That was the year . . .

Got those sprouts on a low boil yet? Relatives driving you to distraction? Christmas tree looking balder than Harry Hill? 'Tis the season to be manic. As well as the festival of over-eating and binge-drinking though, this is also the time of year when we take stock. What's that phrase again? Oh yes, stock-taking.

Like the contents of some moribund round robin letter, it's time to foist opinions and comments about the past twelve months on anyone who will listen. Not that I'm going to drone on about home improvements, little jaunts out to the country and myriad health issues. No. This is simply me rounding up and spouting on about some of the things I've enjoyed in 2012.

Film of the Year for me was Argo, the Ben Affleck directed the true story of six US diplomats holed up in the Canadian embassy in Tehran in 1980. Affleck also starred as CIA specialist Tony Mendez who is charged with rescuing the diplomats. The frantic nature of the film had me gripping the seat edge for over two hours. I have never watched the Oscars but feel a certain confidence that this film will feature heavily on the big night. Which of course means that we will never hear if it again. Also worthy of a mention is Skyfall, possibly the best outing for James Bond ever.

My Book of the Year is John Lanchester's Capital. This si the tale of one, relatively affluent London street and its inhabitants. There are wealthy, upwardly mobile young professionals, newly arrived immigrants and also the last of a generation, bewildered by much of what is going on. Their lives cross - sometimes only briefly - but by the end of the novel, those lives are changed forever.

Theatre Experience of the Year (!) was Michael Frayn's 1982 farce, Noises Off. This is basically a play about a dreadful play and the hapless theatre company attempting to put it on. Starring the wonderful Celia Imrie and Robert Glenister, this Old Vic production had me weeping with laughter.

Most Played i-Tunes Song of the Year goes to Eurovision winner Euphoria performed by Loreen. Having seen this triumph in the Swedish national heats (a chilly weekend in Stockholm), the song then thrashed all opposition in Baku at the Euro finals. It's success was a  bit of a surprise given that it sounds like some leftover from a 1990s Ibiza foam party. Still, in comparison with the UK's entry from Engelbert Humperdinck, Euphoria was Grammy-winning stuff.

There were losts of contenders for Telly Programme of the Year but my eventual winner was Borgen, the Danish tale of government folk. It sounds like a nightmare but the story of the charismatic PM, Birgitte Nyborg, was compelling. Sidse Babett Knudsen had the line of the year when she referred to Queen Margarethe as "that old bitch". Special mention this year go to another Scando-noir effort, The Bridge and its loopy lead character, Saga Norén, a policewoman with a difference.

The BBC produced a few fine comedies this year including the relentlessly bleak hospital offering Getting On. BBC3's Him & Her managed to be both cringe worthy and sentimental but in a good way thanks to the thoughtful performances of Russel Tovey and Sarah Solemani. Thick of It came to an end and possibly did so at just the right time. Jewish family life also provided two winners in the shape of Grandma's House and Friday Night Dinner - outstanding performances from Rebecca Front, Linda Basset and Tamsin Greig.

Person of the Year has to be Claire Balding for her sheer enthusiasm for all things sport and for jollying the rest of us along during the Olympics. There are too many outstanding sportsmen and women to mention but they all brought joy to a spectacular summer.

Place of the Year for me was definitely Lucca in Italy. Bus-loads of British harridans aside, this was a spectacular town and a much more palatable alternative to the manic pleasures of Rome and the dreariness of Pisa.

A snapshot then of what I enjoyed in 2012. As for the dislikes? Oh - let's forget them! Here's to more enjoyment in 2013!

It's beginning to look a lot like . . . oh what's the point!

According to the late, and most definitely great, Andy Williams, 'it's the most wonderful time of the year'. I tend to agree. I'm already scrabbling through boxes for left over wrapping paper from days of yore. The stuff that used to cost 2p a sheet on Chesterfield market and was a homage to Victorian carriages with headless drivers. That sort of thing. There's the first version of the Christmas cake (a surprising success), a Christmas card list (how many names can I take the red marker pen to this year) and the prospect of turfing the lawnmower and garden implements out of the shed in the search for the decorations.

The build up to Christmas is all part of the fun but I'm finding it a little heavy going this year thanks to ITV1. Misery, let thy name be Yuletide. Exhibit A is the Asda festive advert. It shows a housewife preparing for the big event. The woman is a loon, writing cards, stuffing turkeys and hoovering spare rooms at a frenetic pace. She's jammimg a tree into a car, un-tangling lights, sweating profusely.This piece of work is frothing at the gills by the time, zombie-like, she staggers into the dining room on the big day with the roasted bird, collapsing on a tiny stool at the far reaches of the table. Apparently, behind every great Christmas, there's Mum. She's the one hyper-ventilating with a bucket of merlot in the corner.

Exhibit two comes courtesy of Morrisons. To the jangling sound of Slade, the dead-eyed Morrisons mum awakens to her Christmas Day. Climbing into loft spaces, being annoyed by relentlessly festive editions of Blue Peter. In her beige cardie, she surveys a balding Christmas tree and then writes a Christmas card to a half-remembered couple she met on holiday in 1996. Tedious nativity segues into hollow-eyed staring at the turkey, the arrival of the relatives in knitwear, mountains of sprouts. Cue soaring orchestral music, mum looking like a heroin addict and the doleful words 'but it's Christmas . . ." Hope she's left the oven on - we can all form an orderly queue and stick our heads in it.

Just when you find yourself reaching for the Tia Maria and 400 asprins, John Lewis assaults your senses. A snowman sets out on a treacherous journey to buy a present for his snow wife. He encounters sheep, potentially dying ash trees, blizzards, rivers, mountains, motorways and the high street before returning to his lady with a hat and scarf set. All of this is set against the woefully melancholic musical backdrop of the Frankie Goes to Hollywood hit, The power of love. By this point, the nation is ripping the Christmas lights out of the plug and jamming their fingers in the socket.

Now I'm sorry to be old-fashioned but I want my Christmas adverts to be tat. I want glitter, the Young Generation in Santa hats, Lionel Blair grimacing next to a Ker-Plunk game and Leslie Crowther offering us something from K-Tel. Yes - I want a 1975 Woolworths Christmas. What I don't need is an army of menopausal drones, selflessly cutting crosses into sprouts and then going psycho on Boxing Day. It's not funny. It's not entertaining. And it's not Christmas.

Gym WILL NOT fix it . . .

It's a hard life - so why make it harder? Why, I keep asking myself, do Id rag myself out of the house at 6 a.m. several days a week, in order to torture my ageing frame. Why? The gymnasium is calling ...

A couple of years ago I made a concerted effort to shed a few pounds. This involved de-larding the fridge, waving goodbye to eating white bread forty times a day and tearing myself away from the bakery dangerously situated at the end of the road. Of course, overhauling your diet is only half of the story. The other half was played out in the gym. Two years on, I'm a few pounds short of having lost three stone but things have now ground to a halt. Maybe my middle years body has had enough. Maybe I should be hurling buckets full of fried chicken down my gullet. Somehow though, the lure of the gym remains.

Situated in London's Square Mile, it's hardly the most congenial of places. The very nature of the gym is that everyone goes about their business in po-faced silence, me included. My fellow gym buddies are a mixed bunch. There is the parade of tiny-waisted, hard-faced east European women, pounding the treadmill in a worrying fashion. There is always some ridiculous bint with her hair piles on top of her head, like a peroxide nest, stood beneath the "No mobile phones" sign, bellowing into her mobile phone - "Yes it's me! That's right, me. Look at me. LOOK AT ME NOW!"

The blokes are usually something else too. Many feel the need to parade around in their corporate t-shirts. "I work in derivatives and I'm a bit tedious" is what the narrative should read, preferably decked out in neon. Then there are the muscle marys, that pumped up breed who groan and shout their way through a set of bench presses. Fear them for they are in love with themselves.

Then there is the lumpy old slap-head, wearily collapsing on to various bits of equipment, unsure of what they do but hey, it's a chance for a sit down. That person is, of course, me.

Of course, I could always ask the staff for help. Some of them can string together sentences but most of them spend the morning craftily lifting their tops in order to admire their six packs. Or shouting. "Come on! Come on! Lift those legs up!" they scream at some hapless futures manager who's bobbing around in a river of his own sweat. The receptionists remain glass-eyed in a Stepford kind of way. There is always the temptation to throw a bucket of water over them just to see them fuse.

Instead, I stagger off to the malodorous showers and then off to work. Mission completed. I will moan about it forever but you can bet Britain to a dumb-bell that I'll be back for more next week.

Lady Sybil snuffs it . . .

And so the whole Jimmy Savile scandal rolls on. The man is dead yet his vile actions have had long-lasting repercussions, not only for his victims but for the BBC as a whole. As a kid of the 1970s, I was one of millions who would watch Jim'll Fix It with mixed emotions. Yes, there was always a twang of jealousy as someone my age got to meet a TV star, pop singer or speed around a wet track in a London bus. Even at that age though, there was something about Savile that left me uneasy. Speaking to to contemporaries, this seems to have generally been the case. Of course, as an eight year old I had no idea what caused this slight worry but Savile was never a comfortable presenter to watch. he has none of the avuncular fun of John Noakes, the jollity of Johnny Ball or the command of John Craven. Savile was, in hindsight, exactly the kind of man your parents told you never to speak to. Well, now the children of yesteryear are speaking out about him. I admire their bravery and although Savile himself cannot be dragged before a court, those who were in the know certainly have a case to answer.

I suppose mentioning a mere TV show after all that may sound like unnecessary froth. However, BBC2's The Great British Bake Off has yet again been a slice of joy this autumn. I now know what a pithivier is and realise that my kitchen is incomplete without a proving drawer. The final was a cook-off between three male contestants. James Morton, a twenty-something medical student from Scotland had spent weeks dazzling Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood with an array of tarte tatins and petits fours. For the final he made the major mistake of overcomplicating his chiffon sponge - or rather the five sponges he managed to produce. Brendan Lynch, who seemed to be channelling Catherine Tate's 'Me dear? Gay dear? How very dare you!' character, was criticised for his 1970s approach to cooking and often seemed to wreck his chances by slinging mandarin segments and glacé cherries on everything. Which left the field open for law student John Whaite, despite having several crises of confidences and almost hacking his hand off, to win through. Congratulations to him. Here's hoping he celebrates with a macaroon and a sponge finger.

There was sadness at Downton Abbey last weekend as Lady Sybil succumbed to a bad hairstyle. No, really - it looked as though a hairdresser with conjunctivitis and blunt scissors had been hacking away at her barnet. Sporting this hideous frizz, Lady Sybil gasped her last. Lady Mary, she of the alabaster looks and disinterested voice, shed the briefest of tears. Below stairs, camp footman Barrow wept as though he'd just heard of Judy Garland's demise. Mrs Patmore restrained herself from flicking through her Mrs Beaton for a Mourning Cake recipe and, for once, no withering comment from the Dowager Countess. Well, even she couldn't reduce this event to a pithy one-liner. Whether Lady Sybil's newborn will be fashioned into a Catholic firebrand or another ditzy English aristo remains to be seen. let's just hope she doesn't inherit her mother's hair . . .

Forever forty something . . .

With a whoop of joy and a nice cup of tea, I celebrated the news this week that middle age is now offically classed as 55 years old. By whom, I've no idea. The BBC? The Coalition? Dot Cotton? Anyway, I'm now firmly below that target and look forward to a continuation of Cliff Richard-like eternal youth.

Of course, it's a load of old nonsense. Under a particularly harsh light (thank you gents toilets, at work . . .) I observed the knackered-looking face, bloodshot eyes and slap-head hairstyle. But enough of the bloke standing next to me. No, in reality that middle-aged mug in the mirror was mine. Phsically, there is no getting away from it. OK, so I drag my weary carcass down to the gym a few times each week but it's only putting off the inevitable. I may as well cut to the chase, shove a Fray Bentos pie in my gob and don a pair of tousers with an elasticated waist.

Musically, I'm all over the place. No change there then. Earlier this week I happened across a playlist for a hospital radio programme I presented twenty five years ago. It featured Nana Mouskouri, LL Cool J and Cilla Black amongst others. I should have been dragged out of the studio and thrashed with a copy of Smash Hits. I was a young fogey. Today, I'm peering at an i-Tunes playlist that includes The Strawbs, Julia Boutros (she's from Palestine) and the Slim Willis Band (thank you Uncle Alan in Manchester). It's an eclectic mix but I love it. There's a relief about being over forty in that you really don't have to bother with mainstream pop anymore. Not for me (or indeed for anyone who likes music) Beiber, Flo-Rida or Taylor Swift. I won't be purchasing anything by Little Mix or Cheryl No Surname Anymore. I can bask in a bit of David Guetta, indulge in Sergio Mendes and enjoy a bit of Noel Gallagher. I do reserve the right not to like Coldplay though.

It's all a bit more Radio 2 than 6 Music these days and that's how it should be. Who needs another forty-something saddo desperately "chillin'" with the kids? I recommend sticking to reminiscing about Echo and the Bunnymen albums, New Order twelve inch singles and Nena's hairy armpits on Top of the Pops. And let's do it with a lack of grace and a mug of Tetleys.

Summer is over . . .

With a misty-eyed expression, it's time for us to take down the bunting and stow away those Team GB t-shirts. No more treks through the Olympic Park, no more hastily grabbed meals of pie and mash, no more standing to attention for a screeching national anthem from a country you can't quite place. It's over. It's done. Move on.

That was a bit brutal wasn't it? On the wings of a joyous few weeks, we can now bask in the start of, hopefully, a mellow autumn. Message to M&S - it is 27 degrees outside and I DO NOT need to be presented with a shelving rack packed with Christmas puddings and mince pies! Take note local pubs and restaurants - I DO NOT want to "book early for Xmas", whatever 'Xmas' is.

To ease myself into the joys of pre-winter, I'm already hooked into BBC2's Great British Bake Off. Addictive in its simplicity, the show has me dribbling at the sight of various pies, tarts and tortes served up by an army of rather impressive contestants. Top of the cake stand at the moment is James from the Shetland Isles. Scientific precision is working wonders and this unassuming young man's chances of victory are rising like a loaf. Another to watch out for is mum-of-two Cathryn who seems to approach each recipe with an "it's all going to go wrong" face, only to create something special. The skill and dedication of the baking bunch is to be applauded and once again, I feel shame as I drag a ready-made sponge from the shelf in Waitrose.

How about a good read? I have an overflowing bookcase of things that I need to settle down to but last week I ploughed through Rachel Lichtenstein's On Brick Lane. Having lived in and around the Whitechapel area for several years, I was amazed at how much I had failed to pick up on. For me Brick Lane was often just a handy route from Whitechapel down to Bethnal Green. I knew all the obvious stuff - Truman brewery, bagel bakery, Krays blah blah blah. What I had not taken into account was the manner in which Jewish Whitechapel had seemingly disappeared over a few years to be replaced by the equally vibrant Bengali community. Lichtenstein explores the area in search of signs of the former but also celebrates the diverse and re-invented Brick Lane of today. Is it a sentimental read? Most definitely but that should not detract from the absorbing social history commentary that Lichtenstein gives. There's also a nice little walking tour in the back of the book so I'll be dragging myself off to Aldgate East station in the near future.

The Sky Box is currently full of things waiting to be watched, some good and some dubious. I've watched one episode of Charlie Brooker's Touch of Cloth which is a bit ho-hum in parts but laugh out loud in others. However, it is box set season for me and I decided on a re-watching of The West Wing. I'd forgotten how sharp Aaron Sorkin's tale of life in the White House was and it's been a pleasure to re-acquainte myself with CJ, Josh and Martin Sheen's terrific Prsident Bartlett. I suppose in some episodes, the swelling orchestral music and meaningful looks can be a little bit schmaltzy but overall, the series is a class act. Interesting that since its self-imposed demise in 2006, Sorkin has been unable to re-create the magic in his later ventures.

There you go then. No need to feel down. The gates to the Olympic Park may soon be locked but there are always reasons to be cheerful.

After the Lord Mayor's Show . . .

I decided to wait a few days before waxing lyrical about the Olympics, thinking that by now, I would be more level-headed about London 2012. Wrong! The joyousness of the whole event remains with me and not, I hasten to add, in any melancholy kind of way. OK, so I didn't understand dressage (dancing horses?) and will probably never be au fait with the finer points of taekwondo. I did, however, soak up the effervescent atmosphere in the Olympic Park, Wimbledon and at Wembley. Thank you games makers, thank you sporting legends, thank you London 2012 shop for relieving me (willingly) of large sums of money.

And so the carnival is over but while we bask in the glow of shared memory, there are a couple of horrid, threatening clouds on the horizon. The first will blow by without too much trouble. Desperate old Channel 5 are wheeling out the non-entity of a show that is Celebrity Big Brother. I've never watched more than about two episodes of this old rot and, given that Big Brother proper was well past it's sell-by date in 2008, you only have to wonder about who could be bothered to watch. Fans (loons) have been promised the likes of Bet Lynch. They could promise me the late Bette Davis and I still wouldn't tune in.

To compound this gloomy post-Olympic televisual apocalypse, ITV1 shunts the terminally awful X Factor back on to the screens this weekend. Now last year I tried to bear with the nonsense for the entire series before running out of steam and declaring on these very pages that I would never tune in again. I aim to keep that promise. In fact, I don't even need to watch anyway because we all know that the format will be as rigid as a dead dog. The first few weeks will be the usual 'nuts and sluts' parade as teary 16 year old girls and assorted numpties parade before a baying audience in some provincial theatre. We will hear about their 'journey' and the audience will point and laugh at the tone-deaf spitbags hollering on stage. Laugh at them! Make them weep! Cruel, cruel Britannia.

Under the uninterested gaze of Dreary O'Leary we will meet the usual finalists. There will be the obligatory band of teen, male, muppets, masquerading under some lame moniker such as D-Mented or First Dimension. Then we have a woman somewhere between the ages of 20 and 45 who will resemble a hybrid of Myra Hindley and Jimmy Savile. She will be 'misunderstood' or 'hated' as the rest of us call it. Also on stage we will see a personable if dull twenty-something man who will appeal to 14 year old girls but who would be more comfortable in, a-hem, 'musical theatre'.

Of course the programme wouldn't be the same without some chub-armed, middle-aged supermarket harridan, taking to the stage with all the grace of a Belarussian shot-putter and bellowing a cabaret version of 'This is my life'. It will be painful. She will be offset by another of those Leona/Alexandra clones who reckon to be r'n'b but who are, in fact, Stars in Your Eyes versions of Celine Dion. Finally, a quartet of trolls, probably from Gravesend, three of whom will be quite pretty and the fourth will look like Heather from EastEnders.

Their chances will be rated by camp old Uncle Louis Walsh (played by Charles Hawtrey), Tulisa Triplewordscore and Gary (why is he doing this?) Barlow. They are joined by Nicole Sherryglass who must surely be an improvement on the Queen of False, Kelly Girlfriend who was last season's flowering dullness.

There you go then - I've saved you the bother. Instead of festering in front of that, why not take yourself off to see a film, settle down with a good book, discover a new restaurant or attempt a triathlon? Carpe diem, Great Britain!