It's Christmas morning in the sexted house, the kind that smells faintly of synthetic pine needles,

leftover piggy bits, and last night's G&D.

Outside all the world is hushed with the only sound being the gentle hum of a microwave

as producer Ben warms up a vegan nut roast.

Somewhere in this calm, two boys sleep peacefully beside each other. A look of

contentment on their faces. One of them has gone to bed at a sensible hour and neatly pressed

pyjamas, ready to seize the day and break his record for the most martinias consumed before

11 a.m. The other one rolled into bed well into the early hours of Christmas Day,

the stain of last night's Guinness still across his lips,

and a stale mince pie in his pocket,

or at least that's what we hope that bulges.

But this is not the beginning of a fairy tale.

This is not a wholesome Christmas.

This is the moment before the chaos.

As dawn creeps through the curtains, alarms begin to stir, phones buzzed, debonnae bottles will be popped.

Opinions will soon be unsolicited. William is waking up already irritated by something

producer Ben hasn't done yet. Jordan is waking up concerned as to which of them left the stain in the middle of the bed.

And as they rise to face their first Christmas morning together full of anticipation of what the day will bring,

one thing is certain. Christmas has come.

Lucky Christmas.

Shall we do it? The episode or anything else?

No, the episode.

...