Seasonal greetings from Mars, where the sky is the colour of overcooked salmon, the temperature is best described as “actively hostile,” and – against all reason, probability, and my better judgement – I have just experienced my first Christmas.
I was assured that I would “love it.” This, coming from a species that voluntarily invented both the leaf blower and reality television, filled me with understandable scepticism. And yet – brace yourselves – I must admit something shocking.
You were right.
The concept of Christmas: a holiday designed by chaos itself
Before participating, I believed Christmas to be a loosely organised Earth ritual involving gift exchanges, mild cheer, and an alarming quantity of jumpers. I was unprepared for the sheer scale of it. Christmas, I have learned, is not a day. It is a psychological state. A prolonged experiment in endurance, optimism, and baked goods.
It begins innocently enough – decorations, lights, vague goodwill – and then escalates rapidly into a full-blown domestic siege involving food preparation, enforced merriment, and the occasional emotional breakdown over wrapping paper.
Naturally, I was intrigued.
The tree incident (plural)
I had been told, repeatedly, that Christmas requires a tree. This struck me as odd. On Mars, we do not celebrate anything by dragging vegetation indoors and adorning it with lights, but I am nothing if not committed to cultural immersion. After some difficulty sourcing an actual Earth tree (Mars is regrettably light on pine forests), I settled for a very convincing synthetic model smuggled in via an unlabelled supply pod. I placed it proudly in the habitation dome, decorated it with lights, baubles, and one small ornament depicting a star, which I assume is traditional.
Enter Grzz’lax.
Grzz’lax, for context, is many things: loyal companion, enthusiastic helper, and a creature utterly incapable of respecting festive boundaries. Within minutes of the tree being erected, he decided it was clearly an enemy installation. He climbed in it knocked it over once. I righted it. He knocked it over again with intent. By mid-morning, the tree had been toppled four times, and Grzz’lax had become increasingly entangled in tinsel, which only enraged him further. By the end of the day, he was wrapped from head to limb in shimmering strands, resembling either a disgruntled festive caterpillar or a very angry decoration. He refused to move until I promised him a mince pie. Speaking of which…
Mince Pies: a betrayal, but a delicious one
I approached mince pies with caution. “Mince”, to a Martian, implies meat. Preferably spiced meat. Possibly something with tentacles. I was therefore deeply suspicious when informed that mince pies do not, in fact, contain mince. This feels misleading at best and legally actionable at worst. However, I was assured this deception is part of the charm.
Reader, I was unprepared.
Sweet pastry. Fruit filling. Spices. No meat whatsoever, yet somehow better for it. I consumed one mince pie. Then another, purely for research. By the fifth, I had accepted that I might need to file for Earth citizenship purely to ensure continued access. Grzz’lax ate the pastry and rejected the filling, which I consider a personal failing on his part.
A brief, entirely hypothetical visit to Earth
Christmas dinner, I was told, requires a turkey. Obtaining a turkey on Mars is, I regret to inform you, not straightforward. There are no turkeys here. There are many things, but turkeys are not among them. After much deliberation, I made the entirely reasonable decision to undertake a brief, clandestine visit to Earth. Nothing dramatic. In and out. No sightings. No probing. Strictly poultry-related.
I landed discreetly in what I believe was rural Britain, based on the number of hedges and the intense national commitment to complaining about the weather. I acquired a turkey and some other Christmas specialties from a shop that seemed alarmingly relaxed about my appearance, which says more about Christmas retail than it does about my disguise. I returned to Mars victorious, turkey secured, conscience clear.
Cooking it however, proved another matter.
Earth recipes assume gravity, atmosphere, and ovens that behave predictably. Mars offers none of these. The turkey took longer than expected, floated briefly, and at one point attempted to escape the roasting tray. Nevertheless, I persisted. Christmas, I am told, is about perseverance in the face of logistical nightmares. Eventually, I produced something recognisably turkey-adjacent, accompanied by potatoes (surprisingly cooperative), vegetables (less so), and gravy, which in low gravity develops ambitions of its own.
Christmas Crackers: festive weapons
You failed to warn me that Christmas crackers are not, in fact, biscuits, but small, decorative explosives disguised as table decorations. Had I known this, I might not have pulled one indoors. The first detonated with a bang that echoed through my habitat like a distress signal, prompting me to instinctively activate defensive shielding and briefly consider evacuation procedures.
The paper crown launched itself across the room with such velocity that it embedded itself in the opposite wall, where it remains as a warning to future visitors. Inside the cracker, I discovered a small plastic whistle, which Grzz’lax promptly swallowed. He is fine. He now chirps in a slightly different key. I assume this is permanent.
Then there was the joke.
“What do you call a blind reindeer?”
“No eye-deer.”
I paused. I reread it. I briefly questioned the structural integrity of the English language itself before formally reporting the matter to the Interplanetary Crimes Tribunal.
Still, determined to embrace the tradition, I pulled another cracker with Grzz’lax. This was a mistake. The explosion startled him so profoundly that he launched himself directly into the Christmas tree, which – as you may imagine – toppled over again. By this point, the tree and Grzz’lax had developed a hostile but intimate relationship involving tinsel, baubles, and mutual resentment.
Once calm was restored, I donned the paper crown contained within my cracker – because it seemed rude not to. I then read the joke aloud, laughing politely in the way I believe humans do when confronted with something deeply unfunny but culturally important.
I now understand that Christmas crackers exist to startle diners, distribute useless objects, and deliver jokes of such appalling quality that they defy known linguistic standards. I do not approve of them.
But I will, inexplicably, pull them again next year.
The mulled wine situation: a failure of Physics
I was very excited about mulled wine. Warm wine. Spiced. Comforting. A drink explicitly designed to make winter feel survivable. I followed the instructions with scientific precision. I added spices. I applied heat. I waited.
Despite my best efforts, the mulled wine is still frozen.
I have checked the heat source. I have checked the container. I have stared at it with festive optimism. Nothing. Mars has decided that warm wine is a fantasy best left on Earth. At one point, I attempted to drink it anyway, only to realise I had created a wine-flavoured ice sculpture. Grzz’lax licked it once, recoiled, and has refused to acknowledge it since. I remain hopeful. By Easter, it may be drinkable.
Gifts, goodwill, and other mysteries
Gift-giving remains puzzling. Humans insist gifts should be thoughtful, but also a surprise, and also exchanged according to strict social rules no one will explain directly. I participated enthusiastically and may have misjudged the tone by gifting Grzz’lax a laser pointer. I will not elaborate further.
What surprised me most was the atmosphere. Despite the stress, the mess, the exhaustion, and the tinsel-related injuries, there was warmth. Not physical warmth – Mars laughs at that – but something quieter. A collective agreement to pause, to gather, to be kind, if only briefly.
It is inefficient. It is impractical. It is entirely unnecessary.
Which is, I now realise, precisely the point.
Closing thoughts from a converted Martian
Despite these challenges, I loved Christmas.
I loved the lights, twinkling bravely against the endless Martian night. I loved the rituals – baffling, occasionally hazardous, but undeniably sincere. I loved the food, the music, and the shared agreement that for one sanctioned day you are allowed to stop pretending everything is fine and simply eat until movement becomes optional. Grzz’lax loved the paper Christmas shopping bag, what is it with felinoids and bags? Christmas, it turns out, is chaos wrapped in tradition, sugar-coated sentiment, and an alarming quantity of gravy – and somehow, impossibly, it works.
Most of all, I loved the spirit of it. The warmth. The insistence on joy even when conditions are hostile, the tree is under attack, and the mulled wine remains frozen solid despite my best scientific efforts. There is something profoundly admirable about a species that responds to darkness, cold, and existential dread by adding lights, wearing paper crowns, and declaring, with great conviction, that this will be nice.
Grzz’lax is now asleep beneath the tree, still faintly glittering from his earlier tinsel-based misadventures. The turkey leftovers are safely secured. I am wearing a paper crown and contemplating another mince pie, because it would be rude not to. I remain faintly disappointed that they contain no actual mince, but I respect the commitment to the bit.
From Mars to Earth, I wish you a very merry christmastime. May your trees remain upright (oh you share your living space with a feline? Good luck!), your crackers only mildly alarming, your jokes marginally better than anticipated, and your mulled wine remain in its intended liquid state.
I will be observing Christmas again next year. Possibly with a sturdier tree.
Festive regards from the Red Planet, with unexpected cheer and crumbs everywhere.
P.S
I am still waiting for the wine to defrost
P.P.S
I did not expect to enjoy this quite so much and yet here we are. I have begun a countdown to next year already!
