Hello and welcome to regular features, the podcast does the same every Christmas. And just like every Christmas, I'm John Logblythe, and I'm all alone in Nottingham, the town that never queues.

And just like every year it's Christmas in Nottingham, the chipped porcelain frog has been placed on its

oily plinth, the town hall has been painted blood maroon, and the children are running from one hospice

to the next, sticking their palms out at the terrified residents. Yes, Nottingham Christmas is very different to Christmas in Leicester, Darby or Grantham.

But do you know what? I'm not feeling it this year.

I don't want to take part in the mayor's festive gristle-bobbing,

an obligatory ritual in which townsfolk queue up for hours

to see if they can dip their faces in a tub of

hot soup and drag out the knuckle-sized knot of ham fat with their teeth. Call me a stinky grumple stiltskin,

but I don't want to dance with the high-kicking mechanical deacon. His legs are too sharp. And the very

last thing I want to do right now is to spend Christmas Eve scratching my way out of the big town coffin.

Call me a Nottingham Scrooge, if you will.

But I just want to swap presents with my loved ones and maybe eat a little bit too much cheese.

Is that too much to ask?

Hey Johnny, you whore, my disgusting gal pal.

It's me, the ghost of Christmas Carol.

Not now, Christmas Carol.

Shut your hut with juicy, fruity, summer mouth,

you big, gruesome boob, whom I adore. It's Nottingham Christmas. I know. It's

Nottingham Christmas. And that means getting so wet and wild, they hose you down with a fire truck

full of the mayor's piss. No, Carol, I just want to put little daft gifts into a big stripy sock.

I want to drink Baileys and I want to watch the

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