BREXMAS is coming, the goose is getting fat. That’s because it’s been injected with growth hormone, of course, but let’s not spoil the magic for the kids! Have you put your tree up yet, in readiness for tearing it down and stamping on it at the stroke of midnight on December 31?

It’s bizarre that boring old Christmas has dominated the headlines and Cobra chat this week, when a once-in-a-lifetime special day is fast approaching. Surely we can forego gathering together on December 25, with all the dangers that would pose, and wait just one more week to celebrate getting Brexit done? Opening thoughtful gifts from loved ones is all very well, but have you tried taking back control by throwing them all onto a bonfire?

The modern “holiday season” with its candy canes and Coca-Cola just doesn’t feel very British at all. Can’t we leave aside the “goodwill to all men” rubbish for one year and focus on goodwill to British men? And British women too, I suppose, unless they start moaning about how they’ll be hit hardest by the economic downturn, unemployment crisis and any forthcoming rollback of workers’ rights. No-one likes a party pooper.

There’s absolutely no need to bubble up for your Brexmas celebrations – what better way to celebrate a future of splendid isolation than sitting by yourself? Any inconvenient children can be locked in their rooms with an Enid Blyton compendium. Just make sure it’s not been tampered with by the PC Gone Mad brigade to remove any good old-fashioned British xenophobia.

If you’re unfortunate enough to have a live-in partner, the best strategy will be to simply walk away from talks with them a few days before the final countdown, shaking your head and muttering about “red lines”.

Of course, the destructive, deranged and delirious activities of committed Brexiteers on December 31 will be merely the prelude to the event of the year – the Festival of Brexit! I speak not of Festival UK* 2022 (*working title), which we should probably not keep calling the Festival of Brexit even though it’s a festival that was dreamed up to try and con people into thinking the UK is flourishing as a result of Brexit (rather than in spite of it). We should instead call it by its far catchier official name of “Festival UK* 2022 (*working title)”.

For this festival, umpteen creative teams will put their heads together to develop “open, original and optimistic ideas”, 10 of which will be chosen for development into large-scale public engagement projects. There will be scientists involved. And engineers. And mathematicians. They will create, and innovate.

What does this all mean? I’m not sure anybody knows, but let’s not knock it just for the sake of it. Folk from Celtic Connections, the National Theatre of Scotland and Edinburgh International Festival are involved, to name but a few, and the cultural sector certainly needs the boost. Let’s not pretend the choice is between funding the arts and feeding the weans. That’s exactly what they want – us little folk fighting for scraps while their cronies jet off on holiday with their ill-gotten PPE profits.

The real Festival of Brexit will take place next year, in the Westminster big top. Roll up, roll up for Tory MPs performing mental gymnastics and dazzling us with their declarations that everything is going brilliantly and this is what you voted for, plebs, so don’t come crying now just because your prescription’s overdue.

Freedom of movement may be ending, but expect Michael Gove to put on an exhausting display combining parkour and body-popping, showcasing the impressive range of movements that are still entirely possible, if only one has downed a pint of British craft beer and inhaled a packet of sherbet.

Priti Patel will smirk her way through a terrifying dramatic monologue demonstrating the UK’s new approach to extradition, which will involve her entering a prison cell and personally shouting and swearing at the accused until they start weeping and agree to take the next flight home.

Rumours abound that if the price of dairy products rises over a certain threshold, International Trade Secretary Liz Truss will be lowered into the House of Commons on a giant wheel of cheddar, singing a cover version of Jessie J’s hit Price Tag while dressed in an elaborate mouse costume. Google searches for “price of cheese” will yield pages of analysis of this performance by political commentators, and hundreds of related cat memes, thereby making the price of cheese impossible to ascertain without visiting a supermarket and asking the security guard to open a special fridge.

The Cabinet contortionists will assure everyone that queues of lorries, forests of customs paperwork and begging Joe Biden to hold hands are a price worth paying for the even Greater Britain that’s just around the corner. “No pain, no gain!” a sweating Dominic Raab will scream as his bare flesh makes contact with a bed of red, white and blue nails.

One million Zoom tickets for this spectacle will be released every week from January, priced at £3.50 each. All proceeds go to the NHS so dig deep, folks!

And until then, for every deluded soul who will be celebrating the worst decision Britain has ever made, best wishes for an appropriately dark, cold and solitary Brexmas.