The day before Christmas Day

 The day before Christmas Day.

So here we are once again, the day before the world brings down its collective shutters and locks up its doors before the yearly festivities, a time for cheerful conviviality, much feasting and drinking, several sore heads by the end of the day and a real sense of perspective. Now, as we count down the hours before the big day, Britain finds itself in that customary state of sheer exhaustion, last minute shopping fatigue and ready to slump on their sofas for the next week without moving a muscle.

Christmas Eve may feel like the lull before the storm but it's time to tie up those loose ends, complete tomorrow's lavish luncheon preparations and seize the chance to wear those frivolous party hats that only seem to come out properly at this time of the year. Christmas was never a time for laziness and inactivity for some households because for the families who take it seriously there can never be enough time. Still, the kids are waiting with that gleeful sense of anticipation and Santa has just popped into a motorway service station on the M1 and just devoured a tasty sandwich from Subways or a latte coffee at Nero's.

Of course Christmas will always hold a wondrous fascination for the children of the world because they'll never lose that innocence and that cheerful disregard for all the bad news around them. And that's somehow admirable because you never quite know whether to laugh or cry at the prevailing news agenda of the day. Some of us are heartily sick of war and anger, death and pain, destruction and carnage. We're almost at the point where breakthroughs are about to be made but then again the cynics have probably heard it all before. 

This year, my wonderfully loving and supportive wife Bev and I became grandparents for the second time and of course we're delighted and thrilled and that goes without saying. If somebody had told you 50 years ago that you would be a grandparent, you would have laughed with a full blooded derision and an air of stupefied dismissiveness. You would have been rolling around on the floor with all the mirth and merriment of this festive season and told them not to be so silly and barely believing that anything like that could ever happen.

But now another year has passed under the bridge and what have you done? Well, nothing out of the ordinary as such but in a way this has been the year of experimentation and turning your hand to something that you would never thought possible and imaginable. It was my Open Mic year, an opportunity to venture out into the pubs and community centres of North London. Here you would stand next to a microphone, pouring out the words from your book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence which is available at Amazon. And here you were delivering your poetry to a captive audience.

So, after conquering some local pubs with my profound verse and lyricism, you struck out for Hampstead Heath where you were reliably informed that another Open Mic season was taking place. It was one of the hottest days of the year and a Saturday afternoon that just felt immensely rewarding and the perfect summer's afternoon. You stepped onto the platform at Hampstead Tube station little knowing it at the time that this would be a goose chase, a fruitless waste of time because you couldn't find the place you were looking for. Fear not, though. This afternoon was simply joyous. 

Besides, it didn't really matter because the sun was shining beautifully and brightly and, quite frankly, who cared if you could find the place or not? There are days in our lives when, even the most frustrating moments can seem privately stunning. So here you went, plunging into the heart of dark green and thick forest land, sometimes going deep into the foliage and then wandering around like a fascinated orienteer. All you needed was a map, some simple directions and all would be well. 

You were looking for a stage called the Gazebo and fully expected to find your venue and destination in no time at all. And yet, as the minutes ticked away and one hour followed another, you began to tear your hair out with total exasperation. You suddenly met a friendly family who were celebrating with an impressive looking picnic. You discovered that they came from Dubai and one member of the family was heading back home the following week. And that was when the fun began. 

You were told that, unfortunately, the Gazebo was well over an hour away from where you were and that you'd have to be  prepared for a stamina sapping walk through sun dappled glades and vast acres of trees and bushes. It was now that you were told that the family would  happily accommodate you with an impromptu poetry reading. You thanked them for their kind offer but would continue your journey undaunted. It felt like a good idea at the time but you were now thirsty and looked at your bottle of water with utter relief. 

In hindsight, your trip to Hampstead Heath somehow features prominently in your memory. What could have been a very anti climactic experience had now turned into something truly wonderful. As somebody who now commits himself to rigorous exercise in an effort to keep body and soul together, this actually felt quite good. But all in all, it's been an excellent year because you were indulging in a new kind of hobby if you like and this felt quite the most beneficial of experiences.

Anyway, we are now a week away before the end of the year. Every year contains its fair share of contrasting emotions, light and darkness, successes and unfortunate failures, the rich tapestry of life. Towards the end of 2025 my beautiful family lost loved ones and an air of sorrow and sadness has fallen over us that is utterly tangible. You can almost reach out and touch it.

On October 8th my delightful and wonderful father in law passed away at the venerable age of 93. Stan Myers was a most caring, compassionate and understanding man. He lived for Arsenal football club, loved the horse racing from Ascot, Epsom, Fontwell, Sandown and Thirsk, the thrill of a financial gain if one of his horses presented him with a small or large sum of money. Stan, as well as the rest of my family, had an intimate knowledge of my Autism diagnosis because football excited and galvanised both of us. 

And so you look back on these important events in your life and try to put them into some indefinable category because it's hard to know how to rationalise them. Both Bev and I have now lost the greatest parents in the world, a mum and dad who never stopped loving us, doting on us, making a fuss of us, coaxing and cajoling us, encouraging us all the way, listening to our childhood and teenage problems, suggesting new projects and always believing in the impossible. We can never thankyou enough.  

So as we settle down to eat our turkey, roast potatoes and vegetables with cranberry sauce while pulling a Christmas cracker, it is time to look ahead positively rather than being dragged back to the complicated years of your adolescence. Of course there were good times, the family holidays, your dad sunbathing in the family garden while drifting into a world of paradise surrounded by the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra. But you'd rather forget the darker shades of your early years because those were years of unbearable struggle and horrific sights. Now though life is just the sweetest of all emotions, a gift from the heavens. You're so grateful, humble and blessed.  

Next August, our beautiful daughter and her boyfriend are getting married and once again your focus turns to rejoicing and celebration, a feeling of exultation and ecstasy that will be the best of them all. So wherever you are and who ever you are, have the happiest of all holidays. And if Santa does bring you anything may it come with fabulous mental and physical health for 2026. Have a good Christmas folks.