Like the rest of the nation, I was grateful to Vanity Fair this month for advising us that, after the compulsory hob-nobbing with the subjects at church in Sandringham, Wills and Kate will be spending Christmas with Kate’s siblings at their own modest little but and ben, Anmer Hall. I reckon it’s as well to be on home ground, where Kate can discreetly throw up in a Ming vase if necessary, and the fawning equerries won’t get uptight if wee George decides to plaster some Regency wallpaper with crayon.
I’m sure you, too, simply can’t relax until you know what notable people around the world will be getting up to for Christmas. Fortunately, due to a vivid imagination and copious use of mind-bending drugs, I can tell you.
Her Majesty the Queen was working right up to the last minute on a re-recording of her Christmas broadcast to tone down references to the independence referendum. It’s nothing to do with appearing to be neutral, it’s just that anything that sounds like purring totally freaks out the corgis.
Alex Salmond will be performing his now-traditional Christmas Day walk across the waters of Strichen Lake. Fledgling First Minister Nicola Sturgeon will for the first time attempt a similar feat on Hogganfield Loch, with small flotation devices discreetly attached to her tartan stilletoes. Meanwhile new Scottish Labour leader Jim Murphy will outdo them both by jogging down the middle of the River Clyde, clad in a bright yellow T-Shirt so that if anyone lobs an egg at him it’ll blend in.
Alistairs Darling and Carmichael will be clutching their lucky teddies in keen anticipation of the New Year Honours List. It’ll need to be gongs for both, or they’ll scweam and scweam until they’re sick. Hell hath no fury like an Establishment mouthpiece scorned.
Gordon Brown will have vanished off the face of the earth. It doesn’t matter how many Santas you yank the beard off with a cry of “Aha!”, or how many china shops you open so he can come rampaging through them, you’ll never find him.
Danny Alexander will be busy pretending everything the Coalition Cabinet did in the last five years was someone else’s idea.
David Cameron and a group of his well-heeled Chipping Norton friends have been spending Christmas Eve pouring dozens of jeroboams of vintage champagne into a giant swimming pool, so that today they can all be in it together.
George Osborne will be totally compos mentis, and in no way dishevelled or completely off his tits, and if you express any alternative views you’ll be hearing from m’learned friends.
Nigel Farage has asked Santa for a purple-and-yellow submarine with a large fin on top, so that he can pilot it up and down the Thames in front of the Houses of Parliament menacingly humming the theme music from Jaws.
Boris Johnson will be cutting his own hair as usual. It’s worth the extra effort to get it just right.
Andrew Mitchell MP is taking his annual training course. In 2012 it was cycling proficiency, in 2013 anger management and this year it’s “Libel Law for Dummies”. Meanwhile, the “Justice for Andrew” group of backbench Tory MPs have sadly just missed out on a Christmas Number One with their charity single He Ain’t Plebby, He’s My Brother.
The Miliband brothers will prepare the family Christmas dinner together. During this process, Ed will lose three teeth through repeated contact with a heavy frying pan, David will suffer neck injuries in a bizarre incident involving a pedal bin, both men will have to be restrained in case they get their hands on the carving knives and the brandy poured over the Christmas pudding will, when lit, unexpectedly turn out to be petrol.
Nick Clegg will gaze forlornly out of the window, wishing he could build a snowman to be his friend.
Eric Pickles will be glued to Strictly Come Dancing Christmas on BBC1 and thinking, “Next year, that could be me, if only I can restrict myself to four pies at lunchtime. And if Health and Safety don’t object to me getting my top off.”
Iain Duncan Smith will take his ukulele to a nearby old folks’ home and perform a series of George Formby numbers. His version of When I’m Cleaning Windows, about spying on alleged benefit scroungers, always gets the audience going. Staff at the home say it’s remarkable how far they can hurl bulky objects at that age.
Lord Sugar will head off to the local food bank to help out for the day. By the time he leaves, most of the staff will have been fired and it will be turning a tidy profit.
The world’s most prominent bankers, having decided there’s nothing left on Earth worth stealing, will climb aboard the Shard, the escape rocket they’ve secretly been building in London for the past few years, and blast off to exploit the rich resources of the planet B’staad.
As soon as they’re gone, mankind will discover that peace, love and brotherhood really is the cure for all problems, and there will follow a golden age, without want or suffering of any kind. Just as satisfyingly, the Shard will collide with a huge rocket accidentally launched by North Korea after an unexpected computer malfunction, and its fragments will hurtle randomly into the vast emptiness of space for ever.
Well, what would Christmas be if it didn’t bring us a message of hope?
Merry Christmas, folks! A brief encounter with writer's block, an entanglement in pre-Christmas consumer madness and a bout of Yuletide lurgy have all combined to keep me away from the keyboard this month. Sorry about that, and I'll be taking steps to rectify that, big time, in the New Year. With any luck you'll be hearing from me before that, as I have a half-completed Jim Murphy rant I really must get off my chest.
Anyway, compliments of the season to one and all, thanks for sticking with me over this roller-coaster of a year, and remember - the best is yet to come!