Tales from Denmark . . .

How are we all coping with January then? We're halfway through and Christmas now seems like a distant memory. The weather is wavering between brisk, cold, bright days and rather overcast stuffy ones. I'm currently feasting on the books that came my way on December 25th. David Downing's Potsdam Station is the latest in a series of books set in Germany before, during and after the last war. Downing ratchets up the suspense with each chapter but does so in a believable way. I found myself rooting for the central characters, John Russell and Effi Koenen at the turn of every page.

My latest read is A Visit from the Goon Squad, Jennifer Egan's Pulizer Prize winning tale of, and I quote, "... moments where lives interact and where fortunes ebb and flow". Fair enough.

Musically I'm reconnecting with Northern Soul at the moment. Not everyone's cuppa I guess but January is definitely the month for hearty tunes. Fine purveyors of such fare include April Stevens, Dottie Cambridge and Muriel Day. April, Dottie & Muriel. You hear of many doting parents lavisihing such names on their kids these days do you? I'd love it for a beaming new Mum to say "Meet baby Mavis!"

I can't see the scoreboard from here . . .

The long road to Eurovision 2012 unwinds before me too. This year's festival of song is being held in Baku, Azerbaijan where the president and his family seem to be 'guiding' preparations along. A venue is being built from scratch and we are promised that the ambitiously named Crystal Hall will be ready by May. Not sure which year though. Anyway entrants to date include the intriguingly named Rambo Amadeus (Montenegro) whose music seems a little . . . err, challenging. Spain have opted for Pastora Soler, a woman whose name sounds like something from a Dulux colour chart. No sign of the BBC's challenger yet but the usual worrying names of Katherine Jenkins, Pixie Lott and JLS abound.

No nonsense Danish PM (ficticious . . .)

Denmark chooses it's Eurovision entry next week but for the moment it is their drama output that seems to proving popular. Although I missed The Killing, I am hooked on the latest Danish froth to wash ashore on BBC4. Borgen is the tale of politics, Copenhagen-style which may sound a bit dry but is far from it. Hero of the hour is Birgitte Nyborg, leader of the Moderate Party who is unexpectedly catapulted into the job of Prime Minister. She is played by the excellent Sidse Babett Knudsen who chooses to portray her as a normal human being as opposed to some manic, disorganised career mum. Special mention should also be made of Birgitte Hjort Sørensen who takes on the role of ambitious (i.e. a bit of a bitch) TV news anchor, Katrine Fønsmark. She may tun out to be a bit of a bad 'un. Anyway, this is certainly a classy production and compelling viewing. Not a woolly jumper in sight either.

Reality check . . .

Christmas is over. There. That's now dealt with. I know a great many people fear January with a passion. The empty month looming ahead. The undecorated living room. Food that doesn't contain 90% lard. It makes you want to weep. YOU maybe but, for the moment at least, not me. Having dragged the tree and tinsel back to the furthest reaches of the garden shed, I slapped my hands together and prepared for 2012. By visiting a nuclear bunker. Yes, I could think of no better way to greet the new year other than by descending into Mother Earth and reliving every nightmare brought on by the BBC's Threads in the 1980s.

Wish you were here? No . . .

Kelvedon Hatch was the bunker in which Thatcher et al would have hunkered down as the rest of the nation was vaporised. Not so much a bunker, more a small town was the impression that I got. It was equipped with a small hospital, offices galore, a massive industrial kitchen and even a BBC studio. As the remnants of humanity were breathing in fallout on the surface, at least they could have done so knowing that Gloria Hunniford was spinning discs in safety.

There is always a need for a bit of comfort telly first thing in January. For a couple of years, this was provided by Celebrity Big Brother. Having seen the line-up for 2012, I visibly sagged and my brain went into standby mode. I've managed to ween myself off most God-awful TV. The last series of the X Factor was definitely (probably . . .) the last one I'll bother with. Celeb BB seems to be peoopled by the usual rent-a-blondes with the ratty hair and black eyes. Add to that a non-entity rapper, a Corrie barmaid and Sonia Jackson from EastEnders and you can feel, the will to watch draining from the nation.

She's gorne forever, ain't she?

Speaking of Enders, I tuned in to the old nonsense on New Year's Day. Now I haven't watched it for a few years so was saddened to discover that Michelle Fowler and Doctor Legg are no longer residents. The only reason I switched it on was to see Pat Butcher in her death throws. Fat Pat. I remember her joining the show back in 1947 (well, it was quite a few years ago), with her peroxide 'biker's helmet' hairdo and M & S flasher mack. For the first year Pat was, if we're being honest, a bit of an old slag. She was the type of woman who lit one fag from the dying embers of her last one and drank the dregs from glasses at parties. However twelve months of being a right old cow began to wear thin, so the producers had Pat beaten up and left for dead. She emerged from her coma as the matriach who snuffed it last week. A nifty bit of re-writing saved us from twenty five years of having to view some clapped out tart propping up the bar at the Queen Vic. She just served from the other side instead.

I'm greeting 2012 then with a pile of books to read, some interesting music to discover (check out Michael Kiwanuka and Bry Webb) plus a few visits to the gym. Already the place is being overrun by chub-armed women and middle managers in corporate gymwear (You work for JP Morgan? Well done you!) I may just escape to a nuclear bunker for a few weeks. Happy New Year!

The halls have been decked . . .

Well, here we are folks. The final few hours of madness before we can all sink into a rosy glow, knowing that the shops are closed and if we ain't got it by now, then we ain't 'avin it. Sorry, I came over all 'Albert Square' there.

Lots of madness to view in Waitrose this morning. Plenty of hyperventilating lunatics. Enough of me for the moment though. I wheeled my trolley past a puce-faced woman instructing her husband to "Just go and look at the Madeira. Now please!" The prize for worst selection of festive fare went to the glum looking couple with a trolley full of Fosters lager and parsnips. Someone's in for a treat tomorrow.

For me, the lead up to Christmas has probably been the same as that of many others. Each year I promise myself that I will not trundle down Oxford Street in December. Failed. I was particularly amazed by the desperation of some of the shopping in John Lewis where some people operated a kind of 'auto grab' method, whereby they just scooped up anything that lay in their path. Oh the joy of opening a festive pannetone and Union Jack tea tray tomorrow.

Last night I was out at a meal in south east London. The restaurant was lovely and the food wonderful. The floor show came courtesy of one of the chefs who made John Barrowman look like Danny Dyer. He glided across the floor, clasping his hands and brandishing a tart (ooh Matron!), advising us that he had made his own mincemeat. Not a snigger from any of us. I opted for a coffee . . .

Anyway, I've ploughed through the Radio Times to see what Christmas Day has to offer. Here are my recommendations:

8.20 a.m. Blue Peter Christmas Special (BBC1)

Here's one we rescued from a bin . . . (8.20 a.m.)

Join the team, well Helen, as she crashes into the scenery in the show's new micro bijou studio in Salford. No crib, no tree, no advent crown and a couple of carols sung by a woman from the production team and Shep. Plus photographs from the Summer Expedition to Belgium.

11.00 a.m. Songs of Praise (BBC1)
Pews that don't see a bum in a month of Sundays are now filled with ugly people in hats. Expect several carols to be desecrated beyond belief by a dubious chorister.

12.30 p.m Film: Panda Feet versus Aliens (ITV2)
Heart-warming festive animation voiced by Joan Rivers and Chuck Norris.

2.00 p.m Top of the Pops (BBC1)

Join a host of nobodys and Fearne Cotton as you try to remember anything that charted in 2011. Probably contains a scene with Cher Lloyd in a santa suit.

3.00 p.m. The Queen (Every channel)
Usual sour-faced meanderings topped off with that wintry grimace.

4.00 p.m. Panorama special (BBC News 24)
Is TV journalism dumbing down? Hosted by Dale Winton and Amy Childs.

7.00 p.m. Emmerdale (ITV1)
Marlon tells Sam that Andy Sugden is Amos Brearley's dad. Val Pollard eats Lisa Dingle's heroin and jumps off the Woolpack. In a shock revelation, Cain confesses to Mr Wilks that he was only responsible for 8 of the 14 disasters that hit the village this year. Edna eats dynamite and is shot from a cannon across a large expanse of the Nile delta.

8.00 p.m. Coronation Street (ITV1)

A bad hair day for Rita (8.00 p.m.)

Emily Bishop tells husband Ernie that Nick Tilsley is really Rita Sullivan's love child by Albert Tatlock. Meanwhile, Dev sings "I'm just an old fashioned girl" in full drag at the Rovers party just as the police arrive and shoot Eileen dead in the snug. Tyrone jumps off the factory roof on to a large spike.

9.00 p.m. EastEnders (BBC i-player if you are desperate)
Dirty Den confesses to Ethel's dog that Pete Beale is the father of punk Mary who hasn't been seen since 1988. Derek Branning gives Fat Boy a lesbian kiss in the laundrette and in a fit of jealousy, Dot Cotton jumps 80 feet from the roof of the Queen Vic, through a flaming hoop and lands in a bath of acid. Meanwhile a phonecall brings unwelcome news for Shirley.

10.00 p.m. Last of the Birds of a Grave and Horses (BBC3)
Two hours of festive comedy from the BBC, proving that they haven't managed to come up with any new formats for over a quarter of a century. Probably narrated by Alexander Armstrong.

11.20 p.m. Non-Celebrity Come Dine in Essex (ITV2)

Christmas pudding? (11.20 p.m.)

The perma-tanned uglies are invited to the remains of  a festive slap-up meal hosted by Arg and the fat one who looks like Diana Dors. Living the reem.

Merry Christmas from Clinkers to Riddle!

A feast of fine music?

It's time to let off the party-poppers and celebrate like there is no tomorrow. The end of the X Factor is nigh! I shouldn't really moan, having followed it from underwhelming week to underwhelming week. My heart has not really been in it this year and I guess I'm only watching the old nonsense out of slavish duty.

Bored . . .

I won't miss Dead-Eyes Dermot, a man who lights up a room every time he leaves it. If ever anyone was going through the motions, it's Derm. Still, we should pause for a moment to remember his predecessor, the automaton known as Kate Thornton. Weep for her.

Hapless old Uncle Louis

I will also not be missing the panel of judges. Tulisa just about redemmed herself when she suddenly remembered that she wasn't actually a beer-swilling chav but a middle class girl who had a private education. Louis Walsh now appears to be played by some camp, elderly, confused uncle who shouts out at inopportune moments. Should he come back next year, then the producers will dump the over 25s category on him again. Watch him wail and moan under thity grand's worth of wig.

I will definitely not miss Kelly Rowland. She's a riotous joy of over-emphasing ridiculousness, every utterance some contrived 'east side' nonsense. "Go momma" is often followed by the same lines but bellowed at some ear-shattering level. She's a foghorn in a frock. Laugh as she sits there, dabbing at dry eyes, attempting to squeeze emotion from somewhere. Time for that momma to take a hike.

Let's feel sorry for Gary Barlow. He seems like a decent bloke but Mr Nasty he is not. I get the feeling that he won't be back in 2012. Barlow's career is pretty rock solid at the moment and he doesn't need to take part in an end-of-the-pier show.

As for the finalists? Well let's forget Amelia Lily. She's definitely a competent singer but bland in a Julie Andrews kind of way. If you heard her on the radio, you wouldn't hurl the set out of the window but you wouldn't batter down the doors of HMV for a copy of her CD.

Err . . . no idea

Little Misfits, or whatever they are, may just win. They have a decent singer (the blonde one - does she have a name?) but are saddled with the odd-looking one. You know, the one who sounds as though she is trying to force her lungs out of her nostrils. The other two could be anyone. It might as well be Yootha Joyce and Peggy Mount up there or a couple of wooden spoons. Not a clue who they are.

Which brings us on to the probable winner, Marcus Collins. When he's not channelling Bruno Mars, he's quite a decent singer. However, you just know that twelve months on, he'll be brandishing a top hat and a cane in cabaret somewhere. A West End career beckons and why not? The guy seems to have stage presence and a good voice. Let's wish him well.

Has Lys got the Swiss Factor?

Meanwhile over in Switzerland, musical hysteria of a different kind. Several thousand people will pack into an arena in Kreuzlingen tonight for that traditional festive event, a qualifying competition for next year's Eurovision Song Contest. Yes, the contest that will be held at the end of May. Not that I'm accusing them of overdoing it but six months of preparation for the 2011 contest resulted in a less than joyful 25th place for Anna Rossinelli. Or 'last' as it is often known. Tonight's show is the culmination of months of qualifying rounds which featured X Factor rejects Maria Lawson (who?), Same Difference plus international star Ultra Naté. None of them made the final. One person who did though is 87 year old Lys Assia. She has been to Eurovision before - in 1956. Back then she emerged as the winner and tonight, armed with a schmaltzy, calorie-laden pudding of a ballad, she is expected to win again. You can almost hear Kelly Rowland's cry of "Go momma"  . . .

Oh Christmas tree . . .

Anyone got any tinsel?

The inevitability of it is now upon me. I can't escape the fact that by next weekend, a jaded old fairy will be staring at me in the living room. No, I'm not talking about Louis Walsh on The X Factor. I'm preparing myself for the journey to the shed. Once there, I will battle my way past the lawn mower, the half tins of paint and the gently rusting garden implements in order to locate a series of elderly cases and boxes. With in these boxes of delights lies Christmas. Yes, the entire festive works, save for the turkey. Tree, tinsel, lights, worried looking fairy for the top of the tree - the lot.

I gave up on having a real tree after several years of disasters. One Christmastide, I left it all a bit late and was actually about to leave the house for New York when I hurriedly went and bought a tree from Sainsburys. Back at home, I snipped the netting open only for an entire pine forest to burst forth and fill the room. This monster of a tree blocked out all natural daylight and, more importantly, the telly. Back from the Big Apple the following week, I dragged the thing out to the garden and stamped on it.

The following year I made my purchase from a local shopkeeper who became forever known as "that thieving witch". Basically, she saw me coming. They usually do. The tree didn't seem to fit in any stand I had. I considered stapling it to the curtains but then thought better and decided to saw the bottom off. With no saw to hand ( I know, what a desperate household) I took a bread knife to the thing. How I laughed with festive bonhomie as the blood poured down my hands several minutes later.

My problems were resolved by a quick visit to John Lewis who then delivered Christmas in the back of a van. All I now have to do is find the tree, cleanse it of spiders/grass cuttings and hey presto - it's Christmas!

Feeling excited yet? No . . .

At least I'm getting in the mood. Yesterday saw me at Hyde Park's Winter Wonderland, a Christmas cornucopia of loveliness. Brandishing a turkey bap, I pushed my way through crowds of bemused looking tourists heaving into cups of gluhwein. Seriously, the scent of mulled vino was everywhere. Fair play to the organisers though. The whole thing could have been ridiculously tacky but surprisingly, the idea seems to work.

Just don't be tempted by the gluhwein before going on the fairground . . .

Soup on a tray . . .

I've staggered to the keyboard. Yes, this brave little soldier marches on despite suffering from (weep for me dear reader . . .) man flu. This scourge of the eighteen plus male finally hit home and layed me low for at least, ooh, forty eight hours.

Of course being ill now is nothing like being ill when you are a kid. A sickness day in the 1970s had a certain kind of format to it. I would be transferred from bed to sofa just as Jimmy Young was piping up on Radio 2. Once there, I would be covered with The Sickness Blanket, a cholera-ridden piece of cloth handed down by my great-grandma. Accompanying this would be The Sickness Bucket. Whatever the illness, the blue plastic bucket, liberally filled with Dettol-infused water would slosh around within vomiting range. Also arranged nearby would be a copy of The Beano and a bottle of Lucozade, complete with crinkly yellow cellophane.

Even though school was obviously out of the question, schools programmes would be served up. And so, semi-awake, I would peer at Seeing & Doing, Picture Box and the eerie Experiment ("Write that down".) Mum would later make an appearance with the Official Sickness Meal - tomato soup on a tray. Why she never put it in a bowl is anyone's guess. This would be served against a backdrop of Pebble Mill at One, the seven year old me being entranced by Peter Seabrook's gardening tips and a song from Patti Boulaye. By the time Crown Court came on I would be feverish and demented.

Two hours that I'll never get back . . .

Anyway, that's in the past. The adult sickness day saw me slumped over this keyboard, hating myself for reading inane tweets (note to celebs: if the only thing you have to talk about is your up and coming tour dates, then please don't bother). The 'feverish' moment came courtesy of Radio 2's Jeremy Vine Show which appears to be a spoken version of the Daily Mail, a forum for the 'nuts and sluts' brigade who usually meander on to the Jeremy Kyle Show. Must be something about the name Jeremy. Faced with a TV schedule filled with greedy pensioners grubbing around at antique fairs or rotund campsters tarting up derelict terraces in Stoke, I kept the telly switched off and sweated away in a corner. With The Sickness Blanket. Great-grandma would be proud.

I heard a Rumer . . .

Yawn . . .

My search for quality music goes on. I've decided that I'm never going to find it courtesy of the X Factor which I am now, after seven years, officially giving up on. Try as I might, I am unable to summon up any interest in this year's woeful contestants namely the Pislbury Do-Boy, the four munchkins, some bint with a loaf of bread on her head, a gasping 'theatrical' type who thinks he's Bruno Mars . . . oh you get the picture. Add to that the dead-eyed Dreary O'Leary, Auntie Louie and Kelly Girlfriend. Enough already. Or ENOUGH ALREADY as Kelly would probably bellow while trying to read the name of her acts on a cue card.

Mum's gone to Iceland

I found a little solace in thirty quids worth of Icelandic CD, the joyous Gleðibankinn. This celebrates, as if anything could, twenty five years of Icelandic participation on the Eurovision Song Contest. Feast on delights such as Hægt og hljótt by Halla Margret or the finger-clicking goodness offered up by Anna Mjöll's Sjubidu (it translates as Shoobedoo by the way).

Rumer-monger

Maybe musical perfection came in the shape of singer-songwriter Rumer. On Saturday night I made my way to Sheffield's City Hall, to join the throng of weak-bladdered, middle-aged people who had turned out to to be comforted by Rumer's songs. Battling through the queue outside the tea kiosk ("We've got no milk") and the grey-headed men in discomfort outise the gents, I settled down for the musical action. Rumer wafter on in a brown mumsy frock and launched into the first of many tracks from her debut album. The next ninety minutes were an absolute joy. Aided by an excellent backing band and two well-built backing singers, Rumer eased us through a world of middle-of-the-road mid-tempo songs, soft jazz and bossa nova rhythms. Her cover of Laura Nyro's American Dove topped off a rather lovely evening.

Musical excellence was, therefore, found. I embraced the middle-aged-ness of it all and, aftr rushing for the loo, floated home on a cloud of  . . . well, Ovaltine probably.