The older my kids get, the harder it is to keep them part of Christmas and the old traditions. Our youngest daughter is off travelling, which involves text message photos from Bangkok nightclubs with comments like, “Check out the size of THIS spliff, dude!” Middle son flies off to his girlfriend’s on Boxing Day. Oldest has added a festive shift of dog-sitting to her duties in the animal hospital and so she is around for just a few hours on Christmas Day. We’d also had a bit of a row on the 23rd and were not really speaking.
It was going to be tough to make Christmas ’24 a memorable one. But I had a plan. And that plan was Just Dance 2025.
Back in the day, I was too self-conscious to play the initial arcade incarnations of dancing games, but would marvel at those nimble athletes who strode London’s Trocadero like colossi, attracting adoring crowds with their Dance Dance Revolution skills.
Dancing Stage MegaMix was later set up on the PS2 in what I used to call my basement gym. The treadmill and bike were hardly touched, but every day I would leap around on the mat, becoming what I am sure was the greatest dancer to the Cure’s The Love Cats of the mid-2000s.
This year’s Christmas Day plan was this: nice leisurely breakfast. Prepare the bits for the show-stopping mushroom wellington I am making as a peace offering for the Vegan Dog-sitting Daughter. Pick her up. Spend 10 hours waking my teenage son. Open gifts. Surprise them with Just Dance. Finish making dinner. Clear the decks. Then dance the day away until I have to take Dog-sitting Daughter back at 8pm.
A Christmas Eve snowstorm complicates things, as do the dozen Christmas Day calls to assorted family in different time zones. Time is already spinning out of my control, as is my Honda Civic on the snowy roads. So I turn back and borrow someone’s truck to pick up the oldest, losing more time. I am Ray Liotta in the final act of Goodfellas, except he didn’t have an ugly Christmas sweater and stress-induced rosacea.
What was supposed to be leisurely gift-unwrapping has me barking out opening instructions as if we’re attacking an enemy outpost.
“You, son. Move up the left side of the tree. Get the one from Granny. On my count … open!”
“You need to relax, Dominik,” says my wife. “It’s Christmas.”
“But we have to play a fun game of Just Dance 25!” I scream.
“Can we play Just Shoosh 25 instead?” offers my son.
I have one hour left until my oldest has to leave, and Christmas dinner is three oily towers of mushrooms, spinach and onions sitting by a vegan pastry blob that is refusing to defrost.
I can’t do it all. I can’t do Vegan Christmas and play Just Dance 25.
Dads sometimes have to make tough decisions. I am Bruce Willis, and this is my Nakatomi Plaza.
“Forget the dinner!” I cry. “Set up the Switch!”
“But I won’t have time to eat,” says Dog-sitting Daughter.
“I’ve got roast potatoes and carrots. I’ll put them in Tupperware,” I reply. “That’s totally vegan!”
Nothing now stands between me and Just Dance 25 … but a protracted game setup process will kill any Christmas fun. And even though I made it painfully clear that I needed four Switch controllers, my son has not charged his.
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Thankfully, it turns out we can use our phones. That’s the good news. The bad news is that my wife has a strange superpower which means nothing electronic works in her hands. She takes an eternity to set it up. Finally, we fire up the first song: Lady Gaga’s Poker Face. One of our favourite family tunes ever. Here we go!
Here we don’t. No one knows which onscreen character they are supposed to be following. It is total chaos.
Next up: Green Day’s Basket Case. Also rubbish.
I am losing them. This will be the worst Christmas ever.
Then, in the corner, I see four letters that give me hope.
Abba. Dear old Abba. Glorious Abba.
We rattle through three of their tunes in quick succession. Something clicks into place. Unfortunately, it is one of my wife’s hips and she taps out to put together the roast vegetable package for our departing daughter.
It is me against the kids. But they make the mistake of choosing Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. A song I have danced to on four different continents. I know every beat of that song. Within moments I am shirtless, I am a man possessed. I destroy them.
Next they select Boogie Wonderland, which has us in hysterics because it allows each of us a turn in the spotlight. It’s clever. It is magical. We are falling into each other’s arms. It is joyous. Just Dance has saved Christmas.
We send videos of the madness to our faraway daughter who replies with “I’M WEAK!!!”, which apparently is a good thing.
People ruminate on the meaning of Christmas: is it a religious thing, a family thing, a party thing, a food thing or a “post pictures on Facebook of the expensive stuff you got to piss other people off” thing? For me, it’s a memories thing. And we just created another beautiful one that will warm all of us, no matter where we are next year.
