At last, there's only a fortnight to go until Christmas! Christmas Time, that is, rather than Christmas the Day. Christmas, as in the handful of days off work when it's OK to sit around eating sweets and drinking dry sherry and you can say "Christmas" as often as you like and nobody is allowed to frown at you. Joy is unconfined – except for the one thing spoiling it all: the Christmas menu. It's about time pubs and restaurants figured out that turkey is only nice in one's own home on Christmas Day when one's parent or (at a pinch) grown-up child has made it – and even then, only barely. Turkey made in caterer's quantities is really unpleasant. Reheated mince pies are even worse. And mass-produced sprouts have no place in a family newspaper. So, up with the tree and up with the lights. But "bah humbug!" to the bought Christmas dinner.
Another thing that happens at Christmas is that London is empty because everyone who can leave does so, and goes home to where they want to be, often The North – you know, the place that Kelvin MacKenzie wants to see cut off from the wealthy South so that sponging Northerners can no longer leech off their hard-working London cousins. Let's build that Kelvin's Wall south of Sheffield, then. But only after a system of voluntary repatriation has returned all the deracinated Northerners (and their money, skills and work ethic) to where they belong, along with some of the industries that London is currently hogging. But let not the Southerners come crying to us when their entire infrastructure collapses at the first sign of a snowflake.