Merry Christmas!

Before I forget, I must publicly acknowledge Waitrose, recently moved into my home town, who have an aisle for those with 'six items or fewer.' Thank you to the person at Waitrose responsible for upholding the correct use of 'fewer.'

Due to the scattered whereabouts of my family, we had Christmas yesterday. It was quite a meal: conspicuous consumption on a very literal scale. And then, as I promised, I lost at poker.

I was idly wondering what to blog for Christmas. And then I was helped out by John Humphrys in the Telegraph. Apparently he's searching for God on Radio 4 (as good a place as any, I'd've thought) and, as a sideline, produced an article.

The whole piece is shot through with the sort of happy agnosticism that regards itself virtuous because of its inability or unwillingness to come to a decision. However, this isn't the time (and I haven't the time) to deal with the whole thing; rather, an excerpt from a listener, a 'self-proclaimed agnostic', who wrote to Mr Humphrys regarding God's 'terms of business':

• Thou shalt believe in Me on the basis of scanty hearsay evidence and despite some spectacularly inaccurate claims in my books;
• Thou shalt adore Me in spite of the arbitrary human suffering I have created;
• Thou shalt agonise in Hell (forever) if thou failest to do either of the above irrational and morally meaningless things.

Thus was immediately added to my list of 'Things to Do - 2007' the vow 'promote serious intellectual treatment of religion.' The past 150 years in particular have seen an interesting theological trend, the responsibility for which I can't quite pin down, but it basically shrinks God to a domestic size and then rejects the image when the image is found to be unacceptable for reality. Mr Humphry's correspondant is debating a nursery God. Of course, God has to be expressed in simple terms - all talk about God is metaphorical - but it behooves those who can to point out that these are to be rejected as soon as comprehended. Otherwise, you get what we've got: a sort of ineffectual grandfather God who wants everything to be nice.

First point: who ever developed a belief in God on the basis of 'scanty hearsay evidence'? Something that isn't corporeal would require a greater degree of consensus than something concrete. The vast majority of humankind has considered there to be 'something else' and a handful have claimed to be in direct contact with what we call God.

Depending on your premise, of course, you can explain this (or explain it away) as physical and physiological pheneomena. So the key question becomes: is there anything external that is not quantifiable? (although throwing in 'quantifiable' poses questions about faith in observation itself). In other words, does this 'conscience' we possess have a source and a standard by which it is to be measured?

As for the claims in the books; no more absurd than some claims science has made. But that isn't really the point - science and religion are asking different questions. If he's talking about the New Testament, say, then we can be fairly sure that Jesus was born, and to dismiss the details of the Gospels because they 'can't happen' is sheer a priori prejudice. I read the other day that Richard Dawkins somewhere gleefully proves that virgin births could only produce females; QED, Jesus was not a virgin birth. 'God doesn't exist; therefore this man was not the Son of God' is an argument on the same lines as 'all dogs have four legs: my cat has four legs: my cat is a dog.'

Second point: this illustrates the dangers of domesticating God. If you take God away, then suffering becomes no less arbitrary; true, says the sceptic, but at least then we can take it on its own merits.

Okay. Let's note and put aside suffering inflicted by humans on humans and think about earthquakes and tsunamis. Proponents of this arguments always want the physical world to behave itself, or God to place some sort of statute of limitations on the possible destruction wreaked. There are some diseases that I can't imagine the need for in a created universe, but then I've never tried to create a universe.

Furthermore, for the Christian suffering is intimately tied up with the faith. In the shadow of the Cross, suffering is the faith, from which we derive lots of extraordinary dogma like Substitutionary Atonement. But this is, to the best of my knowledge, only available to Christians, which it is why it's so important that Jesus was God. (Expatiation on request).

Ergo, the niceness of agnostics and the not-niceness of God becomes less relevant. To sidestep slightly, if the existence of God is accepted, then suffering has to be part of the dance of creation. Karl Barth recognised the nursery God and insisted, loudly, that the 'transcendant gulf' had to be emphasised. If we could comprehend God, He would not be God; the best we can do is apprehend Him, given hints from within (conscience) and without (revelation). Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote that when we say truly, 'God is Love', we stress 'Love' and make God a Hallmark card deity. Rather, we should stress 'God' and remember that His other attributes - Justice, Wrath and so on - are also Love. This is all bound up with competing understandings of man's relationship with God - of which more when I discuss Sin, hopefully.

Third point: 'irrational' is one of those words carelessly used to attempt a short-cut victory in any argument, as if religious thinkers were not rational. For 'rational' means only 'to use reason' and many many many many people have concluded that belief in God is reason-able. Even those who believe 'only what they can see' have to make a basic leap of faith that their reason is working correctly to make that call in the first place, and why should it? Morally meaningless is even sillier: he may mean ethically meaningless, but trying to derive ethics without morals is like trying to make Christmas dinner without sprouts. And again, any attempt to create a 'humanistic' ethic sooner or later makes its own profession of faith; the Universal Declaration of Human Rights is a religious document in the sense that it's based on unprovable assertions.

There is no way of deriving an obligation from empirical observation.

And finally, Hell. For what seems the zillionth time, entry to Heaven is not some sort of trivia quiz presided over by a celestial - well, John Humphrys. Hell is not a punishment but a consequence. If you accept God, then it follows that there are but two ways: your way, or His. There is no sort of muddling-along-doing-okay being nice to small children and animals. I freely admit that anyone can do that. But in the end there are two kinds of souls: those who say to God, 'Thy will be done,' and those to whom God says, 'Thy will be done.' And the destination of the latter we call Hell.

All of which brings us to the fairly unnoticed arrival of a baby some 2000 and a bit years ago, the great and mind-bending convergence of Eternity and Time.

Which is why I wish everybody a happy, peaceful and refreshing Christmas. Enjoy!

Phil's Top Ten Carols

My friend Phil is so taken with this business that he emails his favourite carols. As he's an organist, his is a much better list than mine, which would basically be ranked according to the number of words I can remember. I would add 'Angels From The Realms of Glory,' but otherwise here goes, with many thanks to Phil:

1. Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

To my mind, the perfect carol. Not too long (only 3 verses) and a fantastic descant part. Admittedly, the tune somehow contrives to be that little bit too high for everyone, but I forgive it for be so rousing. Plus, I really like the exclamation mark in the title.

2. God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

I always wished it were 'God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen', but that wouldn't fit the minor key that this is set in. This calls for great articulation if sung quite briskly. There's also a wonderful, ethereal descant part which is just lots of 'ah's over the top.

3. Unto Us A Son Is Born

I love the really dark verse about Herod in which the organ accompaniment is lots of crashing, discordant chords, and ends with 'and slew the little children'.

4. O Little Town of Bethlehem

Another one I like primarily for the descant part, although the 'How silently, how silently' verse is fun as everyone resorts to childish whispers.

5. Ding Dong Merrily On High

Glo......................................................oria. Need I say more?

6. We Three Kings Of Orient Are

This is slightly childish, but as an organist you can play a great game with this one. Each time you get to the 'O-o, star of wonder...', try to extend the O that little bit longer, so that by the last chorus it's got to ridiculous proportions.

7. O Come All Ye Faithful

Another rousing anthem in the mould of Hark! Lots of fun to be had with the dynamics in the chorus - should the men drop out completely, and if so when should they return? Another cracking descant part as well.

8. Once In Royal David's City

For me, the beauty is not so much in the solo rendition of the first verse, but the moment when the organ and congregation join in with 'He came down...' That's what sends the shivers down my spine.

9. In The Bleak Midwinter

I like both tunes that this is set to, but I suppose I prefer the more familiar Holst setting. This is a slightly unusual choice for me as I don't normally go a bundle on the softer, slower carols, but I quite like the snowy, cold images that this evokes. I find it difficult not to sing 'In the meek blidwinter'.

10. It Came Upon The Midnight Clear

I feel a little sorry for this carol as I feel it gets forgotten and overlooked sometimes, but it's enjoyable to play or sing and should be included more in my opinion.

More books

I spent rather too long blogging books yesterday, time that could have been spent Doing Other Things. So, for anybody still shopping, here are two more lists without explanation (you'll just have to trust me here):

Can't-miss Books L-Z:

1. Out of the Silent Planet Trilogy, by CS Lewis
2. Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier
3. Cry, the Beloved Country, by Alan Paton
4. Gormenghast Trilogy, by Mervyn Peake
5. Complete Stories of Saki
6. Broadway Babies Say Goodnight, by Mark Steyn
7. Perfume, by Patrick Suskind
8. The Secret History, by Donna Tartt
9. Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy
10. Children of the Sun, by Morris West

Can't-miss Children's Books:

1. Watership Down, by Richard Adams
2. The Dark is Rising Sequence, by Susan Cooper
3. Half Magic, by Edward Eager
4. The Incredible Adventures of Professor Branestawm, by Norman Hunter
5. Finn Family Moomintroll, by Tove Jansson
6. The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster
7. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, by CS Lewis
8. The Whispering Knights, by Penelope Lively
9. The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
10. The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark, by Jill Tomlinson

Enjoy.

And now you must excuse me, but I have to go lose to my family at poker. I shall return, with a Christmas message. You'd expect that, surely??

Books for Christmas

This is the season for making lists and, as a man, I'm very fond of making lists. There is a great sense of accomplishment in making a list and then ticking things off.

So forget the Trinny & Susannah, forget the latest solipsistic self-help manual, forget the must-have cookbook or the footballer's ghost-written 'autobiography' of 25 years; forget the latest ignorant political screed and please forget The Da Vinci Code: this is the Badger's list of ten can't-miss books for Christmas.

1. The Meaning of Liff, Douglas Adams & John Lloyd

With the brilliant premise that (a) there are lots of situations for which no words exist and (b) there are lots of words doing nothing but loafing on signposts, Adams & Lloyd wrote this dictionary. Example: Nutbourne (n): in a choice of two or more possible puddings, the one nobody plumps for. This has entered the Badger family's lexicon.

2. Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres

Gracious, I hear you say, that's very 90s. True, but it's had enough of a rest period to dust it off and bring it out to those few people who didn't read it first time round. It's a lovely, rich, wallowy sort of novel, and do keep going through the first quarter.

3. Anything by Bill Bryson

Every home should have at least one Bill Bryson, an author who never fails to elicit embarrassing snorts of laughter from me. The choice depends upon the recipient, but it's usually a good idea to choose a book dealing with a place they know. For most Brits, Notes from a Small Island will be best.

4. Manalive by GK Chesterton

I can't not have something by my hero, ignored by modern academics for being unforgivably right (as opposed to more canonical authors). But what? I'm reluctant to recommend the apologetic works, brilliant though they are, so here's one of his barking mad novels, which might just achieve its objective of making you look at the world differently. And actually look at the world differently, unlike the fortune-cookie philosophies of Jonathan Livingstone Seagull or The Alchemist.

5. Anything by Agatha Christie

I was slightly surprised to learn that my friend Little Brock, despite being 26, has never read an Agatha Christie. Everybody should be given the chance; if they already know the twists of Murder of Roger Ackroyd or Murder on the Orient Express, go for The Body in the Library, Death on the Nile, The Labours of Hercules, The Mysterious Mr Quin or Endless Night.

6. A Good Walk Spoiled by John Feinstein

This will only appeal to the golfer in your life, admittedly, but when there are so few real golf books, this stands out like a beacon. Its subtitle 'Days and Nights on the US Tour' tells you all you need to know. If they've already got it, buy Feinstein's The Majors. If they've got that, buy Michael Green's The Art of Coarse Golf, about 40 years old and still hilarious (and true).

7. Making History by Stephen Fry

Fry is beginning to teeter on the edge of self-parody, imho, and it's remarkable how vicious a man can be when he's built a career on being lovable and convivial. But stay away from his non-fiction and enjoy this splendid novel, a counter-factual concerning the consequences of preventing Hitler's birth.

8. The Christmas Mystery by Jostein Gaarder.

Gaarder became rich and famous with Sophie's World, a pleasant novel that did succeed in drawing me into philosophy, but his other works demonstrate a humanity, imagination and intelligence worth exploring. It's not especially profound but it's deep enough to be satisfying, and The Christmas Mystery - in which a small girl travels backwards through Europe to the Nativity - goes some way toward encapsulating the 'spirit of Christmas.'

9. The Cold War: a New History by John Gaddis

I wouldn't ever usually recommend history books, mainly because they're usually dull, but this skips through the Cold War in 250 pages, is written by someone who knows what he's talking about and - vitally in these trying times - reminds us that the right side won.

10. The Penguin History of New Zealand by Michael King

Yes, all right, I know. But if we assume that it's my self-appointed task to raise the profile of New Zealand, this is a fine if slightly left-field selection. There are Kiwi histories I prefer, but this this is as up-to-date a single volume as you'll find. If so inclined, you could also go for Manning Clark's History of Australia (abridged in one volume, unless you're rich and / or bedridden) and / or Clark, Denoon and Mein Smith's extremely recent History of Australia, New Zealand and the Pacific.

Which only takes us up to K and includes no children's books. Depending on how early this headcold puts me to sleep, I may rectify that later today.

Favourite Games

There was an excellent piece in today's Telegraph about the best games to play over Christmas, although imho most can, and should, be enjoyed at any time. This got me thinking - it's surprising what does - and so I offer the Badger's Choice:

1. Pictionary

Probably my favourite game ever, not least because my brother and I have some sort of weird ESP connection that renders us unbeatable. On one famous occasion, I guessed 'icicle' within two seconds after he drew a 'V', while my father was still in the process of drawing a snowflake.

2. Masquerade

Like charades but better, this requires you to act out phrases and sentences, such as 'what is Israel doing in the Eurovision Song Contest?' A game that has left me weeping helplessly with laughter (unlike Monopoly, which has just left me weeping helplessly).

3. Articulate

Very simple: you have to describe as many words as possible to your team without mentioning the word they have to guess. Like Pictionary, but for those with a better vocabulary. Worked example: I once had to describe 'glistening,' and thought I had done so rather brilliantly:

Me: 'in the lane, snow is - '
Father: 'piled up high'

Moral: never play board games on the same team as my father.

4. Cluedo

Despite the inevitable argument at the start regarding the finer details of seeing Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with a candlestick, the finest game that actually requires an element of skill to play and be accomplished within the hour. It has also directly led to some very successful murder dinners and my PhD.

5. Oh Hell!

A card game with the endearing twist that your aim is not to necessarily win nor lose, but to take the number of tricks that you think you'll take. This is harder than it looks, although the very skilled can usually contrive a flat zero. However, the number of cards dealt reduces by one each time and the trump suit changes, hence the name of the game derives from unexpected victories, and might be more accurately called 'oh shit, you've just made me win with the two of spades, you bastard.'

6. Boggle

Sixteen letters in a 4-by-4 grid and you have to make as many words as possible within a given time from connecting letters. I like this game a lot, mainly because I've only ever lost once, and that was to my boyfriend (at the time), who adopted the brilliant tactic of inventing words and then looking them up in the dictionary. It's truly amazing how many three-letter Scottish words of doubtful etymology there are.

7. Therapy

You don't often see this, but the basic point is to answer questions on human psychology. Sounds dull, but the real fun lies when you go into 'therapy' and a fellow player asks, 'so tell me Bob, on a scale of 1 to 10, how charming are you?' At which point you write down two totally different numbers and a perfectly good relationships is ruined.

8. 21

A drinking game that requires the players to count up to 21. Sounds easy, but counting two numbers reverses direction and three skips a player...it's actually fiendishly difficult and more so after a few drinks. Often messy.

9. Ibble Dibble

Another drinking game and one I haven't played for literally years - since I was an undergrad, in fact, and when my siblings were still young enough to do this sort of thing. The details now escape me (please help if you can!), but it involves reciting a complicated formula about I, Bob, having one ibble and no dibbles, toast you, Max, with no ibbles and one dibble...being penalised for the slightest mistake and having burnt cork rubbed vigorously into your face.

10. 'The Destructive Card Game'

To the best of my knowledge, the finest party game ever has no name, so I'm going to call it Badger. You take the sixteen court cards from a pack. You take four chairs (that you don't mind losing) and set them up in the four corners. You deal the cards, face down, to the sixteen players. At a given signal they turn them over...and, shouting only the name of their card, have to arrange themselves in suits. Ace sits down first, king on ace, queen on king and jack on queen. It might sound straightforward but I assure you it's noisy, frenetic, hilarious, violent and destructive. At my leaving-for-Yale party, the four lightest people there shattered a garden chair into matchwood.

There are many others I've enjoyed: Consequences, Jenga, Ex-Libris, Trivial Pursuit, Twister and so on. I have included no games or variations of a sexual or erotic nature because I don't believe they exist in real life. There is space to mention a fine game, in which one person leaves the room, then the other players each drink a bottle of whisky and guess who it was.

I Like To Be...Part 4

Finally!

Possibly I'm deluding myself, but there must be somebody out there who wants to see how this developed. Unfortunately I'm not entirely sure I can remember.

Basically, I saw many of my New Haven friends. For my final year there, I was a Resident Graduate Affiliate to one of the constituents of Yale College, and in my time at Yale I probably made more undergraduate than graduate friends. There could be many reasons for this: my own immaturity is one obvious explanation, although I prefer the supposition that undergrads were (except the lunatic and / or lazy) more interesting than the grads, who all generally pretended that they were more interesting than their work but on further inspection proved not to be (and quite a few of them were lunatic too, although I think that's an occupational hazard in academia).

The point being that, on occasion, I worked in the college buttery, where I introduced to a grateful population the concept of a 'chip butty.' And it was - quite seriously - one of the highlights of my year to return and find that they've named the chip butty after me; i.e. you order it with my surname. Kinda like a Waldorf Salad, but much better.

Let me repeat: they named a sandwich after me!!

How many other people have been so greatly honored? Although thinking about it, there are at least two cocktails I drink named after friends of mine. I'll publish those soon.

Scooting forward a bit, let me pick up to a coffee with Graham, who is particuarly interesting in my life because I was his first gay kiss. What's most interesting about this is that he went and acquired a girlfriend about two weeks later. The girlfriend is now ex-, but Graham, who is one of the most level-headed and fundamentally sorted undergrads I know, just does not come across as a closet case. We had a long coffee and a long chat, and he asked about my progress, if 'progress' is the right word here, to being out; and I told him it was a long journey of leaving people in tears at railway stations and waking up one day to the fact that, although women were lovely and wonderful and probably great to live with, the inescapable fact was that I just would much rather hug guys.

(Before I forget, my mother earlier this evening referred to that earth-shaking event when 'the Angel Gabriel came out to the Virgin Mary' - the sort of thing you fear the Anglican Church is about to promulgate any day now. But then, my mother also spoke of a 'log cabbage.' I'm beginning to worry. But I digress).

Graham, in short, is one of those taciturn guys who is a delight to know better, all thoughts about his kissing aside. Although that moment was one of those genuinely unexpected pleasures when the world does a loop-the-loop.

Pressing on, Monday evening was my highlight of the whole trip and - as my dissertation advisor had buggered off abroad on his jet-set lifestyle - pretty much the purpose of the exercise. It was the first-ever read-through of my new play with people whose brilliance borders on genius.

Many of you know this, but those who don't should know that I write plays, and the last two completed scripts have been books for musicals. The first, The Last of the Great Romantics, is (imho) very good (words by me, music by Stephen Rodgers PhD) and any interested parties should just ask. The second is called Bi and it was this we read. It now occurs to me that I've written myself into a corner, because I don't want to blow my own trumpet...but suffice to say that I had a great time, mainly thanks to the actors involved. It was a moment of great if surreal pleasure to hear my straight friend Chris reel off a list of slang terms for 'gay' before concluding with the vehement I. Like. Cock.

The plot, since you ask, concerns a guy (Chris) brought out by a guy (Luke) who then falls for an old female friend (Caro) and goes back in again. There's a bit more to it than that, of course, but that's the hook on which all else hangs.

My parents have been pre-emptively banned from ever seeing this show. Somehow I don't think that assuring them that practically none of it is autobiographical (which is true) is going to compensate for the jokes. Although as I once used the word 'fellatio' in a YDN column, who knows?

And after everyone had gone home, Chris plus The Guy sat up and vigorously put the knife into Hellhouse, Midwest Protestantism and the President, with all of which I'll take some issue some other time. There was a deeply lovely moment when Chris, shaking his head in the style of someone who's been defying Fate for the last six years but who has now tragically accepted reality, sighed and asked rhetorically 'can anyone doubt that Bush will go down in history as one of our worst presidents?'

Actually yes, one can. Quite easily, in fact. But if you go to school at Yale, chances are you won't ever have heard the argument made (I except my friend Max, the most articulate and entertaining Republican on the YDN list).

Another time. And eventually Chris went and The Guy stayed and...well, in the end I wrote a song called Morning in America, which just goes to show something or other.

Follow-ups

Quite by accident, I discovered that Liverpool's Danish defender Daniel Agger (the new and future Sami Hyppia) also celebrates his birthday on December 12. What a truly auspicious day it turns out to be. Mr Agger is also 6'2" (or 6'3") and 12st 6lb (or 12st 8lb). All of which goes to prove that you shouldn't rely on the internet as a research tool; a bit of a bugger for lazy students like me but a salutary warning nonetheless.

My friend Phil writes to point out that Paul McCartney is guilty of an egregious abuse of grammar in Live and Let Die. To which I say bah humbug. Discussing lyricists, he agrees with me about the genius of Tom Lehrer, composer of the seasonal favourite I'm Spending Hannukah (in Santa Monica) and also of Victoria Wood, who rhymed 'bric-a-bric' with 'wicker back' in Acorn Antiques: the Musical. She also produced the brilliant:

"I think about you right from dawn until dusk, you
haven't spoken to me, I just stand in your bus queue."

And, in the song Let's Do It:

'not bleakly, not meekly, beat me on the bottom with a Woman's Weekly'

I don't think I could go out with anyone who didn't love that sort of thing (and that sound you heard was the pool of prospective boyfriends shrinking further).

Mind you, I was out with Phil last night, reflecting for the second time that this particular Liverpool pub was quite stunningly free from anything attractive (the first time is another story), when we were obnoxiously accosted by a slobbering drunk. Now, I have nothing against drunk people, nothing against gay men and nothing against Scots, but I do dislike the combination when it sits next to me and asks me for its opinion on its pool playing. Slobberingly. And when it calls me Harry.

I made my excuses and left

Extraordinary events

Thanks to reading the sports section of the Sunday Times, I have been introduced to volzy.com, the website of a German footballer with a great sense of humour. Really, try it. And speaking of footballers, again with thanks to the Sunday Times, my favourite Spaniard Xavi Alonso was appaently the only Liverpool player not to attend the club's Christmas party in fancy dress. Hmm, maybe he is gay (counter-intuitive but it makes sense when you think about it).

The more extraordinary event was after the Headmaster's Dinner, when I was quite ruthlessly vamped by a prep-school teacher and single mother (that's the same person, by the way). Although on one level it's immensely flattering, I really do not want to enter into a relationship with a single mother, or any mother, or anybody with children to be perfectly honest. Two of my godmother's small grandchildren came round this morning and, while the objective part of me fully appreciates that they are well-behaved and adorable, I can't help regarding them with the same combination of curiosity and disgust triggered by lifting a piece of rotting wood to see what's underneath.

And when I say vamped, vamped is altogether too subtle. It would sound monstrously egomaniacal to repeat what she told me, suffice to say that it concluded 'and I really just want to snog you,' at which point my sister happily if belatedly intervened by inventing a phone call from our mother. But among the litany of drunken compliments was the one word all academics with a vestige of self-respect never want to hear.

Geeky.

I never thought I looked good with glasses, and trying contact lenses might now be added to my Resolutions for 2007.

Is there a socially acceptable of method of rebuffing unwanted females? Other than co-opting one's colleagues into forming a sort of Praetorian Guard to usher you out of the room? I mean, I'm happy that I'm straight-acting, but this is the sort of price I'm not so keen to pay.

Saturday I saw an excellent RSC production of Winter's Tale, a day marred chiefly by the bastards at Stratford-upon-Avon District Council issuing me with a Penalty Notice for overstaying in one of their car parks. This was true, but only because their stupid ticket machine rejected my coins. There is no reason, apart from unabashed sloth and rapacity on the part of Stratford District Council, why machines can't be installed that (a) take cards and/or notes and (b) give change. I know this because car parks in Worcester have such devices. They may overcharge, but at least you can put it on the card.

Some years ago I used a multi-storey in Lincoln, and was checking my change when a lady motorist wandered up to the ticket machine. In an attempt to apologise for my havering, I said brightly 'I don't know why these machines don't give change!'

'Because they're stupid stupid stupid and we live in a bloody fascist police state,' she replied. Multi-storeys can do that to you.

And now I'm home for Christmas, the Bailey's has been opened and the several dozen mince pies have been exhumed from the garage. Deck the halls, hurrah hurrah.

Tidying up

To my immense surprise, I seem to have steadily worked my way through all the little bits of paper with notes for future blogs scrawled across them. There remain only a few thoughts to share before, hopefully, I can finish off my American journal.

I was in Stratford's Starbucks last week, where at the next table was a drop-dead gorgeous schoolboy - yes, I know, but just because he's a teenager and I'm not doesn't stop him being gorgeous - explaining the offside law to his girlfriend. Really and truly. And then he went on to attempt the lbw law. I hope this girl knows the prize she's got. This was all so engrossing that it quite distracted me from what I was doing, which was writing lyrics, so it was probably a good thing when they left, to be replaced by a gaggle of younger teenage girls, one of whom looked out of the window and cried 'oh my God! there's a big bear!', which is not the sort of thing one usually hears in Stratford-upon-Avon unless one happens to be watching The Winter's Tale.

Anent Bond songs, my friend Phil writes to complain that the egregious violation of all reasonable rules of grammar in Live and Let Die should rule it out of court, tout court. He is of course referring to 'and in this ever-changing world in which we live in' and he is absolutely right. However, I hold out the hope that the line actually reads 'this ever-changing world in which we're living.' This would make perfect sense, and I haven't googled to check just in case I'm wrong.

Christmas shopping is much easier when items instruct you to buy them. The company from which I occasionally buy wine, in trying to persuade me to part with more money in the festive spirit, as it were, threw all subtlety to the four winds and stated, very bluntly, 'do not be without New Zealand sauvignon this Christmas.' So that's now on the list: wrapping paper, tinsel, tags made from last year's cards, a diet of chocolate and satsumas...and Kiwi sauvignon. Phew. Although I'm a little concerned that my father's goat still hasn't arrived.

I do however notice, with some annoyance, that I haven't commented on the following (and this is a direct lift from scotsman.com, to whom I apologise):

'CHRISTIAN leaders have condemned Edinburgh University for banning students belonging to the Christian Union from teaching an abstinence course on campus.

The row centres on the decision by university chiefs that literature promoting the six-week course, entitled Pure, broke equality and diversity rules, following claims that it included stories from people who had been "cured" of their homosexuality.'

Hmm, so free speech has curled up and died in Edinburgh. I remember there was a facebook group called 'Stop PURE,' which I cordially didn't join. This will have to tie into Sin, when I get round to it. Damnit.

(And did anybody else notice Kofi Annan's interview, in which he apologised for not being able to keep Saddam in power?)

We have the Headmaster's Christmas Dinner tomorrow, which is a black-tie affair. I'm not quite sure how I contrived to shoot moisturiser onto the shoulder of my dinner jacket, and I'm positive I wouldn't be able to do so if I tried, but it does suggest that life is irrevocably loaded with the elements of comedy, albeit Terry and June. Fortunately my mother had the wit to send me off with a spare DJ, which doesn't fit and isn't quite the same shade of black, but at least doesn't look as if someone has been rubbing marmite into it.

Writing lyrics is one of the most agonising pastimes because it's a patently inefficient use of time. To spend a couple of hours pacing up and down - or, if you're in public, beating the air with a pen and mouthing potential rhyme schemes - trying to construct something clever, concise and meaningful is painful when the muse refuses to play ball and stays home with a cup of tea, and you're reduced to 'love/above' again. The flashes of genius do in some way compensate for the long stretches of adequacy, but goodness knows what will happen when I get a teaching timetable. To be fair to myself, I've wasted even more time this past fortnight, having discovered chatrooms. If there's a bigger waste of time than talking to people online you don't know, please tell me. So I've returned to my lyrics in an effort (a) to utilise some talents before I lose the available time and (b) to reduce my phonebill. And speaking of dating websites, obliquely, is it too much to ask that any prospective boyfriend should be able to spell? Is it too much trouble to get 'where' and 'were' sorted out? Or am I being too picky? (as the only chatroom user who writes in full sentences, the answer to that is probably 'yes')

I've been using a rhyming dictionary to assist with the lyrics, which I find has the very limited and specific use of avoiding the necessity to constantly work through the alphabet whenever you need a rhyme. Otherwise, as Mark Steyn pointed out in Broadway Babies Say Goodnight, it won't help with such brilliant constructions as Lionel Bart's 'please her / she's a' (living doll), or even 'control as / tombolas,' which could only be Tim Rice. Or, in my own case, 'Joshua / gosh, you are' (adorable), which pleased me. Although it is educational: who knew, for example, that 'sciuroid' meant 'squirrel-like'? Certainly not me, and though I'll try and slip it into conversation (possibly at the Dinner - 'goodness me Headmaster, but your wife is looking distinctly sciuroid tonight'), how in the name of Hades could anybody use that in a lyric??