Let's See What Next Year Brings

The last red berries and the first white snow

I wrote Let's See What Next Year Brings at the arse end of November; thus giving myself a four week window in which to perform it live, before it gets put away in my cranial garage 'til next November/December. That's the trouble with writing anything seasonal: it becomes perishable the minute you make any reference to the time of year, prevailing weather conditions and tinsel. Or sleigh bells.



Anyway, it being New Year's Eve, I'll be giving it a final 2103 outing tonight. And then, in true Noddy style, I'll change the lyrics to include eggs & bonnets, bunnies & buns.

And just before we sign the old year off, I'd like to wish everyone a Happy New Year. Thanks for swinging by.

A mere Bagatelle?

Batteries not required

1966 and all that: England lift the World Cup, Ford launch the Ford Cortina Mark 2, The Beatles release Revolver & John Medd gets a Bagatelle for Christmas; and you know what? I've still got it. And the box it came in: 'To John, from Santa' it says.

'Zoe'

'Emma'

A bit like The Queen, it gets wheeled out every Christmas day afternoon. This year, however, we waited 'til the 27th. We were invited to a Games Evening, so took the Bagatelle c/w box with us. Not surprisingly it went down a storm. Well it would, wouldn't it? It doesn't need plugging in. It doesn't need batteries. Nor does it come with instructions or a rule book as long as your arm. It just requires you to sit down and pull a rudimentary trigger mechanism and fire six ball bearings around a piece of wood with some nails in. What could be easier?

Some people, of course, took it way too seriously. I won't use their real names here - let's
just call them Zoe and Emma. They were questioning the score keeper. They were sledging. They were tipping drinks all over the playing surface. Well, they are twins. From Leeds. Need I say more? I blame the parents.

Get Bacchanale

Our Christmas revelry has been kept in check this year - not very Bacchanalian; though glasses were charged and raised at the appropriate times. Contrast that to the music we've been listening to this holiday: lots of Medieval Babes and Red Priest - classical baroque fits like a hand in glove at this time of year. Saint-Saëns provided the soundtrack to the bird cooking in its own juices and the subsequent (mini) banquet that followed. Here's the Baccahanale with Gustavo Dudamel conducting The Berlin Philharmonic. Hold on to your seats.

Children Go Where I Send Thee

Shiny 45s hanging from the tree and Nick Lowe entombed in a snow globe; Noddy was right - it's only just begun.

Speaking of Nick Lowe, he was persuaded by his American record company earlier this year to make a 'Holiday' album. In the wrong hands this project would surely have become another of Herod's victims. Instead, it sounds like this:

Dying Day

Christmas will be a quiet affair this year; just the two of us. We will, though, in keeping with family tradition, still be be putting the tree up this afternoon - big switch on 16:00 GMT (11:00 Eastern). And, as ever, it will be decorated to a Dean Martin soundtrack; not one of his Christmas albums but, invariably, Live at The Sands* or The Essential Collection. Don't ask me how, why or when this all started but we simply cannot deck the halls with boughs of holly to anything other than a Dino backdrop.

But here's the thing. And a very apposite thing at that. Dean Martin died on Christmas Day. Who knew?