One of the cherished traditions of Christmas, along with the nativity, a turkey that looks like it's been napalmed and the onset of chronic abdominal bloat, is folk moaning about what’s on the tele.
It’s a peculiar grouch in many ways given that people nowadays can nonchalantly scroll through about 20,000 channels on a terrifyingly vast LED edifice and have their Christmas-related whims pandered to at any time of the year.
Jab away long enough on the remote control, for instance, and you’ll probably stumble across ‘The Folk Moaning About Christmas Tele' channel in pin-sharp, high-definition, 24-hour, grumble-vision. It’s on there somewhere.
At this time of year, of course, we are deluged by a great tsunami of nostalgia and that warm feeling trumps anything the modern-day idiot box can conjure up.
Back in those treasured, simpler TV times of yore, entire streets would huddle around a screen to be dazzled by Morecambe and Wise, sing along with Harry Secombe on Highway or chortle away to a Two Ronnies news item about the naked church bell ringer who forgot to let go of the rope during the Christmas recital and left his ding dong merrily on high.
A glorious age indeed. But I’m waffling here, which, as you all know, is a grand tradition of the Tuesday column, not just Christmas. Sunday’s golf offering on the television, meanwhile, certainly dished up a bit of festive cheer.
Out in Mauritius, John Parry claimed his first DP World Tour title in 14 years as the Englishman was rewarded for his dogged, defiant endeavours throughout a topsy-turvy career that almost led to him giving up the touring life. It was a lovely story.
Over the pond in Florida, the evergreen Bernhard Langer teamed up with his son, Jason, to pip Tiger and Charlie Woods in the parent and offspring hit-and-giggle of the PNC Championship. That too made for delightful viewing.
Admittedly, this type of silly-season affair tends to be as fluffy as a video of a puppy gently pawing the nose of a baby seal.
The syrupy, dewy-eyed cooings from the commentators, meanwhile, almost rivalled the overwhelming outpourings of sugary schmaltz you get during the Masters.
When 15-year-old Charlie made his first ever hole-in-one, the memorable moment was justifiably and joyously celebrated. And then rammed down our throat to such an extent, it was like you had just opened your mouth and allowed the entire golf media industry to rampage excitedly into your thrapple.
The sight of auld Bernhard, at 67 and in a year when he suffered a potentially career-ending Achilles tendon injury, trundling in a putt to win the play-off underlined his indefatigable competitive zeal.
Given the general doom-and gloom surrounding Tiger’s on-going physical struggles, a win with his son – even in this carefree clatter about - would’ve been viewed as the kind of Christmas miracle that should’ve been played out on 34th Street.
Langer was having none of it, though. On and on he goes. Can you imagine Woods at 67? In fact, can you imagine many of the current crop in this crash, bang, wallop age of power and distance enjoying Langer-esque longevity?
The timeless, easy-gaun swings of the bold Bernhard, or Tom Watson or Colin Montgomerie, are completely at odds with the explosive torque generated by a new generation.
Give it another few years of startling thrashings and the bodies of the world’s best will be crumbling like the Sphinx’s face long before they get to the over-50s circuit let alone 67.
The enjoyable nip-and-tuck of the Langer versus Woods family tussle, and the feel-good success of Parry, was something of a refreshing escape from the tiresome tosh that we’ve been dealing with in golf of late.
The confirmation last week that the US players will get paid to compete in next year’s Ryder Cup whipped up an inevitable stink.
In some hysterical quarters, it signalled the death of the biennial bout which, despite its mighty commercial clout, was still viewed as a pillar of pure competition.
We may as well all take a cord, lower the little golden chalice into a grave and erect a tombstone. RIP the Ryder Cup and all that.
This latest development only confirms what we all really knew about the dynamics of the transatlantic tussle.
The USA are, by and large, a team of individuals playing for themselves and looking after themselves. Team Europe revel in a collective pride and value an ideal that money can’t buy.
Like most of you, I’m still wondering what $200,000 – the ‘stipend’ that every American player will get – will mean to, say, Scottie Scheffler, who’s official earnings this year on the PGA Tour were $29,228,357.
Given the negative reaction – particularly on this side of the pond - about lavishly rewarded golfers and their tone-deaf sense of entitlement, will all the discussions and politicking to get paid be actually worth it?
Should the US wrestle the Ryder Cup back from European clutches then they’ll holler, ‘yes it was’ while sooking the celebratory champagne through straws of rolled up dollar bills. And then, presumably, demanding a pay rise.
A European win, though, would tee-up some quite delicious reactions and recriminations. Roll on Bethpage 2025, eh?
I’d like to wish you all a very happy and peaceful Christmas. Hopefully, you find something to watch on the bloomin’ tele too.
