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December 24, 2017

YES folks, it’s that time of year again when we think of Christmases past, cherish happy memories and also look forward to an uncertain (is anything ever certain?) yet exciting future out of the European Union with our blue passports and our self-respect back and, with any luck,  a referendum to disband the Welsh Assembly Government hard-on-the-heels of that to boost our self-respect even further.

No more unelected barmy Brussels bureaucrats to tell us how much sugar we can put in our tea, no more conniving continental pointy-heads to tell us how straight or bent our bananas should be (Oooh missus, don’t) and no more ludicrous false bonhomie and collective pride with our detested far-flung eastern neighbours the Germans and those other new European countries with capital cities we neither know nor know how to spell as we gather around that ludicrous blue European flag (a blue frankfurter would summon up more collective pride in being European than that pathetic flag) as we watch our golfers try to trounce the Yanks at the Ryder Cup (Will it be a three way next with Europe, USA and UK?) 

We’ll probably be banned from entering the Eurovision song Contest, which we could never win anyway despite throwing the kitchen sink and Bonnie Tyler at it –  bringing a whole new meaning to Lost in France. That means we will no longer have to listen to that furiously annoying little limp leprechaun Graham Norton whining and simpering on about songs and sequins in a frantic high register thinking he is as funny as Terry Wogan when the old Togmeister himself was dreadfully wooden and as funny as an oil slick on the M4. Who knows, perhaps Gary Lineker will be scooped up by some remote and distant European Scorchio TV channel and we’ll see the last of him. Now that really would be something to celebrate.

What joyous liberation as the very faintly raunchy in a school headmistressy way Mrs May high-heels it out of Brussels in 2018 with her very own version of a Victory in Europe Day. “They’ll be dancing in the valleys” on that night, as the patronising Bill McLaren would have said.  

Yes folks, it’s that time of year again where we realise that one book is being closed and another is being opened and suddenly and blissfully the days start to get longer and lighter (my favourite part) and we step out into a world transforming before our very eyes. New life breaks free and sets out on life’s journey as spring brings with it new hope, lightness and a whole new world of exciting possibilities.

Yes folks, it’s that time of year when we look back on the few highs and very many lows of 2017.

Well, who would have thought that one Tory politician, Damian Green would be alleged to have pornography on his computer (can you put porn on a computer, wouldn’t it fall off?) while another  Anna Soubry would tell anyone who would listen that as many as ten vile and despicable internet trolls have said that they would happily see her dead (I thought that there would have been way, way, way more than that).

School headmistress Mrs May went to the country after going on a walking holiday in Snowdonia and got a nasty shock in June when all those people who voted for Brexit the year before kicked her in the teeth in the ballot box by reducing her “strong and stable” majority, forcing her to do a deal with an obscure Irish woman who I can never understand when she speaks as she sounds as if she is eating a huge boiled sweet at the same time.

But above all else, 2017 will be remembered as the year of acting inappropriately.

Notorious predator Harvey Weinstein – who thought that giving an actress a part meant something totally different to what we think it means – started a domino-type collapse of middle-aged men who had “acted inappropriately” with attractive women. Suddenly all the greatest TV news presenters in America and numerous film and screen icons became toast before our eyes as women, and sometimes men, complained that they had groped or attacked them.

Even Aled Jones – the Menai Bridge choirboy most mums would welcome warmly into their homes as a cuddly innocent little lamb, he presented Songs of Praise for God’s sake – was outed as a sex pest at the BBC after its outraged and vengeful female presenters discovered that their entire combined salaries didn’t amount to even half that of Gary Lineker alone. Aled muttered something about regretting his “juvenile” behaviour in the past. Gary said nothing about his throughout his entire life.

I wondered if the Archbishop of Canterbury would be next. The Catholic church, by contrast, seemed quite uncharacteristically chaste and “appropriate”. At least they only abuse young boys and actresses are generally safe.

Who can forget that the year started in America with Donald Trump, who beat Billary Clinton, being sworn-in as president. Yes folks, Donald Trump!

The Donald had gone toe to toe with Hilary in a bitter battle which resembled a dysfunctional and disrespectful heavyweight boxing contest where both were trying to inflict as much damage as possible on themselves and the country of their birth, always aiming ten inches down below the belt rather than anywhere above it. I longed for a referee to step in to stop the bruising contest to save us from any more punishment.

Trump began 2017 by picking members of his entire family for high office as if time spent as hotel waiters and porters meant you were naturally suited to running the FBI.

And he brought the term “fake news” into our lexicon. Anything the Donald disagreed with or didn’t like – that usually means almost everything – he instantly dismissed as “fake news” as if only the greatest salesman in the world with a long and illustrious record of passing off kitsch and gaudy, grubby events and places as high-end gold had higher values around counterfeit goods and accuracy.

Today, the big issue is whether or not he will get an invite to Buckingham Palace to meet the Queen.

Brenda has been practicing for any future presidential state visit by spending plenty of time with her future grand daughter-in-law the corn-crunching cheerleader-in-chief Meghan “the sparkle” Markle and boning up with her on American whims and fancies.

Meghan, of course, has bagged a prince who first saw her in Suits by seductively and skilfully hinting to him exactly what she would look like without her Suits, or anything else, on. “Suits you sir?” she said and he answered “definitely”.

She will now be pulling crackers (although she’s already pulled the richest one she will ever pull) at Sandringham on Christmas Day with all the family in front of a roaring log fire, sipping port and tucking into stilton while telling bawdy and off colour Yankee jokes to her new “Grandpa”. “Here Phil, have you heard the one about the Canadian Mountie?”

Me? I’ll be enjoying a lovely, succulent, tender bird and all the trimmings on the big day (the turkey should be good, too!) as Fergie and I have a secret room for the outcasts in the draughty north wing at Sandringham all to ourselves where we can make merry to our hearts’ content with the servants who will ply us and themselves with plenty of fabulous fizz to fuel our frantic, frivolous frolics behind closed doors –  but sshh, don’t tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret. Is that the helicopter I can hear now?







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