“JANICE, will you host the Mr & Mrs Game again this year at my Christmas Party,” asked Angela.

“Em well…….” I was a little hesitant.

To let you understand, last year’s game almost ended in divorce for two out of the three couples who took part in my carefully sculpted game, because knowing the couples I had selected, I cleverly put together questions which I guessed might create a bit of conflict.

“Right Christine, you go into the other room and close the door and I’ll ask Jim three questions, and hopefully you will agree with his answers.

“Jim, if you and Christine had to book a holiday, where would it be.”

“Skiing in France, sunbathing in Spain or walking in the Fjords.”

And that was an easy one for Jim and his suntanned wife to agree upon.

“Question two.”

“Jim, if you both won the lottery would you, A, split the money 50/50. B, share it between both families, or C, give 50% to charity.”

Jim stated he would share the money between the families, however, Christine had a very different idea in mind for the imaginary lottery win, which resulted in a ferocious 10 minute argument ensuing between the couple and the rest of the partygoers.

“Question three,” I yelled attempting to bring some sanity to the room.

“Jim, tragically your house is on fire and Christine only has a few seconds to scurry around the burning house and save one person or thing.”

Jim nodded.

“Would it be A, your dog Ruby, B, me, or C, you.”

Jim didn’t need to think too much about that answer.

“Well obviously it would be me.” He smiled confidently.

“After all, I’m her husband, you’re just her friend, and as much as we love the dog, well it’s still a dog.”

Chuffed with his answer, Jim smiled at his wife as she re-entered the room and stood in front of the eager audience.

“Christine, unfortunately your house is on fire and you only have a few seconds to get out and save one thing or person.”

“Would that be me,” I paused for effect.

“Ruby or Jim.”

Jim seemed quietly confident, but quick as a flash Christine shouted: “Ruby.”

Jim spluttered on his vodka and coke.

“Christine.”

He assumed his wife hadn’t understood the question.

“You only get to save one.”

“Yes, I heard.” she reiterated: “Ruby.”

Belly laughter from the other guests did nothing to convince Jim he was going to change her decision.

“Yep. Definitely Ruby,” Christine continued to rub salt into her husband’s fresh wounds.

And before he could interrupt again.

“And if I had a second choice I would save my best pal, Janice.”

“But…….” Jim’s efforts to justify why he should in theory be saved were wasted.

And while he continued to sulk and pour more vodka into his wounds, the game moved on to the head to head between the two remaining couples, and then down to the finalists David and Moira.

Now David and Moira, who are both always right by the way, were separated by a makeshift partition and eager to show us just how well they really knew each other.

“I’ll ask a series of questions and if you Moira, think the answer relates to you, then hold up the pink baton, and David you raise the blue baton.” I explained.

“Who is the best cook?”

Immediately their hands shot up signalling that they thought they were the best cook.

Flabbergasted that Moira imagined for a second she was the better cook, David stuck his head around the partition.

“Moira,” he spat the words at her. “Seagulls leave crusts on our windowsills because you cannae cook.”

“Now, now guys,” I tried to bring some sanity to what was supposed to be a fun game.

“Next question.”

“Who is the most intelligent?”

Again both thought they were the most intelligent.

“Oh, I’ve had enough of this,” squawked Moira.

“You intelligent,” she was now sounding rather high pitched.

“You couldn’t answer one question on Junior Mastermind.”

“Okay, okay,” I interrupted.

“Final question.”

“Who is the best looking.”

Again, both were convinced they were the best looking and Moira was determined to get her dig in.

“David,” she was now on his side of the partition and pointing to his bulging waistline.

“I might have agreed 20 years ago.”

Moira wasn’t holding back as things has now become very personal.

“But look at the belly you've got on you.”

She was still pointing.

“And George Clooney you are not.”

The rest of the evening disintegrated into a slanging match between all concerned and even those who didn’t take part had something to say.

“Perhaps we should stick to charades,” I offered Angela.

“It is Christmas after all.”