I have the meat sweats. The Christmas meat sweats. I know what you’re thinking: it’s too early for this kind of thing but, trust me, it isn’t. This is exactly when they strike, six weeks from the big day. You wake in the night, and a restless mind searching for a route back to unconsciousness gets prodded by just one question: which animal are you going to cook on Christmas Day?

In the 1970s, when I was a kid, it was so simple. You had turkey. Nobody actually liked it, but then there were loads of things in the 1970s we didn’t like but put up with: beds with sheets and blankets, instant mashed potato, Terry and June. Intensively reared, brutally tough, tasteless turkey with breast meat the colour of a healing knife wound was just something we had to endure. We were all in it together. At least there was enough meat to feed all those family members we hated but were forced to sit down with.

Now, of course, if you choose turkey, you have to justify it by storing up enough information for a pack of Top Trumps card. “Well, of course, a turkey is actually a game bird, so…” So what, exactly? We should shoot it? Game bird it might once have been, but it long ago forgot how to run away. You have to use the word “Bronze” attached to its location. It’s from Suffolk or Norfolk or some mythical Turkey Shangri-La off the A120 near Braintree. Follow that up with a long speech about how you need to roast it fast or slow or brine it first or just drop the whole damn thing in the deep fat fryer “because that’s how they do it in the American south”. Which is not a recommendation; there are loads of things they do in the American south that you shouldn’t, because many are regarded as risky behaviour by the health authorities.

So instead you announce you’re going to do a rib of beef “because traditionally that was what was served on the British table on Christmas Day”. Except now everyone looks at you like you think it’s just another Sunday lunch and you have entirely missed the point. OK then, goose. What about goose? Very festive, goose. Don’t get me started. Have you tried roasting one of those? Within an hour there is a thick film of grease across every surface in your kitchen, as if you were planning to stage all-in slippery wrestling bouts there as post-lunch entertainment. What’s more, they’re seriously expensive and have almost no meat on them. Gosh, goose! Delicious! Is there any more? No. No, there isn’t. Shut up and have another potato.

That leaves you with the three-bird roast. Very expensive, of course: the doddery peers of the House of Lords love three-bird roasts. But there’s more than enough to go around, and it cooks relatively quickly. The only problem is cosmetic. Merry Christmas everyone. This year I’ve cooked you … a loaf of bread. That’s what a three-bird roast looks like, a big block of something knocked up by an artisanal baker with a surfeit of wholegrain. You don’t know whether to carve it or toast it. No, Christmas demands something impressive. Which means you’re back to the big-titted turkey.

And still sleep evades you. But I’ve solved the problem. I’m dodging it altogether. This year, to keep things really special, my lot are having Findus Crispy Pancakes and Angel Delight. Job done. Now then, who’s coming round mine for Christmas Day? OFM

jay.rayner@observer.co.uk