Are you more Scrooge than Father Christmas? Here’s how to get through the festive period without harming yourself, or anyone around you.

I’ve always thought Christmas was vastly overrated. This orgy of mindless spending, gratuitous overeating and media coercion is enough to make me want to get back to work as quickly as possible. I’d hoped that becoming a father might make me more pre-disposed to festive good cheer, but having two small children has only succeeded in cultivating a raging phobia about plastic toys, and a deep-seated suspicion about anyone who dresses up as Santa Claus. So here, for the Scrooge dads of the world, is my five-point plan for getting through it (without getting divorced).

Father Christmas is my nuclear deterrent. Without him — and the threat he represents — I am powerless to maintain any semblance of domestic stability and order. Rather than avoid mentioning him, I’ve been dropping his name since early February, pretending to take calls on my mobile phone about bad behaviour or reading out made-up text messages from Lapland when all other methods of discipline have failed. I positively dread the day when questions begin to surface about his existence. Why? Because I’ll be finished as a force.

There is one festive accessory I categorise as a “must-have” for anyone with suspicious or doubting children. A shameless ploy used by desperate, tired parents, The Elf On A Shelf (Google it) nevertheless performs a vital role as Santa’s ambassador in your home. A toy elf that children believe reports back to Santa Claus, his sudden appearance in December (and sporadic disappearances back to the North Pole when behaviour deteriorates), coupled with the fact children are forbidden from touching him, means even the most sceptical under-10s are kept on their toes. Better still, he can be fingered for everything from presents being discovered early to letters of disappointment from Father Christmas when tempers fray.

I avoid listening to the radio because Christmas “hits” make me feel homicidal. I also try to avoid malls and main shopping streets because the crowds and general consumer hysteria bring on violent thoughts. The same applies to Christmas trees, festive decorations, Santa hats on street vendors and shop staff, Christmas lights in city centres, carol singers and Santa grottoes. The more I can blank the whole thing from my mind and pretend it’s not happening, the greater chance I might wake up on Christmas morning feeling well-disposed to the world and prepared to lay my anti-Christmas sentiments aside... if only for one day.

Step one: remove the plug from the television set — the adverts on kid’s TV stations are like infant crystal meth: “I want that, and that, and that, oh yes, and that lactating ‘Mummy Dog’ with litter of mechanically defecating puppies…” And while you’re at it, banish all catalogues from the house, terminate the home broadband contract and keep children indoors. OK, I admit it: however much I detest Christmas, the thought of disappointing my children is far worse. At five and two years old, they are both in the Santa sweet spot, and nothing compares with seeing their excitement build in the run-in to the big day. Nothing, that is, except the look on their faces when they discover the only thing in their stockings is an ageing tangerine.

This Christmas, I have been sentenced to confinement in a house with 10 adults and nine children, seven of whom will be aged eight and under (including five of five and below). Trust me, UFC will have nothing on what’s set to go down — and that’s just the grown-ups. I confidently predict vein-popping shouting matches over the behaviour of various offspring, dogs and spouses, siblings being restrained from trading blows over who’s in charge of the TV remote, and bitter oaths muttered about family members who consistently disappear when it’s time to wash-up. Christmas is a time when you remember why it is you left home. My tips: industrial ear-protectors, Xanax, good wine (and plenty of it), and a month-long TV-on-demand package for your phone.