Frunting and bolics, readers. Why, it seems only a year ago that we were last making trite comments about the imminence of Christmas, as I tritely commented to Mrs Rolfe the cleaner this morning.

She does get excited at this time of year but I do wish she'd think twice before climbing the stepladder to drape the Basics tinsel around the high-voltage Poundland tree - not least because the altitude of her hemline does not become a woman of her seniority. I suppose purple is a seasonal colour, even if it is only varicose veins.

I think Tesco's early Clubcard voucher extravaganza may have helped her acquire a Value brandy truffle too many - it was either that or the gentle shove in the small of the back that caused the fall. Luckily, Asda's tasteful holiday gift a nativity crib populated by the Bentonville Bruiser's British board was there to cushion the fall. The hospital said they were picking bits of Bondandybond out of the good Mrs Rolfe's buttocks for four hours and they still haven't found Judith McKenna.

At any rate I got some peace and quiet to plan this year's Christmas treat for my supermarket executive friends. After all, as they selflessly slash prices and then spend even more congratulating themselves for doing so, there can't be much left for life's little luxuries. I mean, look at Asda's promise of a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings pudding, mince pies and all for just £1.83 a head. I've recommended to my colleagues in the Home Office that Asda should supply meals for asylum seekers, starting with the family living in luxury at a cost of £1,600 a week to the taxpayer. That will have them running for the Somali hills well before the holidays.

I decided to settle on a little yachting trip for King Justin, Tel, Markup & Co. But in the end they turned me down, claiming they were busy or something. But as I file this I've packed my bags, stocked up on the brandy, and am heading for the Persian Gulf. Should be just the ticket at this time of year.

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