It’s a question many of us ask each Christmas – exactly what do you buy for someone who’s impossible to buy a present for?

There was a time long ago when male family members would receive socks for Christmas – but, in my view, buying someone socks these days means no thought went into it.

If I unwrap a pair on December 25th I’ll be bitterly disappointed after dropping enough hints that all I want is a Beano annual and a motorhome.

My Uncle Cledwyn has never read a book in his life, never bought a CD or a DVD and only brings out his razor when there’s an ‘Z’ in the month, so he doesn’t have much use for after shave.

So, since I last visited him in his ‘gated community’ – and with good behaviour he’ll be out in March – I’ve wondered what Christmas  present to buy him.

Then I remembered he’d heavily mentioned he wanted to see one more West End show before he moved on to a better place – his luxury time-share apartment in Aberystwyth – so decided to buy him a theatre token, enabling him to see any show he chose.

Prices started at £25, more than I intended to spend, but as Cledwyn’s been very good to me over the years by staying away from my house, I reckoned he deserved it.

Luckily, before I ordered the voucher, I checked on the price of London theatre tickets and as Frankie Howerd might have said, “My flabber was well and truly gasted!”

The price of a Saturday night seat in the stalls to see the new musical “Moulin Rouge” is £250 while tickets for “The Lion King”, “Phantom Of The Opera” and “Les Miserables” hover just below £200… no discounts for children!
While it’s cheaper to see all the popular West End hits midweek, it’ll still cost a family of four around £400.

When I realised a £25 theatre token would barely buy Uncle Cledwyn an orange juice and bag of nuts in the intermission, I changed my mind.  I do hope he likes his new socks.

Doctor Phil Evans, specialist in humour-ology, here!  At your service 24/7.

Do step into my consulting room and take a seat.  No!  Not that one!  The cat was just sick over it.  What caused it to be sick?  How do I know?  I’m a doctor, not a vet.

It’s often been said that laughter is the best medicine.

Although if you’re diabetic, I wouldn’t advise you to chuck out your insulin and binge on a boxed-set of Dad’s Army DVDs . . .

However, it’s on record that people with serious illnesses can be helped back to recovery by having laughter therapy.

In one American study, heart attack patients were divided into two groups: one half was placed under standard medical care while the other half watched comedy DVDs for 30 minutes each day.

After one year, the ‘humour’ group had fewer arrhythmias, lower blood pressure, lower levels of stress hormones, and required lower doses of medication.

The non-humour group had two and a half times more recurrent heart attacks than the humour group.

Apparently, there’s also a type of therapy called ’laughter yoga’, but surely if you watch a Laurel and Hardy classic while standing on your head, the combination will cause hiccups and indigestion rather than giggles?
That’d be another fine mess . . .

Medical studies also reveal that even if you have no real reason to laugh – like when you’re listening to any Radio Four comedy show – even if you force yourself to chortle, giggle or guffaw, it’ll release endorphins in your body that are excellent for your health.

This evidence strengthens something I’ve always believed –  That in today’s world, the ability to make people laugh – and for people to be able to laugh as often as possible – is more important than ever.

We take life too seriously, in the main because of what we read in our newspapers and see on the TV news – or we are touched by something that affects us, our relatives or our friends on a more personal level.

From the brief evidence I’ve presented, it does seem laughter’s an important part of a healthy life, both mentally and physically.

We all feel depressed and visit dark places at times, but for many of us there is always someone close, who can lift our spirits and make us smile.

Why not make an effort to be that person who lifts people’s spirits when needed?

You could start by lending me your boxed set of Dad’s Army DVDs!

Hello Dali!

I can’t swear this is a true story because I heard it from the friend of a friend of someone he vaguely remembers meeting in  a pub three Christmases ago, who said he’d been told it by his next-door neighbour whose wife had run off with his best mate eight years before.  And he still misses him.

Not the greatest start to a story, is it?

But do read on, because it involves one of the most distinguished names in the art world, so by the time you’ve finished reading it you’ll feel like you’ve mingled with the great and the good for a few moments – and with any luck it may also cause you to break into a smile.

And if there’s one thing this world needs right now it’s more smiles!

Two young art graduates, an Italian-American from Brooklyn, New York, named Rocco Dyall and Bolivian-born Miguel Vasquez, worked in the Toledo Museum of Modern Art, Spain.

While Rocco had an administrative position, Miguel was tasked with ascertaining the precise age of every one of the museum’s enormous collection of works painted by the renowned surrealist Salvador Dali.

Which reminds me…

Years ago, while wandering around the National Gallery in London I suddenly saw what looked like one of Dali’s famous paintings.  Fascinated, I stared at it for a good 10 minutes, then as one of the gallery’s attendants strolled past, I said “You must feel really honoured to be able to be this close to a Dali original and spend time with it every day”.

He shot me a withering look and said, “Look again, chum. It’s not a Dali.  Someone hung a plastic clock too close to that radiator!”

To bring this story to a much-needed finish – and remember I can’t be sure this is true – at the end of every working day, as the two art graduates left the Toledo museum, this is the way they told each other good night.

The Italian-American would say…“See you later Dali dater!”

And the Bolivian would say…you guessed it… “In a while, Rocco Dyall!”

Yes. I am available for panto in 2022.

As the year draws to a close, I’m so looking forward to the week between Christmas and New Year as this will be the time for me to relax and recover from the festive demands that many of us are so familiar with.

Looking back on the year, which has passed so quickly, I’m amazed at how much was packed in.

There is so much more to achieve in the New Year – and that is something that I am really looking forward to.

The past 12 months have created memories of joy, but have also been tinged with sadness. This is possibly the same for you also.

One of my oldest mentors would say to me, “Take time to reflect, enjoy the memories and move forward into the New Year with a new passion for life, and stand firm for what you believe in as your values will define you, even though at times not everyone will agree with you”.

Wise words that I hold dearly.

Some weeks, it’s not easy to come up with ideas to fill this page.  Conversely, there are other weeks (like this one) when I’m spoiled for choice.

I could describe my reaction to the shock news that Little Mix will be ‘taking a break’ from each other next summer ‘to pursue solo projects’, while assuring their fans that they aren’t ‘splitting up for good’.  But the fact is, I wouldn’t recognise a member of Little Mix if she walked up to me and bit me on the knee; I couldn’t name any of their songs, let alone hum or whistle one; and as their contribution to British popular culture is hardly of Beatle-type importance, the news didn’t ‘shock’ me . . . or indeed many people over 14.

So, you’ll understand why I won’t mention it.

Instead, I’ll tell you that The Royal College of Midwives was forced to apologise after referring to mothers as ‘Postnatal People’.

To clear up any possible confusion, the ‘Postnatal People’ they refer to are women who’ve recently given birth and become mothers.

Before they retracted it, the RCM’s guidance was . . .
‘Postnatal People in hospital should have easy access to the call bell system, be shown how to work it and ensure it is working’.

Milli Hill, author of the book “Give Birth Like A Feminist” noticed that the RCM safe sleep guide doesn’t once mention women or mothers, instead referring to them as ‘Postnatal People’.

The RCM’s reaction when taken to task over their use of such a strangely neutral description was “We are committed to ensure that women are never excluded from the narrative around pregnancy and birth. It was a huge oversight”.

That’s not quite the case though, is it?

An ‘Oversight’ is an unintentional failure to notice something’.
Whereas someone at the RCM deliberately decided to delete the words ‘women’ and ’mothers’ and replace it with ‘Postnatal People’.

For those of you who may think the news that Little Mix are to ‘take a break’ is a more important story, imagine the reaction if the Royal College Of Undertakers, should one exist, referred to their deceased customers as . . .
‘Post Breathing People’!

Shop assistants and check-out staff currently have to endure non-stop Christmas songs their bosses believe will get customers in the seasonal mood . . . to spend more money. If I enter any shop where the shelves are still being emptied of Halloween tat while Roy Wood warbles “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day”, I turn on my heels and leave.

Shop assistants put up with a lot of grief – and not only at this time of year.

A friend’s granddaughter (let’s call her Molly) has a weekend job in a well-known chemist’s where she’s regularly sworn at by customers!

It’s a sad sign of the times that Neanderthal knuckle-dragging numbskulls think it’s okay to swear at 17-year-old shop assistants.

If they’ve picked up an item with the price clearly marked and think it too expensive, why take it to the till? Just leave it on the shelf, go home and swear at the budgie.

Molly was upset the first time it happened – but, being highly intelligent and quietly resilient, she got used to it.

Although shop staff should never get ‘used to’ being sworn at.

A few weeks ago, a lady asked Molly to help locate a particular brand of foot powder she thought had been moved from its ‘usual’ shelf.  Molly said it could be found at the pharmacy counter, but the customer snapped at her and said she didn’t know what she was talking about.

Molly politely followed the customer to the shelf where the foot powder was ‘usually’ found and needless to say it wasn’t there.  When Molly suggested they walk over to the pharmacy counter, the customer’s confrontational attitude became so alarmingly offensive it made Molly cry.

Luckily, a colleague saw this and took the customer to the pharmacy counter . . . where the foot powder was found.

I loathe any form of bullying – which is what this was – and if I’d witnessed this, I’d have politely asked the customer to apologise to the girl.

I would probably have expressed the wish that whatever medical condition the foot powder was for wouldn’t clear up any time soon.

Next customer please!

There are certain tasks in life that I consider pointless – like mowing the lawn.
As Spring arrives, out comes the mower to be plugged in or filled with petrol if you have a couple of acres. Please! No mucky ‘farmer with two acres’ jokes here, thank you very much!

You cut the grass, place the cuttings in your recycle bin and when you’re finished, you clean the mower and put it away safely.  Job done!

Except of course it isn’t!

Because a couple of weeks later you go through exactly the same ritual all over again. And again two weeks later and so on all the way through to November.

Actually, I’m certain I heard the sound of a mower coming from two doors down last Christmas Morning. Or perhaps my neighbour was using a powerful electric carving knife on a tough old bird.  Sounds like a storyline from Midsomer Murders!

What’s more pointless than a TV reporter standing outside Number 10 Downing Street at half-six in the morning, talking about something that happened in Parliament the day before?

That time of day there’s no one around to interview other than the policeman guarding the door to ensure the PM doesn’t get out.

The presenters in the studio could provide the same information without the need for a news crew to stand around in the cold for hours in order to broadcast ‘live’ for a few minutes.

Have you noticed that whenever a Royal Family story breaks, all the broadcasters deem it necessary to send news crews down to Buckingham Palace?

In fact, the closest they’re allowed to get to the Royal residency without causing a traffic hazard is the pavement outside Green Park, a few hundred yards across the road from Buck House.

Again, these stories could just as easily be delivered by presenters in the studio.

TV news bosses either think viewers can’t recall what Downing Street or Buckingham Palace look like or that we can’t absorb news without it being accompanied by ‘live’ pictures from famous landmarks.

Either way, if you prefer to be well-informed, while not having your intelligence insulted, stick to a newspaper like this one!

Why don’t Christmas shoppers really look like they do in the adverts on TV?

Smiling families, matching jumpers and scarves, calmly strolling around the shops, snow gently falling around the town (they never seem to carry ANY bags though, have you noticed?)

Now, here is the reality . . .

The city centre is packed, people all walking in different directions (always the opposite way to me).

There are men being dragged around shops they obviously don’t want to be in. Children are screaming . . . all surrounded by the same jolly Christmas music in every shop.

Then we have department stores doubling up as saunas.

It’s freezing outside so you have to wrap up, but as soon as you walk into a shop it hits you like one of the other half’s midlife flushes!

Oh yes – you can relate to this, can’t you?

It’s the children I feel most sorry for, strapped firmly into their pushchairs with only a Greggs pastie for company (other pastie providers are available!), so many shopping bags hanging on the back of the pushchair, both child and pasty are in danger of tipping backwards and being catapulted across The Quadrant.

Happy shopping, my friends!