In one’s ongoing capacity as a well known writer, thinker and aesthete, one’s glittering reputation of wit and erudition storming before one as trumpet blasts and clarion calls once announced the arrival of Herod, I am, each year, asked to pen quelques bons mots concerning the dreary and trite occasion of Christmas.

This year has been no different, and my poor, creaking letterbox has been bothered by such requests since October last. I heartily decline such obvious attempts to wrench beauty from an artist for so vulgar a cause. Accusations of Scroogeism will abound, as always, but, my prediliction for a decent humbug notwithstanding, I find these to be unfair charges.

Where, after all, is man now, two thousand years after Christ perished and his supplicant herd of followers throttled the very life from Jupiter and Zeus? Where is man now that the holy Roman and Greek Gods of greatness have been sacrificed for a common man and a common religion? Man is lost, wandering the high streets which themselves groan under the accumulative weight of tinsel and tack, of Harry Potter, X-Box and trussed goose.

And yet the roots of my disdain plunge deeper than the putrid epidermis of consumerism, right to my tender core.

I took a snowball in the face for Christmas once. It was December 25th 1942, and I was seven. I had ventured out on to my fine Hampshire garden, thoughts of plum pudding and oceans of cream on my mind and rosy exhilaration on my young cheeks. I played innocently with the dusty white snow, and had fashioned a fair replica of Rodin’s Kiss atop the bird table, when I suffered a cold smack to the jaw as a snowball knocked me senseless. I recovered quickly and brushed my moleskin jerkin free of loose snow and grime. I glanced about, hungry for the culprit. My young world fell apart as my eyes fell on the dispatcher of the icy ball and his cruel, determined face. It was my father and he was laughing.

Merry Christmas, dear reader. Now you know.