and chill

‘FaLaLaLove Ya’ by Nikki Lane

Like taking off your high heels and tight party dress and sinking into the sofa to watch Love Actually in your favourite reindeer print pyjamas. If this song was a part of nature, it would be impossibly serene waves lapping on a white shore decorated with a tastefully twinkling light display. It’s all about ‘Yay the person I love is here’ but in a gentle, musing way. This isn't making out on a sticky dancefloor to a weird remix of 'All I Want for Christmas'. It’s shoving the furniture to one side for a slow dance in your living room.

Best line: ‘I got a secret and it's time that you should know/I wanna wrap you up in a big red bow’

For the wannabe glam rocker

‘Christmas Time (Don’t Let The Bells End) by The Darkness

Lowestoft’s finest delivered this glittery glam rock festive tornado in December 2003. Sure, it sounds like it was probably written by a group of 19 year olds who’ve just discovered Dad’s posh brandy during band rehearsal, but it ticks off a good number of the must-haves. There’s a yearning love story at its heart, references to snow (and, er, hell…), a children’s choir, non-stop bells and Justin Hawkins in sparkly gold Lycra. Apparently this was all a bit much for listless Brits listening over a decade ago. It was beaten to Number One by Gary Jules’ Mad World.

Best line: ‘Christmas time, don't let the bells end'

'Baby it's cold outside': aka 'What part of no don't you understand?'

An admission

I love this song. I sing it in the shower, I sing it when I’m cooking dinner, I sing it (very quietly) when I’m walking down London streets glittering with icy blue Christmas lights that make you feel like you’re in Richard Curtis’s latest film. It’s like champagne: light, joyfully giddy, with a gentle fizz that whispers of fun to come - the sort of thing that would appear in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel before the characters swirl off to some glamorous party, ready to chat each other up while waltzing beneath an outrageously expensive chandelier. However, just like champagne (and F. Scott Fitzgerald novels) there is a darker, toxic element to this ostensibly charming little ditty.

The reading of this teasing back-and-forth that we've all been merrily accepting is that it’s a mutual flirtation. The seductee wants to stay. We all know they're secretly dying to let the seducer slip off that fur stole and pull them into the depths of the plush leather sofa, as the camera sweeps slowly and discreetly over to the roaring fire. It’s not a genuine disinterest that’s got them pulling on the parka and braving the blizzard, but a concern over what the neighbours, Mummy, Daddy, sister Shelly and brother Charles will make of this scandalous overnight stay. Right?

OK, perhaps. But if, for a moment, we could all take off our ‘Getting through the day’ hats and replace them with our ‘Think like a social critic’ ones, it’s possible to see that what we're actually being treated to when this pops onto the radio is another example of the struggle our culture faces with the tricky concept of consent.

For the delicate of mind

If you really can’t bear the thought of having your favourite festive tune carved up like a turkey, and would prefer to pour another glass of bubbly and ignore that inconvenient subtext, stop reading now and have a refill. However, I personally believe that as pop culture is unavoidably impacted by larger societal norms, you can enjoy something on a superficial level while also acknowledging that, perhaps, it also contains more disturbing undercurrents that need to be addressed, lest we all keep making these same mistakes.

A story of wolf and mouse

The original score gives us the first clue that there might be some more sinister power dynamics at play here. The seducing voice, the one that’s obsessed with the climate, is identified as the ‘wolf’, with the other, demurring participant labelled as the ‘mouse’. I’m no biologist, but I know Little Red Riding Hood, and in my mind this sets up a predator/prey relationship right from the outset.

Dirty tactics

Now let’s check out some of those lyrics. The mouse is definitely sure that they absolutely, really, seriously, need to go. Like, now. They are wrapping up the night’s events with all those charming niceties: ‘This evening has been so very nice.’ Translation: 'You're cool and all but the last Tube is about to leave, and I have an episode of Orange is the New Black and the world's cosiest reindeer onesie waiting for me.' Nevertheless, our protagonist perseveres:

Tactic One: Sweet talking

Examples: ‘Beautiful, what’s your hurry?’ ‘Your eyes are like starlight now’. ‘Your hair looks swell’.

Intention

This wolf is no Andrew Marvell, but while they might not have the most convincing ammunition, they’re definitely willing to wield flattery as a weapon in this power struggle. Phase one is to coax the mouse into believing that they are the most desirable human being to wander the Earth since Helen of Troy, leaving hoards of maddened admirers drooling helplessly in their wake, and that they are therefore also the one with the control, the one who can say yes or no. The hope is that they will be so blinded by these charming comments that they will return the favour by giving in and throwing another log on the fire. That's all well and good if they were already toying with the idea of sticking around, but by identifying sex appeal as the valid measure of worth, the wolf ensures that the mouse feels the only stake they have in the game is as an object of sexual desire.  This objectification plays nicely into…

Tactic Two: The guilt trip

Evidence: ‘What’s the sense in hurting my pride?’ ‘How can you do this thing to me?’

Intention

That sheep costume is starting to slip, and we get a hint of this wolf’s true colours. The mouse has been giving off very obvious signals that they are not interested in seeing out the embers of that fire. In fact, just to remove any trace of doubt, at one point they say, 'The answer is no.' Not, 'Give it a few more drinks and we'll see,' not 'Alright then, but can we please finish the movie first.' NO.

As all socially competent people know, this is the cue to say, 'I must say that I am personally disappointed to have my expectations shattered, but I respect your decision. Let me find your coat, please do take a cookie for the road.' Unfortunately, we're dealing with a wolf, so despite the mouse's assertions, protests and outright refusals, they continue to insist that the mouse's unwitting allure has driven them into a state of wild desire. Now comes phase two: the guilt.

Suddenly, the power that was apparently handed over is no longer something that can be used to control the situation, but the burden of choice. From here, the wolf can trowel on the guilt like an overly ambitious baker with a bowl of buttercream. The mouse had a nice time, they like this wolf. Hearing that they’re hurting the wolf’s feelings makes them feel guilty. This wasn’t their intention, they just wanted to have an eggnog and a few mince pies with someone they find rather dishy. Suddenly, they’re being told that if they continue to ‘hold out’, as the song puts it, they’re being a cold-hearted tease. Suddenly, the assertion that you alone should be allowed to control your own body is not a human right but a selfish denial of another human’s needs.

Gender politics

I’ve been trying to avoid referencing gender, because I believe that this sort of pressure can be applied by anyone in any relationship. However, when the song is performed by a man and woman, the wolf is generally a man, and the mouse a woman, in accordance with the original score. (Although those without an aversion to ukeleles in Christmas songs can check out this version by She & Him for an interesting role reversal.) In this set up, the song also invokes that troubling virgin/whore issue women are left to negotiate. Her denial is a game, played out to show that she’s not so sexualised that she doesn't fret over what society will say, as represented by her vicious aunt and those pesky neighbours peering through their net curtains. If a woman is 'too willing' to test out the suspension on that sofa, she's the one making the demands, and is therefore the one with the power. However, she can't be so chaste that she’ll reject the seducer's advances outright. When your worth is measured solely by how willing you are to 'give it up', refusing to do so makes you a pointless participant.

Being outright creepy

Being told that there are ‘No cabs to be had out there’ is a bit like that scene in a horror film when the hatchet-wielding villain is two paces away and - oh no! - the car won't start. Yes, if you're looking for a reason to stay, totally forgetting about Hail-o is a magical excuse for stopping over for a bit of Christmas canoodling, but remember that the mouse has stated their total aversion to this plan. Reminding them that there's no handy method of escape becomes quite threatening, as they are left alone to negotiate this increasingly pressured situation.

We need to talk about booze
Now come on Tasha, I hear you say, there's every chance that those drinks they’re pouring are steaming mugs of hot chocolate or a nice cup of tea. However, since we’re all grown-ups, let’s assume it’s something a little stronger. That said, apparently our mouse isn’t clear either, asking ‘What’s in this drink?’ This is one of the trickiest lines to gloss prettily over. In our most optimistic moments, we can say that it's intended as a light-hearted way to show that the booze is helping our mouse to forget about All Of The Judgement so they can acknowledge their own desires and do The Thing they definitely, absolutely, totally want to do (no matter what they're saying to the contrary.)

However, whatever the intention, and whatever chemical assortment we're supposed to believe is in that drink, it now sounds uncomfortably like something is being used to cloud their judgement and leave them more susceptible to the wolf's plans. Maybe, when we’re doing our Serious Reading of this song, it would be wise to acknowledge that this should be one of those squirm-inducing lines that, much like guillotines, blue mascara and miasma theory, was ‘of its time’, rather than a nice little tongue-in-cheek reference to the inhibition-relieving effects of alcohol.

So what now?

Well done for making it all the way through this highly unfestive destruction of a classic song. The purpose was not to reduce a once frothy and charming winter tune to a pile of smoking glitter, but to demonstrate that our struggle to take the concept of consent seriously, and the sexual double standard, are so rampant that they pop up in songs that are supposed to be merry and bright harmless fun. While I hope you’re taking something from this, or just nodding vehemently in agreement, you may now replace your social critic hat with a paper crown, and get back to truly Christmassy pursuits a little more willing to look into the subtext.

Death of the Lady: why 'ladylike' is a sexist term

'If we bury the turkey in sprouts, no will notice the burnt bits.'

Bent over a saucepan of Brussels sprouts on BBC Breakfast this morning, Gordon Ramsay raised the problem that plagues many of us this year: “They will make you fart,” he warned. His interviewer, presenter Susanna Reid, immediately brought him up on this, quickly claiming in outraged tones that women don’t fart, sweat, burp or swear. I hate to break it to you Susanna, but if this true, you should really seek medical advice. For the rest of the unenlightened out there, women do, indeed, fart, sweat, burp, swear, urinate and defecate. Sometimes, I expect, all at once. Unfortunately, Susanna is not alone in her attempt to deny us these basic bodily functions; I have heard several friends protest in horror that they would never dream of performing any of these acts.

This is pathetic, ridiculous and maddening. By placing women on a fart-free pedestal, we are chaining ourselves to an archaic presentation of women as perfect porcelain dolls, whose only purpose in life is to be pretty decorations that are seen and not heard. Or smelled. The unenlightened should prepare themselves for a bold claim: to perpetuate this view is to present ourselves as inhuman. Yes, that’s right. Before you roll your eyes and return to polishing your club, let’s remind ourselves that this claim denies women the basic functions of human anatomy. For anyone who thinks that no one could be quite so stupid as to really believe this, I would refer them to a particularly ignorant ex-housemate, who had such trouble coming to terms with this notion that he chose to ignore clear evidence and to simply deny it. Mind you, he also believed that all women began menstruation on the first day of every month.

Clearly, gentlemen, it’s not just what we say that some of you struggle to comprehend; many of you have a lot to learn when it comes to female anatomy. Think about it, boys: if women are physically incapable of defecation (translation: pooing, shitting, taking a dump), why are we so frequently the subjects of adverts for diarrhoea medication?

Of course, all this reverts back to the notion of what is and is not considered ladylike. Traits in that first category include lipstick, needlework and child-bearing, while tattoos, swearing and an avid dislike of children would probably fall into the latter. To label the term ‘ladylike’ as restrictive is not to say that any of the activities which are given this description are innately wrong. It is more important to focus on what this term intends to prevent us from doing.

To draw on the example of the Olympics, sports such as boxing, judo and football are still held as pursuits more suited to men. To follow national television coverage would be to believe that no woman has ever so much as looked at a football, let alone competed in an international tournament. Boxing coach Hal Adonis (surely an ironic surname if ever there was one) commented that female boxers who haven’t been hit by their parents ‘don’t belong in boxing’, since women apparently need some form of motivation other than sporting prowess to get our pretty little heads angry enough to want to fight. On watching Gemma Gibbons win her Judo silver medal in London 2012, Andrew M Brown wrote that he 'couldn't help wondering about their soft limbs battered black and blue with bruises,' not something he apparently concerns himself with when it comes to competitions between men.

These examples demonstrate that many still distinguish between activities which are acceptable for men and women based on the archaic notion that women are inherently flimsy, fragile creatures. Like it or not, the word ‘ladylike’ is a sexist term because it allows people to restrict what women do purely because of the fact we have vaginas instead of penises. Of course, this type of gender-based classifications affects men too; how many have ever felt pressured to take up one sport over another ‘feminine’ one or to use terms which intentionally subjugate women in order to appear manly?

No one wants to be surrounded by a farting family post-Christmas dinner. But ladies, if you do let out a belter, don’t blame the man sat next to you: you’re only human, embrace it.

Secret Santa: festive fun or the nightmare before Christmas?

Secret Santa is a bit like eggnog; for some it joins mince pies and hearing Wizard everywhere as another mark that Christmas has begun, while for others it’s more like a threat than a promise of festive cheer. Unfortunately, unless you plan on becoming your intended recipient’s personal Grinch, it is no secret that once begun it cannot be denied regardless of your personal feelings and complete lack of preparation.

Why does Secret Santa promote groans of grim dismay? Frankly, Christmas is hectic. There are presents to buy, cards to write and travel plans to be made, in between which we are under even more pressure than usual to go out and have a good time. Christmas attractions and shopping centres soon take on the feeling of a stampede or a sheepdog trial, with everyone wedged together struggling to maintain the requisite good will to all mankind. With this in mind, it can be stressful enough trying to find presents for people you have known for twenty two years, let alone trying to pick between a rubber duck or a scented candle for someone you barely know. And, if you’re really unlucky, you might end up having to present a gift to the one person in your halls whose head you most like to shove up a turkey’s backside. Clearly not the tidings of comfort and joy that Christmas is intended to promote among us.

However, for all these potential problems, secret Santa is, in some ways, about the true spirit of Christmas. You might well spend hours searching for just the right earrings for your friend, only to receive a toilet brush and a voucher for a free hug from someone who panicked five minutes before they left. This ensures that your attention really is on the spirit of giving. Furthermore, since the low budget means that jet-powered hovering rollerblades are unfortunately out of the question, the focus really is the thought that goes into the gift. While you may end up with someone you can’t stand (in which case go for the lump of coal), you may also get the chance to show your friend how much you appreciate them. Watching their eyes light up a little over that pair of leopard print socks does make you feel a bit like Santa on Christmas Day.

Maybe Secret Santa is actually more like a cupboard: you get out what you put in. Of course, I’m not referring to the bouncy ball and foam finger that someone thought you might like, but the feeling of surprising someone else with a thoughtful gift.

Five essential components of a Christmas film

Whether it's a classic or a cheesy treat, everyone has a Christmas film of choice. The shops may have been playing carols since August, but now that those first few advent calendar windows have been ripped open it's truly time to indulge. Deck the halls, grab a mince pie, and see how many of these essentials your festive favourite features.

"And you're sure that a sleigh is covered by an automatic licence?"

Family fun. Like it or not, Christmas is a time for family. Whether arguing bitterly, screwing each other’s partners or discovering the true spirit of Christmas, families are often the ribbon that holds Christmas movies together.

Let it snow, man. Christmas is no time for rain, dear. However unreflective it may be of real life, we expect snow in Christmas movies. We want those shots of snow-covered hills bedecked with snowmen and sledding children, because snow is marvellous and beautiful when there is a TV screen between it and us. We can smugly turn up the fire and peek out from a duvet at the characters in the cold, safe in the knowledge that it won’t be us clearing the driveway tonight.

The knitwear before Christmas. Of course our intrepid characters need something to protect them from all that snow, and as the temperatures drop the gloves, scarves and lumpy woolly jumpers come out. Bonus points if any piece of attire has a reindeer on it. Triple points for bobbles.

Crazy stupid love. The brother of the woman whose house you’re borrowing? Naturally. The guy with stationery instead of hands who your mum has semi-adopted? Why not. Your Portuguese housekeeper with whom you have no way to communicate barring hand gestures and broken English? Meant to be. All that mistletoe seems to go to people’s heads, resulting in some highly implausible relationships. When the wrapping paper is in the bin, the Christmas pudding has been turned to crumbs and the hangover sets in, the tree has a better chance of lasting through the New Year than some of these movie couples.

Get your Santa Claus out. Surely the oldest character in movie history, Santa is sure to add a festive feel to any film. Well, any film in which he’s not played by Billy Bob Thornton.