So sayeth St. Roy of Wizzard, and who am I to argue with him? Well, I wouldn't, except for the chaotic state of my lounge, which attests to the descent of a horde of relatives on Saturday to ply my feverishly bouncing children with shinily-wrapped presents. As we're flying off to Hong Kong on Thursday (yes, again) and as it would be fairly stupid to pack up all the kids' pressies into a suitcases so that they could be opened on the 25th and then flown back again, we decided to hold a second Christmas this past weekend (much like the Queen and her two birthdays, except with more jelly and fewer corgis). The two wee'uns have therefore reduced the house to a wrapping-paper-strewn war zone, wherein small plastic Teletubbies, and their ally the Hot Wheels truck, do ferocious battle with furry rabbits in rustic farming attire and a giant baby with an alarming scowl and Water Squirt Feature (TM). The Missus has been catering for twelve all weekend, whilst I have been to the local shop for extra supplies so many times in the last 48 hours that I am now on first-name terms with all the staff and have related my life story to at least three of them.

Anyway, bags under the eyes notwithstanding, we will all be jetting off in three days, to brave the suspicious glares of British airport security as they rip our bags to shreds to check whether that child-sized bottle of Ribena is really a wad of C-4. Thanks a bunch, Osama. At least the airline food should be an improvement, as I'm fairly sure that anything the colour and consistency of the last meal I was served on a plane would be a prime candidate for immediate military lab testing under secure conditions.

So this post is to wish you a very Merry Christmas, and indeed a Happy New Year into the bargain, and to hope that that fat bloke in the red suit has gotten his arse into gear and will bring you that inflatable sheep you always wanted. Or something.

Ho ho ho.