Peaceful viewing would be ideal gift
Weird Wide World of Sport
It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
The button of the trousers has burst open from overeating, I've fallen out with the family and in-laws and there's toys strewn haphazardly like shrapnel all over the goddamn floor.
Only kidding, apart from the toys part that is, but that's par for the course with children in the house.
The rest of the impending doom doesn't normally happen until about mid-afternoon on Christmas Day and hangs over the household like a rain cloud ready to burst at the seams with an overbearing shower of rancid rain.
However, the festive season isn't all about avarice, arguing with your nearest and dearest and the house going from a respectable state to a scene akin to something from Apocalypse Now in less than 60 seconds as kids tear manically at wrapping paper at some ungodly hour in the morning.
Ah sure isn't it all worth it to see their little faces light up though, before I'm accused of being more grinchy than the Grinch himself.
Unless you're Arsene Wenger after another second half of the season collapse, there's almost always a bright side to look on, even if you are left with the sweets nobody else wants at the bottom of the box of Quality Street or if all you get for Christmas is a succession of nasty hangovers.
As least you don't have to navigate tricky fences at Kempton or Leopardstown at lightning speed aboard a mighty steed not long after digesting the Christmas pudding.
The only obtacles I have to make my way around are a smattering of spanking new toys or maybe an empty beer can or two as I slump into my well-worn spot on the sofa to watch the action unfold with the soon to be losing dockets sitting expectantly beside me, while the young lads mistake me for some sort of climbing frame.
Or I don't have to get the nobbly knees out and slip on a pair of football boots and tear up and down the wing at Old Trafford or Goodison Park for the amusement of beer-bellied supporters.
I'm sure the Premier League stars won't feel too put out though, considering the hundred thousand pound plus wage packet they'll pocket for a week's work, while the rest of us count the cost of Christmas indulgence and overspending well into the new year.
In my bound to be ropey state, with a brain more cobwebbed than a haunted house, I reckon I could just about manage to strut on to the stage at the World Darts Championship at the Ally Pally, accompanied by some timeless rock classic and a few dolly birds, to pelt a few arrows at the board, although with my limited skills I might be better suited to the early rounds at the Lakeside, when the quality is diluted more than a pint of Miwadi by a penny-pinching publican.
In fairness to the BDO, it's not half bad when it gets to the business end of the tournament, although more often than not the stars on top of the Lakeside tree are lured by the filthy lucre of the PDC quicker than a five-year-old can open a selection box.
I'm pretty confident the missus won't be reading this and I'll probably find some spanking new socks, much-needed pristine boxer shorts and something to make me smell less agricultural under the tree, but the perfect Christmas gift for yours truly would be a couple of hours of peace and quiet to soak up the yuletide sporting action.
Now excuse me while I shuffle off to circle the essential festive sporting viewing in the TV guide.
Happy Christmas to one and all.