Christmas. ‘Tis the season when reindeer run free across hills, parks, and reasonably priced retail outlets, nuzzling the hands of everyone they see, not just the fat and the bearded. ‘Tis the season of joy, mirth, and merriment, of familial unity and mince pies that are neither too hot nor too cold. ‘Tis the season of everything that John Lewis promised you, and more (telescope sold separately).

Snap out of it. Fast forward to 25th December 2015. Picture the scene: your dad is in the kitchen, sweating and swearing, indiscriminately stabbing at an assortment of root vegetables. Meanwhile, your granddad’s comments continue to dance precariously along the line between ‘generational ignorance’ and ‘overt racism’, while your little cousin is holding the poor cat by its tail, swinging it back and forth like a fun furry pendulum that will spend the rest of its days fighting a losing battle against PTSD. The only thing your grandma is interested in is when you’re “going to find a nice girlfriend”, and don’t even think about your mum. She’s had a couple of glasses of prosecco too many, and is doing that weird thing where she laughs and cries at the same time, while wailing something about ‘toxic book club politics’.

And it’s not even lunchtime yet.

Luckily, Christmas is a period packed full of things to warm both the hands and the heart. We are treated to mulled wine, pigs in blankets, mince pies, and the prospect of Tottenham Hotspur getting stuffed 4-0 by Norwich City. I’m glowing already.

Whatever your views on Christmas, let the bastion of hope, entertainment and sensible wages that is the Premier League football season guide you through these cold winter months. For a start, watching from the comfort of your own sofa is far superior to the JCR; you can wear that dressing gown you always loved without being accused of looking like “a low rent Sean Connery”, and are mercifully spared the tactical musings (read: inane twattery) of that one third year who assures you he knows exactly how to fit Jack Wilshere into a 4-2-3-1.

There’s already a large amount of overlap between festivity and football. For example, Father Christmas’ status as a fat, lonely man dressed in red, who averages at four pies in an evening and likes to break into residential homes at night to watch young children sleep means he’s almost certainly a staunch United fan. And, like the rest of them, he needs a magical flying sleigh to have any hope of getting to Old Trafford in time for a lunchtime kick-off.

Yet football’s significance and utility in the Christmas period transcends its status as a sport. Of course, watching the game can be an excellent excuse to avoid all chores, responsibilities and members of your family, but its biggest names and most iconic lines can also be vital for surviving a difficult conversation over Christmas dinner.

Accused of eating the last mince pie? Channel your inner Arsène: “I’m sorry, I did not see the incident.”

Given socks by your aunt, again? Reference a certain Mr Pearson: “I think you are an ostrich - your head must be in the sand. Is your head in the sand?”

Gran questioning your choice of seasonal knitwear? Refer her to Jamie Vardy for a quick reminder of what happens when you “chat shit”.

Dad burned the turkey? You’ve got more options here than David Cameron at a pig farm. Perhaps pay homage to Mourinho and label him a specialist in failure or, if you’re feeling particularly bold, go all the way back to punditry’s own answer to the messiah: Andy Townsend. “If anything, Clive, I think he’s cooked it too well. If he cooks it even slightly less well either side, I think he’s done it there”.

Just a quick word of warning, though: do not, under any circumstances, go one further than merely quoting a pundit and actually invite Clive Tyldesley round for Christmas dinner. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Clive’s a really lovely guy, but I’ve heard that he finds it hard to dissociate football commentary from normal life – something which could be particularly annoying given the setting. He’d get a bit too excited, bless him. “Oh!”, he’d shout, “would you look at that, what a cracker!”

“Oh for God’s sake, Clive, yes, it’s a cracker. We all have one. Now, pull your end and adjust your party hat; you’ve got it on wonky.”

And again: “what a talented player we have here – he’s on fire.”

“No, Clive, darling, that’s just your mother with the Christmas pudding.”

He’d be indomitable: “and what an excellent dribbler this boy is. Mercurial. A prodigious talent!”

“Clive, please, leave granddad alone. You know he hasn’t been the same since the stroke.”

Nothing would be off limits for dear old Clive: “This boy on the wall can really nail a cross.”

“Come on now, Clive. Let’s not descend to blasphemy. It is his birthday, after all.”

Nightmare.

Revel in football this Christmas. Use it to avoid your family or to help negotiate awkward social situations. Just, whatever you do, don’t invite Clive to dinner.