My favourite Marx Brother was Groucho, false mustache and funny walk.
This is genius.
Nothing more needs to be said.
Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash
Let’s start with the once-a-year treat of turkey for Christmas dinner and turkey sandwiches for a week afterwards. Then there was watching the big film on Christmas Day, only ever seen at the cinema before. And once a year, the Radio Times double issue would be bought, and planning for Christmas viewing would begin.
Then there was something that every kid expected — at least one chocolate selection box that would never make it past Boxing Day.
In many homes, it didn’t even survive Christmas afternoon.
Selection boxes were bright, shiny, and exciting. For adults, they were an easy gift. For children, they were a chocolate-filled treasure.
And for most of us, they were gone within hours.
Although, I have to say, the selection boxes did seem to be a lot bigger back then. Maybe being a child had something to do with that — after all, everything looks bigger when you are a kid.
But shrinkflation hadn’t been thought of yet.
The boxes were big and were full of the chocolates everyone loved. A Mars bar, Aero, Kit-Kat, the Crunchie, the Flake, a packet of Buttons, a tube of Smarties and Rolos, to name a few. You would get ten or twelve to a box, and they were all full size — none of this miniature-size, two-bites-and-they-are-gone nonsense.
You can only imagine the sugar high.
I was always convinced that I could pace myself. Every year I’d unwrap the selection boxes and list them from favourites to potential swaps. Inside, the sweets were laid out like jewels: the Flake you could never eat neatly, the Caramel bar that stuck your teeth together, and I was always disappointed if I got a Bounty, because they were difficult to trade. Adults seemed to like them, but they had nothing to swap.
And then there were the negotiations — somehow, I had to offload that Bounty.
The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 is my festive wander through memories, traditions, mishaps, and moments — from childhood Christmases of the 60s and 70s to the quirks of celebrating today. Think nostalgia sprinkled with humour, a pinch of honesty, and the occasional whiff of Brussels sprouts.
Let’s unwrap the season, one story at a time.
It’s the mid-1970s, the day before Christmas Eve. It’s a typical British winter scene, as I’m trudging through a thin mist that we hope will deliver snow, but more likely it will rain. I’m on my way to the house of the family who was looking after my dog Lisa—a mischievous animal, with a temperament that suggested she was a law unto herself.
As soon as I stepped inside the front room, I was hit by it.
A smell.
Not a strong one, but the kind that creeps up on you — a sort of lingering, unidentifiable pong that is noticeable and doesn’t go away.
Naturally, my first thought was Lisa.
She was sitting in the corner, looking vaguely guilty in that classic canine way. Her ears were slightly down, as was her head, her eyes avoiding mine. If she were a human, her posture would say, “I’d like to speak to my solicitor.”
It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d left an aromatic surprise, but she had been trained to go outside.
Something felt… off.
In true modern fashion, there’s even a YouTube video to usher us into the season of goodwill and maximum spending.
Here it is:
Except they’re not tins any more, are they? They’re round plastic containers, half the size of the tins from my youth. At least, it feels that way. I remember those big tins; you could make your own drum set out of them, and we did.
A fine example of shrinkflation wrapped in festive plastic.
And let’s be honest: anything bought in early November labelled “Christmas chocolates” will never survive until Christmas. I can already hear the household negotiations:
“Mum, can I have a chocolate? Just one.”
The child eyes up the container like a pirate sizing up treasure.
“No.”
“Why not? I only want one!”
“Because they’re for Christmas, that’s why.”
Of course, one eventually gets eaten, then another… Then everyone joins in, and the plastic tub is empty by the weekend. The shop makes another sale, the cycle repeats, and Christmas creeps ever earlier.
I suppose this makes me a bit of a Grinch myself. I refuse to get involved so early — it’s simply too soon. And besides, I haven’t yet heard Noddy Holder yelling “It’s Christmassssss…!” across a supermarket PA system. Until that happens, it’s definitely not Christmas.
The first thing to say about this book is that you do not need to like fishing or be interested in the sport of fishing to read it. As you would expect from the title it is about fishing, but it is actually more about the two men doing the fishing, the British comedians and comedy actors, Bob Mortimer and Paul Whitehouse.
It is as much about them as it is fishing.
They share something in common in that they both faced a serious heart health issue. Whitehouse had three stents put in, while Mortimer had a triple bypass. The book, and the BBC TV show that has now been running for five series, is about their friendship and Life, both before and after having been close to death.
They are both in their sixties now, an age I know something about. They are perhaps aware that they may be on, as the saying goes, borrowed time, and so they are making the most of it. Fishing has become a big part of that for them, and I suppose they are fortunate in that they have been able to make the TV series as a job of work. In five series, they have travelled around the UK and occasionally overseas to fish and ponder life.
Both still have a child-like approach to life, especially Mortimer. Working in comedy has probably given them the chance to never grow up or be overtaken by the seriousness of life. Whitehouse is very serious about fishing and its history, and this comes out in the book. While it is an easy read, it does go through the history, traditions and technical side of fishing. Those chapters are written by Whitehouse, who has been a lifelong fisherman. His knowledge comes to the fore, while Mortimer is like the apprentice, taking it all in.
Except that Bob doesn't always take in what he is being told.
You can see this quite often in the TV series as Whitehouse shows frustration with his apprentice. “Don't wind” as in winding the caught fish in, can frequently be heard from Whitehouse. There is an art and technique to landing a fish, and overuse of winding the rod to pull the fish in is not part of it. Mortimer is always caught winding, his innocent reply is always “I'm not winding” with a cheeky grin on his face. The fish regularly escapes as Whitehouse holds back his disappointment. I'm tempted to say anger, but they remain mates. Bob is like a child at heart.
So, if it's your thing read the book, but if you don't, you can watch some episodes of the TV series as they are on YouTube. If you like TV with scenery, a nice view, travel to different places, it's wonderful, calming, and funny. Funny as in silly. As Mortimer asks, what's the tomato in your life? I suppose we all have a tomato in our life, or perhaps we are still looking for it.