I’ve not really wanted to do this, but my letter box and phone line have been deluged with requests for my opinion on what the media appears to consider a very important issue of the day.
The Christmas Number One.
Before I comment on this year’s debacle, I would like to point out that in other parts of the world, they do not have this problem. What is the most popular song at Christmas is of no more matter to Americans than the name of the British Prime Minister or the number of civilian casualties in Iraq. In Sweden they prefer focusing on the love of family; in Slovakia, they’re too busy cooking prunes in cabbage soup; in Mauritania, they celebrate the birth of our Lord; and Australians worry a bit more about whether or not to top themselves than they do about what record disc is selling the most copies. You know I never like doing this, but this is one time when I must say, Britons, sort your heads.
Nonetheless I live here now and, because part of my career is having my finger on young people’s pulses, here is my final word. Swearing is generally inappropriate (even more so on morning radio, I hope you were instead tuned into Thought for the Day instead); I thought everyone was well aware of this. Saying bad words is neither clever nor cute. But fuck me is Simon Cowell’s music shite.
Music is a vital part of my life, as it should be in all our lives. I’m not much of a singer myself, but I have inspired countless young men to tickle their ivories and pluck their G-strings. I think we all can agree (at least according to recent polls in Boys’ Brigade Gazette) that I am beloved by all segments of the British population, so perhaps this most recent tribute to me could be the Christmas Number One that will finally unite our nation.
Everyone Needs an Algonquin 
Agatha’s Public Chimes In