Erica Wagner, consulting editor
All kids are sleeplessly excited about Christmas, I know. But my dad, hoping for rest, devised a visitor who would come before Santa: “The Christmas Spirit”, who left a present outside the door of our Manhattan apartment on Christmas Eve and maybe the day before that. The doorbell would ring, but lo! No person would be outside, just a shining gift on the threshold. It was unspeakably thrilling when I was four and five years old, and a tremendous mystery. It was only as an adult that I found the little string my dad had tied to the doorbell mechanism so he could pull it from the inside. Now he’s long gone, that’s the real gift.
Rachel Sylvester, political editor
My father was an avid amateur carpenter. He would go around skips picking out pieces of wood and keep them in the shed ready to turn into bookcases or climbing frames as presents. They were all great, but the best thing he ever made for me for Christmas was when I was eight years old: a go-kart. It was basically a wooden box on wheels with a plank sticking out for your legs.
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We took it to Primrose Hill after lunch to try it out. It was the perfect spot. We climbed to the top, I jumped in and set off. It was only once I was whizzing down at top speed that we both realised he had forgotten to add any brakes. There was also not really any way to steer apart from leaning to one side or the other. I careered down the path, scattering old ladies as I went, until I somehow came to a halt on the grass. After that, Dad attached a rope to the go kart and ran after it whenever we took it out. The idea was that he could somehow control it and slow it down, but thankfully that never really worked. The hint of danger was part of the fun.
Vanessa Thorpe, arts correspondent
The electric wires, the scent of new plastic, the tangerine colour – never mind the buzzy ringtone and flashing light! Identifying the gift that meant most to me is easy. I can remember the tight tingle of butterflies when I first picked up the receiver of one of two “working” telephone sets I received jointly with my sister. We ran the thin lead linking them from one bedroom to the other, down the landing, and called each other frequently into Boxing Day morning. The excitement of covert communication in a home with only a landline, monitored by adults, made our pleasure intense.
Eva Wiseman, writer
For a long time in 2017, I had to be a cat. My daughter, three at the time, would stroke and patronise me in ways she was unable to do in the periods when I was her mother. That winter we moved into a house with a garden, and with some relief I planned to adopt a rescue cat. “It’s important for my mental health,” I said earnestly to a lady at the Blue Cross, “because otherwise I might have to keep being a cat forever.” On Christmas Eve, with some ceremony, we presented our daughter with a box containing a calico kitten. It was a selfish gift, really, one that released me from the knee pain and identity confusion that came with becoming an animal for up to four hours a day, but I felt vaguely saintly. Then she opened the box and said, “Oh, a cat.” And instead of exploding with love, switched instantly into a weary pub landlady who’s actually had it up to here. “Darlin’, not on the table thank you very much!” she screeched at the kitten. I was released. We called her Patty. She’s now the size of a sheep.
Charlotte Mendelson, gardens columnist
My parents, like all refugees' children, had a problem. Their little British daughters yearned for crackers and plastic robins, but the thick, dark, painful weight of family trauma remained. So they devised their own festive mash-up: Chanumas. Roast goose and Christmas pudding; cursory Chanukah candles; modest presents under a be-tinselled swiss cheese plant and then, when I was four or five, stockings. Even now, imagining that red fake fur, the rainbow-glitter C, I'm in the presence of a Chanumas miracle. It's dawn; there's an inexplicable knobbly weight on my feet. I cannot wait. Furtively, I explore. First, rustling tissue paper, then a thing of beauty: my own scented Mr Man novelty soap. Like a tiny criminal, I rewrap it; the countless millennia until it's officially stocking-time are still the longest and most magical of my life.
Séamas O’Reilly, columnist
I am six years old on Christmas morning, threading a path through my 10 siblings in a tiny little John Deere tractor I’ve just received. It is green and shiny and wonderful as it trundles me past Mairead on her yo-yo, Shane antagonising a Rubik’s cube, the twins barking into their walkie-talkies. Only recently – so recently, it makes me red with shame – did I perform the simple calendar maths necessary to work out that this, a spending spree my father could not possibly afford, had been enacted so his 11 baffled children might have a Christmas morning they’d remember for the rest of their lives, nine weeks after their mother had died.
Helen Seamons, menswear editor
My all-time favourite childhood gift came courtesy of my godmother, an elite gift-giver whose Christmas present I always saved until last to open. It was the toy for all budding Coco Chanels and Alexander McQueens: a Fashion Wheel, a glorious pastel plastic version of Consequences meets brass rubbing. I spent hours “designing” outfits, combining the various heads, torsos and lower bodies on the wheel. You could even select the fabric print for your creation, like stripes or ditsy florals, by rubbing over a section of engraved plastic. I didn't quite make it to the heady heights of Dior, but the Observer fashion desk is a happy alternative.
Tom Gatti, literary editor
My favourite Christmas presents came, reliably – religiously, you might even say – every December, from 2003 to 2013, from the same group of 10 friends. We had decided that we would each make a mix capturing our musical year, burn several copies on CD, and convene at the flat I shared with my then girlfriend, now wife, Claire, where they would be examined, played and exchanged over mugs of mulled wine. I loved making these gifts – digging out songs that would be genuinely new to others, giving the tracklisting a narrative arc, finding suitably arcane imagery for the cover – almost as much as I loved receiving them. They brought a glorious abundance – like the arrival of Scrooge’s obscenely large Christmas goose – that kept me musically nourished and saw me through the darkest days of the new year. Now, we occasionally share Spotify playlists on WhatsApp, but it’s not quite the same. I miss my compact disc Christmases.
Jo Jones, fashion editor
It was 1978 and I desperately wanted a Raleigh MK2 Chopper bike. I must have mentioned it at every dinner time meal leading up to Christmas. I even talked about my friend Caroline’s older brother Steven having one in pearl silver, random I know, but any way I could introduce the word Chopper into a conversation, I did. Ask any child of the 70s or 80s to name the iconic bike of all time and it was the Raleigh Chopper, ideally ridden in flares, a tank top and oversized-collared shirt. Christmas Eve I was beside myself with anticipation, then finally Christmas morning came. I rushed into the lounge and there was a bike carefully wrapped in jolly holly paper. I tore through the paper and suddenly, my stomach lurched. There, in all its dull, stubby, squat, unsexy chocolate colourway was a 1978 Raleigh (Twenty) Shopper. The final insult? The girly double basket.
Nigel Slater, food writer
As I gathered the Christmas cards from the doormat, one, postmarked Tokyo and ringed with festive stamps, intrigued. Inside was a tiny book the size of a piece of toast, on its cover a photograph of food, a picture that felt warmly familiar. I turned the pages in wonder. An entire year of my recipes from this very magazine, cooked and photographed in the sender’s kitchen far away and annotated in fountain pen. “Easy Peasy Beautiful Pie”, “Made for my Friend’s Birthday. We love this cake!” “Heavenly Pasta for a Cheeseoholic.” The line “Makes sunshine in my kitchen,” almost brought me to tears. “Dear little pastries, thank you for a happy tea-time,” did. These little treasures arrive each Christmas, my year in the kitchen tied up with ribbon. And all I can say is a heartfelt “thank you, ‘TS’, and Merry Christmas to you too.”
Annalisa Barbieri, chocolate columnist
Christmas was loving but not lavish in our house. After I attained the age of seven, my parents worked 363 days a year, so Christmas and Boxing Day were rare days of rest, and of having them both at home. My mother was a marvel at amassing thoughtful, beautiful little Christmas stocking gifts. Stalwarts were marzipan fruits and chocolate-covered liquid coffee beans that were, I thought, wonderfully sophisticated for small children. But the gift that floored me, and I still think about and wish I had kept, was a small – palm-sized – but working vacuum cleaner with a tartan dust bag. It seemed impossibly luxurious, but mostly my mother had understood my love of small things.
Francisco Garcia, writer
I grew up with my grandmother, an amazingly generous, strong-willed woman with a peerless sense of humour and absurdity. One of the only times I can remember it even halfway faltering was the Christmas of 2003, when she and my aunt had banded together to buy me a Playstation 2. To an 11-year-old boy, nothing could have caused greater delight. That fat hunk of grey plastic provided countless hours of joy and frustration over the years. That Christmas, I would regularly skip mealtimes to play whatever rubbish I was playing in my bedroom. I think Gran worried she had torpedoed my social development.
David Williams, wine critic
A Boxing Day shift working in a restaurant in Paris meant my first Christmas Day away from home. An English colleague, concerned about what I was going to have for my lonely Christmas dinner, remembered I’d told her how much I'd missed black pudding since turning vegetarian. She said there was a white, meat-free French alternative, a Christmas speciality, that was just as good. A couple of days later, after we finished our Christmas Eve shift, she handed me a sausage-shaped package wrapped in a ribbon. The next day I discovered, with the first bite, that boudin blanc was not in fact vegetarian after all. I never had the heart to tell her.
Sam Deaman, fashion assistant
I hate to moan, I really do, especially where gift giving is concerned. But there was one particular present I just couldn't quite stand when I was growing up. A small and inconspicuous rectangle-shaped parcel carefully wrapped with all the sweet intentions of a great aunt or family “friend”, usually one that hadn't seen me since I was a baby. Peeling back the edge of the paper I'd pray to be proven wrong, but sure enough, the letters FCUK would slap me in the face like the swear word the brand not so subtly based its name upon. Three small cans of body spray, usually with an eye-rolling “masculine” theme and corresponding TV advert that convinced the wearer that women would come flocking after one spray. To me, they smelt like PE changing rooms and homophobia. My childhood wardrobe still acts as a body spray graveyard – unopened gift sets from Ted Baker and LYNX may never see the light of day again – and rightly so.
Andrew Butler, deputy sports writer
The year is 2004. Apple had unveiled the iPod Mini. Bratz dolls are still big business. Robosapiens gave an early-millenium foreshadowing to our future humanoid overlords. I was 15, wondering what futuristic delights awaited as I unwrapped my Great Auntie Francis’s present. It was… an under-bed storage bag. She got one for both me and my brother, and we mistook them for body bags. My great aunt was eccentric, yes, but I didn’t think my teen years were so unremarkable that they gave off the “he’s really into under-bed storage solutions” vibe. This was the same aunt that once gave me a £10 note because she “couldn’t find a crisp £5”.
Hannah Crosbie, drinks columnist
There needs to be some kind of acting award that specifically goes to parents who convince you they’re not going to get you something for Christmas, only to look smugly on as you unwrap said present with glee on Christmas Day. One such moment was the arrival of a Nintendo DS Lite, my handheld console that kicked off a lifelong interest in staying indoors while everyone else plays outside. My parents cited the main reason for not wanting to get me one is that they’d never see me again, and I proved them sort-of right. I used the stylus so much when playing Cooking Mama I created grooves in the touchscreen. To this day, some of my favourite nights in are spent playing Legend of Zelda with an enormous glass of wine.
Georgie Hayden, food writer
For the past 11 years, some of our closest friends have rented a holiday house the weekend before Christmas, for what has affectionately been named “Christmas with Friends” or CWF. CWF involves an elaborate 30-plus person Secret Santa, a full Christmas feast with all the trimmings and a day spent watching festive films on the sofa. I haven’t always managed to make it, but one of my all-time favourite gifts was from my 2018 Secret Santa, who spent weeks and months creating a hardback cookbook filled with recipes from every person in the group. There are passed-down family recipes, funny disasters, thoughtful memories, each with pictures from the contributor. The time, thought and energy that went into creating it is priceless, and truly one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever been given (thank you Trish).
Tim Lewis, writer
It was the lockdown winter of 2020. We were all going a bit mad, I think. Plus, you couldn’t get to the shops, so I was perhaps lacking the usual inspo. Anyway, one morning on the radio, Lauren Laverne started gushing about how a heated drying rack had changed her life. It was not an ad or paid-for influencing, just a genuine heartfelt recommendation. You can probably see where this is going… On Christmas Day, I smugly presented my partner with a Dry:Soon Deluxe 3-Tier Heated Airer (a nightmare to wrap, I’ll tell you). She was, you could say, not massively impressed and has never let me forget the moment I killed all romance in our relationship. That said, five years on, the Dry:Soon really is a five-star game-changer, just maybe not for Christmas.
Genevieve Fox, travel writer
Uncle George knew all about my red bike. I had written to him in New York about how I rode it hard all the way to Brighton pier and through Kemptown’s backstreets. That bike had wings. It took me, aged 10, up and up, past new feelings of living in an unfamiliar house with a guardian of sorts. George was a Trotskyist but boy, he loved to shop and Radio Shack, across the street from his Gramercy Park home, was his joy. Just in time for Christmas, a huge cardboard box arrived, covered in American stamps. Inside: a yellow belt with red indicator lights and a helmet for hands-free drinking with a soda holder and drinking straws. There was nothing like it in the UK. I was the queen of the road.