God for sending down his only son to save santa. That was the memorable consensus from my Christmas visit to The Grange. The mind should blank these drunken conversations for our own protection, but sometimes a vestige survives and we're tortured by the fear that anyone else might recall our coals of wisdom. Sadly some do, and the effers time the retelling to coincide with my attempts to make a good impression on a classy woman.

Photographs can be even more embarrassing but let's be honest, it's like slowing down at a motor accident - we're all mad for wanting to see embarassing or terrifying spectacles. Happy madsers in fairness, celebrating the innate curiosity that made our ancestors spring out of trees in swampy caves, and yes, some of us may return there as a result of this fun recession.

As you can see from these photographs, pubs in the burbs tend to feature a diversity of characters despite what city crawlers may think. Skills are needed, for example the Dyson mounted low on the wall is a high-tech hand dryer. Social skills benefit from local knowledge, eg a helpful expert at karate is much more effective at procuring one for the road when it's way gone the time folks. Conversely, it would be good to know if someone does not in fact, have a home to go to.

Case in point. Outside the pub late one night I was contemplating street lamp technology when a girl with attractive dark curls wandered across that street and asked for a drink of my pint. She was of age so I obliged. The desperation and extent of the glug were surprising, but telling. I had to confirm my suspicion.

"You're an alcoholic aren't you"
"Yes" she said looking into my eyes with raw honesty
"And you're willing to do anything to get drink"
Her eyes glazed, head tilted forward, and gazing at my feet she quietly surrendered "Yes"...

I thought she'd object when I abrubtly called a taxi and informed her that I was bringing her up to a specialist medical facility for help, but she reacted positively, relieved that her vulnerability wasn't to be taken advantage of.

When we got there the medics arrived at reception and greeted her by name before whisking her away for assessment. I waited to ensure she'd be looked after but they arrived back and announced she was to be despatched to the nearest A&E. My sprawling loud diatribe about passing the buck and justifying donations was interrupted though, and the girl confirmed that yes, she'd overdosed on meds earlier. So another taxi to the A&E where at last she got treatment. Eventually she fell asleep accross chairs in the public waiting area. At 6 am her final lift to a third facility was still a few hours away so I wrote her a letter and left it in her backpack with a creme egg and bottle of Ballygowan before parting. Last I heard through the grapevine is she's patching up family issues and making progress, let's hope for the best.

So back to Christmas, that season of goodwill and festive cheer. I've a wee bone to pick with people who crib about materialism and lecture that Christmas is not all about the presents. If that's the case then explain gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Whether or not the three wise men of lore were out of their skulls on opium or suffering from camel-lag is moot. They believed that Jesus was the son of the great sky dude himself, God, so the lavish gifts look like the attempted purchase of tickets to eternal salvation as much as first prize for the little star of 'The X-mas Factor'.

I've always loved the magical atmosphere at Christmas time. Good people, good deeds, good times, we can't turn water into wine but we don't need to so it's all good.

It's particularly good shopping for gifts that bring joy to the hearts and smiles to the faces of loved ones, or a fancied one. The recipients deserve it and their smiling faces are real treasures. In fact it only takes a kind word to open the door to that Alladins Cave, or a witty riposte, but take my advice fellers, the mistletoe hat is far from a dead cert, they've got standards nowadays, even at Christmas.