The thought that counts

Some mustn’t-have suggestions for things not to buy me this, or any, Christmas.

A Camelbak rucksac (sic): a bag so small that it can only hold 250ml of osmotic potential high-energy sports drink. My advice is to fill it with warm Bushmills single malt and it might make it as a hot waterbottle.

Something in teal and purple dralon: if the 80’s are coming back then I’m leaving.

Jamie Oliver’s Guide to the Philosophy of Gardening or anything bearing the imprimatur of this month’s celebrity chef.

Sony Aibo: an annoying little robotic bastard made by people whose last great invention was the Walkman. He can find his ball, wow. For £1200, I’d expect him to be able to find himself a job.

Facial hair gardening tools from the Innovations catalogue: genuinely nasty (once used, how exactly do you clean this stuff?)

C1alis soft tabs…whatever that is. They must be really good because I get about four email advertisements every day from that nice man with a beard and a 1000-yard stare.

A “fuckin’ big (plasma) tv”: nowhere to put it, no interest in lowbrow broadcasting. A good way to start your own fun collection of dust particles.

Anything to do with golf: I don’t do golf.

Illuminating, novelty egg timer cufflinks: no.

Your company calendar: unless your company is an award winning architecture/ product design/ photographic studio hoping to recruit me as a highly-paid visionary guru.

Brown socks, in fact anything brown. Anything with a “pattern” on. Aaaaaarggghhh.

A jigsaw: If I want to have a picture of a million baked beans or Her Majesty Trooping the Corgis I’ll draw them myself without the tedium of piecing together 10,000 scraps of cereal packet.

Thanks, but no thanks.