It's official, I'm looking forward to Christmas this year (is that a new thing?). Perhaps it's age, battered hormones, sense of entitlement, dutiful weather, unread horoscopes and unseen alien interventions in my life all finally coming together to celebrate both the great meaningless and the mighty but tiny meaningful. The best of everything and worst of very little, materialism, greed and relative safety, a new way of seeing just punching me in the face. We're not so badly off in this badly run country, that probably makes no sense but it's true. So forget those media darlings, talking heads and political twats that have annoyed the hell out of you all year. Most of them are just fuzzy images full of ignorant wind and discoloured fermented urine. So dig the pants out of Christmas despite them. Simmer in the unfair heat and the oven like warmth, some strong red or amber drink, ridiculous food and noisy bairns and ignored new toys, all scattered around in some chaotic storm of warped religious nonsense with the promise of scattered anti social snow. Nothing matters apart from driving out any Winter demons that by now badly need driven out and then enjoy the slow process of delicious blame, delight and extended recovery. All I really need to do now to experience the most from this bizarre and selfishly internalised festival is to get my car's exhaust fixed, record an album, do a little shopping, go to work a few times, tidy up, iron shirts, wrap up things, drive north, drive south, spend money, have a few good ideas, find a tree, make things up on the spot...etc. And don't forget out there, above the skies and for as far as Brian Cox can clearly observe, it's only a big fat hologram of a thing that we're seeing. Something about that thought gives me an appetite for life.