Christmas Unwrapped.

Am I the only one who is somewhat confused, and even slightly shocked by the new Oxfam Unwrapped advert? Now don’t get me wrong, I can see exactly what they are trying to do, but I just don’t really think that it works.

Shipping in the odd A-lister to promote goods seems to be a sure-fire way of success nowadays. So the international charity has roped in an eclectic mix of super stars. We’ve got – in black and white house-style, of course – a sighing, head-shaking Helen Mirren, a rather unemotional and cardigan-clad Will Young, a cackling Helena Bonham-Carter with a Big Mouth Billy Bass and a confused-looking Rob Brydon clutching one of those snorting, shuffling little piggies.

Ok, so an electronic, singing fish does get the idea across; you’d be much better off spending your pennies on a loo for an impoverished African village. But there is something slightly grating, even distasteful, about the way in which it is portrayed.

I’m not against the idea per se, just the way in which it has been packaged. I expect Oxfam ads to be a beautifully crafted mix of dramatic pictures of wide-eyed, swollen-bellied African children which tear at your heart strings and tug at your purse strings. Instead, I get a load of celebrities moaning about the crappy Christmas gifts they’ve been given. It jars.

Also, I really don’t think that the actual concept in itself is going to be much of a hit. Sure, so it’s a wonderful idea on paper. The idea of providing an AIDS-ridden village with a bumper pack of Durex is undoubtedly a fantastic and positive one. And herein lies the appeal.

The giver of the gift will be able to sit back in his leather sofa, guzzling mince pies and slurping snowballs like there’s no tomorrow, or poverty on the other side of the globe for that matter, safe in the knowledge that he has done his bit for mankind.

But then again, in this era of cynicism and scepticism, there are many people who refuse to happily dish out donations to these global charities for fear that that their money would be used to fund the chief executive’s annual holiday to the Seychelles.

Another problem is that Madonna hit the nail on the head. We do live in the most obscenely material world imaginable. Consequently, I cannot help but feel that the receiver of a piece of paper with a picture of a pile of camel dung on the front may be pretty miffed at having missed out on his Ralph Lauren polo shirt.

And another thing. Last year, everyone bought every member of their extended family a goat. And not because of their fertilizer-yielding properties. Oh no. But because they thought they were cute. Subsequently, not only did this cause more harm than good as the cattle mercilessly munched their way through all the African crops, but it also showed just how utterly ignorant the West really is.

Santa’s Ho-down.

Love it or love to hate it, Christmas is well and truly upon us once again.

As a child, I used to get a frisson of festive delight as soon as the Coca-Cola adverts appeared on the telly. But it looks as if Mr Coke may now have to silence his red-suited, red-faced Santa Claus in order not to cause offence.



Father Xmases on the other side of the globe are being banned from saying “ho ho ho.” And for two equally amusing and equally ridiculous reasons.

Firstly, Aussie Santas working in shopping centres have been forbidden from hollering their conventional call of Christmas glee for fear of frightening children to death. Recruitment firm Westaff, which supplies hundreds of Santas around the country, says youngsters may be scarred for life by the aggressive, deep tone of the scary man in the red suit bellowing out this time-honoured greeting.

Nothing at all to do with the fact that they are forced to walk alone into a dark, spooky, little room to sit on a stranger’s lap and ask for a Transformer. God forbid you take sweets from strangers. But it’s perfectly a-okay in today’s world to take budget plastic toys off a potential paedo.

The other reason for toning down the jolly phrase is that it could be seen as offensive and derogatory to women. Now for those of you not up to date with the current parlance of American street slang, “ho” does in fact mean lady of the night. Now do little innocent 6 years olds really know what this means? Actually, they probably do.

As a result of this utterly preposterous proposition, Santas are quitting left, right and centre. The Ebenezer Scrooges of this world are attempting to change something so deeply ingrained in the Christmas tradition simply in order not to offend, scare or provoke. Please.

It seems that being politically correct has become an international obsession. It is at the top of everyone’s agenda, has everyone constantly tiptoeing on eggshells and has, quite frankly, got totally and terribly out of control.

I hope that parents and kids across the sphere stand up against this festive lunacy and let Santa have the last laugh.

Pet hates.

As Bonfire Night drew near earlier this week, the RSPCA suggested drugging our doggies with a customised air freshener so they wouldn’t die of a heart attack when a rocket went off. The chemical it contained, called the Dog Appeasing Pheromone is intended to minimise distress naturally. Has pet care become a little ludicrous in this land? In fact, why do we even have pets?

When I was about 10, I decided I wanted to construct a snail farm. I rummaged around in the shrubbery and found a few prize specimens of this land-bound mollusc, painted their shells with pink or blue nail varnish – depending on whether I decided they were girls or boys – and made them a little house. The leader of the pack was called Barney. I then proceeded to try to stick them together, slimy underside to slimy underside in order to produce mini snails. Maybe not a totally accurate lesson on reproduction, I was nevertheless entertained for hours.

The idea behind having a pet is that children learn how to care for something, discover the responsibility of feeding it and taking it for walks and, most importantly of all, the value of loving it. Now my sister and I definitely loved our guinea pigs. Although when it was dark and cold, there were “humungous” spiders lurked in the nooks and crannies of Daffodil Den, sometimes mum was forced to take the torch and clean the smelly little monsters out herself. But we still loved them unconditionally.

But even I stand boggle-eyed and slap-jawed at the apparent lunacy of Leona Helmsley who in August left her pampered pooch $12 million. Aptly named Trouble, I can imagine the mollycoddled canine being the cause of considerable controversy amongst the billionaire’s two pretty peeved grandchildren.

The Spaniards are not alone in thinking, why keep a fluffy rabbit in a cage to get fat when you can let it run around the fields, shoot it and dish it up? If fact, the South-Americans would rather roll a guinea-pig up in some clay and pop it in the middle of the bonfire than have to shovel up its poop.

But pets are fun. I distinctly remember walking into the conservatory one morning to find, to my utter delight, two prickly little hedgehog scampering and defecating all over the lino. My dad had found them on the pavement the night before. He thought that the little pin cushions and their fleas would provide a pleasant surprise come breakfast time. The inevitable decision to release them back in to the wild became a momentous and ceremonial affair later in the day.

A childhood buddy reminded me only recently of my father’s seemingly harmless but at the time truly terrifying bedtime stories. He warned us that we had to look after our menagerie of furry friends or the gypsies would come in the dead of night, fling them onto the back of their horse and cart and carry them off for supper. Now I see what he was trying to do. At the time, my friend spent sleepless nights running up and down the stairs checking that Sugar Lump and Demerara were still safely locked up.

Also, learning to play with animals instead of sitting in front of a television screen is crucial for a child’s personal development. At home, we used to collect juicy pink worms and teeny tickly woodlice in plastic cups when my parents were gardening to study them scrupulously and tirelessly. My sister once had a family of stick insects which escaped and multiplied in the laundry basket. I remember wiling away the hours making playgrounds for the hamsters. Sitting on a chair lift, miles up in the Alps one Christmas, we even went so far as to meticulously plan their wedding ceremony. The speeches, the songs and the seating plan. Only to come back and find that Kei-Kei had selfishly spoilt the party by popping her furry little clogs during our absence.

And this brings me to a final reason for having pets. It helps children to cope with loss. My bottom lip still trembles uncontrollably when I think about the poor, blighted little newt I took into school in a glass tank that somehow managed to escape over the half term holiday. He made it half way to freedom up the main corridor before gulping its last little breath and croaking on the carpet tiles, a shrivelled up twiglet.

So come on folks, love them or hate them, we need pets. The world would be a sadder place without Klonky and Minnie, Tiddles and Cookie. And we don’t need Blue Peter to choose the names for us either.