Christmas day peaked around 8.30pm on the revelation that my father-in-law has ‘discovered YouTube’ and, due to the novelty of being able to watch it through our television, proceeded to play old live clips of Dire Straits at volume which made my ears feel like they were part of the siege of Mariupol.

The family scattered to the four corners of the house while he declared Mark Knopfler the greatest guitarist in history. On the opening bars of Money for Nothing (1990, live at Knebworth), he said ‘you’ll never guess who comes on to play rhythm guitar on this’. To which his wife responded ‘Eric Clapton?’. That remained unacknowledged until Clapton appeared, when he turned to the room triumphantly to reveal: ‘Eric. Clapton.’ like he was announcing he was the real seventh Duke of Malborough or something.

Christmas Day is like trying to put together a jigsaw using pieces from different sets – it goes together somehow, it creates something, but you wouldn’t choose for it to be like that. Present buying is a test of your worth to others – you think you’re worth a PlayStation 5, they think your worth a novelty wooden toy soldier pepper grinder. My dad only ever wanted utilitarian blank video tapes but my Granny thought he was boring so would buy him VHS copies of ‘The Golden Age of Steamboats’ or ‘Una Stubbs Explores Highland Bothies’.

A friend hosts both in-laws in a merging of Christmas traditions involving present unwrapping sessions – morning stocking, under-the-tree main present, post-lunch and evening stocking (revised). By the end of the day, gorged on the gift exchange, they’re unwrapping everyday items like gelatinous unrefrigerated tubs of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. 

There is both getting up early and sleeping late, a full-English plus salmon and poached eggs (plus, vegan for the Uni student snowflakes), under an hour later – mid-morning stollen and bucks fizz and cocktails and coffee and Christmas cake, then lunch (three meats), mid-afternoon cake followed by an extensive evening Christmas buffet. The mothers-in-law compete for elbow room in the kitchen to make turkey sandwiches, passive aggressively observing the others’ liberal use of cranberry sauce or foreign affectations like mayonnaise.

Boxing Day football is like a strong fresh wind blowing everyone in the same direction. It’s the first sighting of the car park after a long hike; it’s been lovely, but you’re ready for home. 

My earliest Oxford United experiences came on Boxing Days, visiting my grandparents, my dad would take me to The Manor where John Doyle could kick a ball from the penalty box to the half-way line. Nobody did that at primary school, I thought he was super-human.

The novelty of new people breaks up the calcified resentment of us regulars. Outside is a bazaar of anxious families trying to locate the correct turnstile and not lose their children to vagabonds. There’s a sense of fresh wonder as they treat the game like a trip to the pantomime. The details are irrelevant, players are identified by their shirt numbers, the sense of occasion is everything. 

A few years ago, I watched a Japanese women wrapped up in blankets of scarves who’d clearly spent her first Christmas with her partner’s family. The father-in-law was gentle and attentive, checking she was OK being buffeted by the crowd. She smiled widely in appreciation and nodded. Another member of the family appeared and handed out cups of Bovril, introducing her to the joy of drinking bovine extracts of indeterminate age or origin.

I’m secretly envious of her experience, I know all too well the feeling of unmixed molten Bovril hitting the back of your throat. I wish I could see its exotic novelty and the wonderment of the occasion through her untainted eyes.

Occasionally, though less often than we like to remember, the game lives up to its expectations, in 2003 we were on the front row of the North Stand, my friends were in raptures as Matt Robinson tore up the right flank against Leyton Orient. The game concluded with Julian Alsop poking home a last-minute winner, defying the laws of physics by outpacing the Orient defence. In 2015 I took the husband of an old school friend, and we ate Quality Streets as our friendship found deeper roots through the shared experience of Michael Appleton’s promotion hopefuls purring like a Ferrari against Exeter.

It is an event freed from the clammy hands of those who obsess over our impotence up front or Stan Mills’ playing load. Sometimes the club over-reaches – we froze while setting a non-league attendance record in 2006 against Woking and in 2013, against Plymouth, there were boxes spewing fire into the sky and Olivia Ox firing ping pong balls from her nether regions into a pint pot for a fiver before a 3-2 defeat. That happened right? Or is my memory fading? I’m sure there was fire.

Through the fog of whimsy, it’s hard to remember the bits in between the bits. If yesterday had been a pantomime, the first half would have been a harrowing exploration of Buttons’ back story; his mother (or father’s) embracing of gender fluidity, his tacit consent to the rigid classism of his best friend Prince Charming, and the asexual lens that the leading lady views him through despite his obvious devotion to her. Thinking about it now, is Buttons dead and simply observing on our behalf from the netherworld?

To say we were uncompetitive implies that we existed as a something akin to a sporting entity in the first half. Liam Manning talked about starting positions being more important than tactics, but it would have been nice if he’d left the team with some clue as to what to do after they were in their starting shape. 

We drifted the ball around the defensive line like we did in the first half against Reading. Inevitably their endeavour and energy was rewarded with a goal and the crowd fell to silence. With the canvas of the atmosphere now blank, they proceeded to dominate while we argued like a family bickering over the rules of the Trivial Pirsuit’s end-game. Panto season arrived and the team were booed off at half-time. 

The second half threatened more of the same, nobody seemed willing to break the malaise and take responsibility. Marcus McGuane was ailing in midfield, Stan Mills did his best but it was a predictable channel with Murphy missing on the opposite side. Finally, Tyler Goodrham allowed his impish instinct to take over and cut inside to bounce a drive reminiscent of Kemar Roofe beyond Jack Stevens for 1-1. 

McGuane was replaced by McEachran (bloke behind me: ‘Are you trying to slow the game down even more?’) but Cambridge’s threat drained away, Stevens made two excellent saves and the game drifted into injury time with little prospect of a winner.

With the clock drained, Brannagan – Mr Responsibility-in-chief - picked up the ball from distance, he looked up to find himself with time to set the ball. His connection ever pure, his vicious drive cannoned off Stevens. Following up were Henry, Stevens and Mills, mesmerised by Brannagaan’s threat, somehow Cambridge had mislaid half our team. Through the blizzard of yellow came Ciaron Brown, the mysterious woodsman arriving in the village to killed the ogre that had been stealing the townsfolk’s children. A simple header beyond the stricken Stevens ensured Christmas had been saved.

Brown wheeled away, a soaring hawk with his prey in his talons, the others mere sparrows benefitting from his protection and slipstream. Eventually they caught him, piling high, as the blessed relief swirled around the stadium. Eventually he rose triumphant to absorb the adulation.

Too many questions remain unanswered, but these aren’t the questions for a Boxing Day crowd; they don’t care about whether we’re a ‘three window project’ or what impact a new analyst might have, they just wanted a show and, for once, that’s what they got.