31st December:

Another day, another moral dilemma.

2 days ago I was sitting in the departure lounge at Stansted airport reading the paper and waiting for my wife to return from one of the shops. As I was killing time gazing over the pages of the tabloid bum-wipe that someone had left on the table next to me, I was approached by a rather rotund woman with 3 equally rotund, loud and annoying children and what I can only assume was her sister. It is terrible to jump to conclusions, I know, but the fact that these kids were pestering their mother to go to the duty free shop and buy lip gloss when they all looked like they were barely out of nappies coupled with the fact that her voice could remove wallpaper at 50 paces meant that I took an instant dislike to them. "Excuse me, will you be here for the next 20 minutes?" she asked. "We need to go to the shops so can you keep an eye on our bags?" I looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "You all need to go to the shops?" She glowered back. "Yes". And so in the true spirit of human kindness, I said "I'm sorry but I can't help you". I returned to my paper, daring her to ask me to explain myself. Of course if she had, I would have taken some pleasure in pointing out to this mouth-breathing munter that I did not know her, nor she know me, nor did I have any idea what was in her bags, nor did I feel that it was fair of her to push her problem on to a complete stranger when it could easily be remedied by one of the 2 adults staying behind. But she didn't. She just stood there glowering.

The situation was recovered by a small and kindly-looking old lady sitting at the table next to me who volunteered her services as bag watcher. And I sat there with visions in my head of those people who seem to drift through life shrugging their problems and responsibilities off on to other people, thinking "would I have been a mug if I had said yes, and did saying no make me a bit of a rotten person for not being more helpful?"

Christmas is indeed a time for compassion and charity. Depending on who's asking for them.

30th December:

Just like everyone else who signed up, I have very quickly realised that the more time one spends on Facebook, the less interesting the experience becomes. Oh look, another one of my friends has just invited me to complete a "how sexy are you?" survey. And I can also win a free iPhone by completing it. How can I possibly resist..? Quite easily, as it happens.

Beware the South of France. You may find yourself admiring a slim bottom and head of luscious blonde hair from behind, only to find that the owner of said items is actually 70 and has a face like Zelda from Terrahawks. The order of the day seems to be one part make-up to two parts formaldehyde. If in doubt, look for a small dog in a Vitton carry bag. It's a dead giveaway.

Beware also a diet rich in crustaceans over the festive period - this may lead to an inordinate amount of time being spent on the pan feeling queasy wondering how there can possibly be anything left to evacuate. Come the next war I strongly suggest we drop scallop pies on Tehran - that'll show them.

Finally, be wary of any air travel over the holiday period that requires you to travel with infants. It is more than likely that, at some point in your journey, you will encounter 'Samantha'. Sam (only her mother calls her Samantha) is 36 and single, drinks far too much Pinot Grigio, is the life and soul of the party, flirts with every man she meets and will regularly give you and your offspring pitying looks that seem to say "God, look at you dragging your kids and all those bags around with you. I would so hate to have children of my own". However, she's secretly just resentful because you look happy and sorted whereas she's a perpetual teenager with self-esteem issues who seems to stagger from the crushing disappointment of one failed relationship to the next.

Neither of you will get much sleep that night, but for entirely different reasons.

21st December:

At the risk of using the already shagged-out phrase "political correctness gone mad", there does seem to be something a little strange in the air when it comes to the festive season. I think it all stems for the idea that we're no longer allowed to call this time of year 'Christmas' for fear of upsetting Muslims, Jews, Zen Buddhists, the Chinese, ethnic minorities, single-mothers, Martians, hamsters or the Liberal Democrats. Not that anyone has ever bothered to stop and ask these people how offended they are in the first place, of course. Christ, even Richard Dawkins has done the unthinkable and declared himself to be a 'cultural Christian', quite comfortable singing the occasional Christmas carol and decorating the house with tinsel and a tree.

Never underestimate the ability of people to be po-faced at any time of the year synonymous with celebration and joy. Look at Radio 1's appallingly embarrassing U-turn over the censorship of the lyrics to "Fairytale of New York". Apparently, the powers that be were all concerned that listeners might be outraged at the use of the word "faggot" in the song. Homophobic and all that, innit? The fact that the song has received only a tiny number of complaints in all the years it has been played uncensored on the radio since its release has nothing to do with it. No, no. Apparently the world is a different place now and censorship we must have in order to preserve the sensibilities of our gentle listeners. Bugger off. Seriously, you'll hear worse in a primary school playground these days. Fortunately, enough people phoned Radio 1 and told them to get a grip that the decision was publicly overturned. Custard pies all round.

I'm not quite sure when Britain's civil servants became infected with this particular strain of Daily-Mail-itis that made them assume we are all wet and defenceless morons who need to be mollycoddled and protected by the state, but it is completely cancerous. Whatever happened to common sense and treating people like adults? If the UK is predominately a Christian country, let's just call those twinkly things on the High Street Christmas lights, eh? I'm sure all British non-Christians who are secure in their faith (whatever it may be) can live with that and won't be rushing off to write stiff letters to the Readers Digest, suing their local MP or trying to blow up the nearest Salvation Army brass band.

I'm all for being inclusive wherever possible, but I am similarly in favour of diversity and distinctive identity. And the more these grey-cardigan-wearing local government pillocks are allowed to sanitise every word and expression down to the blandest form, the poorer our society and culture will be.

20th December:

My wife's final words to me last night as we lay in bed were "you smell of cauliflower".

Certainly makes you think, doesn't it?

9th December:

Your congenial host recently returned from a small tour of the UK and, hence, a tour of some of the hotels that grace the provincial towns and conurbations of this nation. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who gets a nosebleed every time they step outside the M25, but some aspects of these hotels are a little...odd.

For a start, every region seems to lay claim over the humble cooked breakfast. Go to Belfast, for example, and you will find the full-cooked heart-attack-in-waiting referred to as the Ulster breakfast. Go to Sevenoaks, and it is the Kentish breakfast. Edinburgh, the Scottish, and so on...Same bacon, same sausages, same button mushrooms, same beans, same old rubber fried egg. Bits of tomato make an occasional appearance, and black pudding may or may not feature, but it seems awfully difficult for me to discern exactly what each region has done to the erstwhile formula in order to claim it as their own.

The other thing that staggers me is carpets. Most provincial hotels seem to have carpets that were designed by a blind man still on a bad acid trip from 1967. Really not what you want to see following a long night in the bar. The last hotel I visited had orange carpets with blue and green flecks. Offensive on every level.

My final gripe relates to towels. Now I understand that most hotels have their towels commercially laundered and it must be hard for a towel to retain any fluff or bounce after having been washed for the millionth time, but why oh why do they have to smell the way they do? Have these enterprises never heard of fabric softener or those tumble dryer sheets that make your smalls smell of summer meadows? It seems that every hotel I visit these days offers me bath towels that smell like an ICI chemical plant. It's like a mixture of bleach and iron filings and it is not what you want to rub yourself down with after your refreshing shower or relaxing soak in the tub. In order to preserve the integrity of my nasal passages, not to mention the state of my skin, I have therefore taken to travelling with my own towels. A little extreme, I accept, but thoroughly preferable all round: less laundry for the hotel, less chance of me catching necrotizing fasciitis.

So, Ladies and Gentlemen, why not do as I have done - get in your car, get out there and see some of this great country. Have the full-on cardiac arrest special breakfast, have your optical nerves seared by the carpets and your skin burnt off by the chemicals in the towels. Marvel at the fact that no two hotel employees come from the same country and ponder the insanity of cigarette vending machines in non-smoking bars. Wonder at the fact that the hotel is almost completely empty on a Tuesday and yet you still get woken up at 3am by a drunken stag party.

Or, alternatively, stay at home and have a nice time.

8th December:

In some sports, notably boxing and darts, it seems terribly important to have a pithy nickname in order to be successful. Phil 'The Power' Taylor and Ricky 'The Hitman' Hatton immediately spring to mind.

Given that for every champion there are thousands of nearly-but-not-quites, we can therefore assume that the pub dart leagues and amateur boxing clubs of this country are filled with plucky contestants with names like Brian 'The Tub' Tubbins and Archie 'Dead-Leg' Davis.

Personally, I live in hope for the day when we get a boxer from Sudan. Anyone taking up pugilism in that neck of the woods would have to be a bit nuts, so we could christen him 'The Loon from Khartoum'.