So the sun shines in other places of the universe. I thought it only did that in good old Malta. I thought we really are the centre of the universe and all the sun’s rays are ours. Could it be I’m wrong?

Where am I heading this morning? Will try to keep off an Arriva bus lest I miss my Christmas cracker or even miss Father Christmas for my annual treat. And when are the politically correct people going to force us to say Father or Mother Christmas? And can the fatties of the world unite against the stereotyping of jolly Claus?

I will keep off politics, this being the season of jollity and goodwill.

I’m sure our dear Prime Minister, what with his mavericks’ antics and stirring surprises, deserves a bit of a break. Hopefully, dear Santa won’t trapeze down Castille’s chimney to give him a piece of coal. Oh no, that sounds political and a cheap dig at the use of what fuel to keep our power station powering on.

Visions of the ghost of Banquo Dalli get mixed up in my mind with intoxicating Christmas spirits. Sargas be damned, I hear the Honourable Prime Minister mutter.

So I won’t bother you with politics or anything too heavy. Let’s talk humour. Or what seems to be strangely lacking even in the land of humour, of satire, of tolerance: good old Blighty variously and incongruously, to some like me, called Great Britain, United Kingdom and various other names.

Our old masters were, I thought, the masters of understanding and applauding, hyperbole and such stuff. But they – or some of them, at least – fail miserably. For the few who haven’t heard I am referring to Jeremy Clarkson’s need to apologise because he had the audacity to say, on BBC, that strikers should be shot and, if possible, in front of their own families.

Let’s get things straight here. I think Mr Clarkson is one big idiot who has an ego big enough to fill a few trains, planes and submarines; whose intolerance is visceral and whose ideas might be close to comical if they weren’t so tragic. But he is one of the planet’s funniest people who spews out garbage that is not just highly entertaining but unbelievably comical.

So you might hate Mr Clarkson or even his humour. And for that I believe you should be shot, on the spot in front of your friends, families, cats and, if you have them, multiple mistresses. But for pity’s sake let him say all he wants, warts and all, and let us – or those strangely politically correct Brits – leave him alone.

The politically correct brigade is frightening. Who, incidentally, fronts it and who, even worse, backs it to keep leading us into a humourless, dull reality where everything is right and proper?

The load of idiots who protested (and these too should be shot forthright) against Mr Clarkson’s base humour are just a load of people who lack tolerance besides, sadly, lacking humour.

In the season of jollity we all, I am sure, to a certain extent, believe in Santa or some form of him. If we do not exactly believe in his flying reindeer and silly elves and his big backside and his huge red cheeks that sweep down the chimney chute once a year, we all believe in some strange fairy tales. Some, for example, believe that the utilities bills will be magically swept away.

Methinks some have been drinking too much from some vat of hallucinating stuff. But what with VAT, and that strange long-forgotten CET, I might be lurking too close to berating politicians and I promised otherwise.

What I meant to say was that all life should be taken with a bit of a smile and a hyperbole might not be amiss. If one misses the hyperbole of Mr Clarkson and his ilk then God and Santa and a legion of other celestial beings need to join forces to help us put some cheer in our life… and to lessen our fear and gloom in this time of euro defaulting tales and terrible haircutting fears.

If Mr Clarkson’s humour manages to get us all to smile a bit let’s have loads and loads of it and, please, keep in mind that when he asks for execution he doesn’t mean it literally. Does one need to have a few more than two brain cells to know that he exaggerates for effect?

I am hardly ever going to try to claim I can even come close to his humour and his quality rants because if I do Mr Clarkson himself might get a whiff of what I said and give my wife, kids and the rest of the family the greatest satisfaction of all: I’ll be shot in front of them to their wild cheers and jubilation.

Merry Christmas and may your Christmas be filled with crackling better wit than mine.

vc@victorcalleja.com