Among many lovely Christmas presents, I received socks. Lots of socks. 21 pairs, 42 socks! That may sound a little too many, but you can never have enough socks, especially if you’re me. Before Christmas Day, I don’t think I had any socks without holes in them. Now I have 21 new pairs, 14 of which have the day of the week on them, so if I ever forget what day it is, I just need to check my ankles.

Unlike in previous years, I didn’t watch much TV. In fact, the only thing I found time to watch was Coronation Street. What a festive joy that was. A man suffering from a brain injury hit his wife in the face, a young alcoholic mother got arrested for fighting and a terminally ill woman spent her last Christmas with her grief-stricken husband. Still, if soaps were real, even the residents of Coronation Street would take reassurance from the fact that there’s always somebody worse off than yourself – most likely in EastEnders. While I didn’t watch the awful BBC production, I am sure it involved your usual dose of rape, murder, with a generous pinch of incest thrown in for good measure.

Then there was the footballers. The poor things which had to train on Christmas Day. Cry me a fucking river. Nurses, soldiers, police, factory workers all work over Christmas, most likely for longer hours and less pay than your prima donna superstars. Besides which, this is the busiest time on the football calendar, so the fact they have to train for a couple of hours should come with the job.

Christmas rant and indeed blog over for another year. Festive greetings to you all.