Harriet Walker: The evergreen pull of this innocent kitsch

Ever since my sister and I first gave each other the same Cliff Richard calendar for Christmas in 2002, we have sought out the great man's art every festive season. There are always two flat, square packages of exactly the same dimensions nestling underneath the Walker family tree at this time of year.

What drew us to them?

Sheer incredulousness, originally: here, a shot of Cliff on the slopes, there, a picture of him laughing in the shower, each decorated with a handwritten witticism and signed "Cliff x".

Could such a festival of kitschy camp really be a best-selling item among the God-fearing gable ends of Middle England?

Brilliantly, yes. Cliff Richard calendars come from a time before innuendo or smut; they are innocent, naïve even, in their hyperbolic jollity. Those teeth, that hair – they never fail to lift the spirits whether you're turning the page to a murky March or a sweaty September.

In fact, I bought my 2012 version yesterday.