Tony has just finalised the preparations for this year's Christmas lunch, which he reckons is a tradition that even two hopeless losers like us should never do away with.
Personally, the thought of sitting opposite him at the dinner table, watching him stuff food down his throat, is enough to put me off the idea, but because the pub will be closed Christmas day lunchtime, and I need to eat, I have no choice in the matter.
The menu for this festive feast is one that has hardly left me licking my lips in anticipation.
Our first course, he announced, will be duck liver paté served with toast, and garnished with cherry tomatoes. To follow, we will dine on frozen pizza, after which we will complete our meal with bread and cheese.
I think the boy's been watching too many cookery programmes on television, but because he's so excited about Christmas, I've decided that it's best if I keep my mouth shut, and try not to spoil the day.
This year, he's even decorated the flat, and stuck a massive Christmas tree in the corner of the lounge.
Tony proudly told me that he stole the tree from somebody's garden, but because it's Christmas, he's certain that the rightful owner of the tree will forgive him, because apparently, Christmas is a time when people forgive and forget.
I told the useless bastard that I would have been happier if he had stolen twenty cans of lager, a bottle of whisky, and a packet of cigarettes from our local supermarket, instead of a fucking Christmas tree!
I already feel ill just thinking about the meal he's going to prepare us, and reckon that a trip to the pub will be necessary after lunch, so I can drink myself senseless, and forget about the fact that I'm probably going to die of food poisoning, before I get to see the beginning of 2012!