It is reported that a baby has been born in Bethlehem and attended by three kings.

I’m writing all these words by hand,
While sitting in the Holy Land,
About two thousand years ago,
But no-one knows exactly so,
Although the date is pretty rough,
I think it’s likely close enough.

I’m glad the date is out the way,
For back then on that Christmas Day,
A man and woman, so it’s said,
Were seeking, for the night, a bed.

They told the landlord they’d come far,
But when they asked him at the bar,
He said his rooms were rather full,
But round the back he had a bull,
That might perhaps his stable share,
If they would like to check round there.

The woman now looked none too sure,
About this offer from the brewer,
But if the beast were just a cow,
Well, maybe that would do for now.

The landlord said he’d go and check,
When he came back he said, “Oh heck!”
The bull, he said, had disappeared,
But as he had the stable neared,
He saw that there was not much space,
For others had now filled the place.

There was a cow, a donkey too,
Some flocks of sheep – just one or two,
And though the night was pretty dark,
Is seemed as full as Noah’s ark.

“We’ll take it,” said her husband Joe.
“The forecast is for sleet and snow.
The sheep seem quiet, do not bleat,
But have you anything to eat?”

The landlord said, “I’m not too sure,
But I’ve some bottles from the brewer;
The beer inside is dark not pale,
For it’s our special Christmas ale.”

The woman said, “That will do well,
My baby’s coming I can tell,
And after I have given birth,
Expect some changes on this earth.

But as for now the ale is fine,
Because you will find out with wine,
That although it’s as yet unknown,
From water he can make his own.”

So there they stayed that Christmas night,
They found the stable quite all right,
But next day the innkeeper said,
“I’m almost going off my head.

I didn’t sleep a wink all night,
That star up there was far too bright,
But what was right beyond the pale,
Was that some bloke the worse for ale,
At three o’clock gets up and sings,
A song that starts, ‘We are three kings’.

I really don’t know what to do,
They’re much more trouble, them, than you;
I’ve put them in my three best rooms,
But misery for me now looms,
With prospects that are pretty bleak,
’Cos they’ve booked in to stay next week.

They’ve all brought gifts, they say they are,
For me to keep behind the bar,
Until a fourth king should appear,
In Bethlehem or somewhere near,
And then the gifts they will bestow,
On this king that they barely know.

But I think we might play a trick,
Because these kings are pretty thick.
So I’ve a Christmas cracker here,
Just very slightly stained with beer,
It’s painted blue and red and brown,
And inside is a paper crown.

If your child will just put it on,
The kings will think he is the one,
To have the gifts as was foretold,
And one of them is solid gold.

So after that just pay your bill,
I’ll put it over by the till;
It might be big but do not bitch,
Because by then we’ll all be rich!

And as for my three guests from hell? –
We’ll all be shot of them as well!”



It is reported that companies sending out Christmas greetings by email may fall foul of the new EU General Data Protection Regulations (GDPR) which forbid the sending of unsolicited emails.

The EU’s meddling knows no bounds,
And people recently have found,
A recent law that has been passed,
Is leaving well-wishers aghast.

Now well-wishers do greetings send,
To folk that they count as their friends,
To wish them luck, good fortune too,
In everything they choose to do.

But one occasion beats them all,
You’ll find the cards on any stall,
And that is Christmas when one sends,
The Season’s Greetings to ones friends.

You can do this with paper card –
No need to write quite like The Bard –
The words can really be quite few,
In fact, just two or three will do.

But people who are more advanced,
In Britain and a few in France,
Think paper cards are rather stale,
And send them instead by email.

Some others say, “That isn’t right,
You’re doing it because you’re tight;
To just send cards now by email,
Is really quite beyond the pale.”

But back to our friend the EU,
Which rather likes to trouble brew,
And their new rule decrees the way,
Our Christmas cards are sent today.

The paper type is still all right,
Including those with verses trite,
But email ones will have to go,
Which for tight people is a blow.

The reason is a bit obscure,
To understand it? I’m not sure,
But I think, though there are some flaws,
The new data protection laws,
To which you now must have regard,
Mean you can’t send an email card.

Why have they done this? Who can say?
It’s just they legislate this way,
For they like to all things control,
Which is what they see as their role.

A lot of us would disagree,
And think that we should all be free,
To send our greetings as we choose,
And not subject to the EU’s,
Diktats which if they’re not a fad,
Are generally pretty bad.

We could, of course, try to object,
Ask if they’ll be more circumspect,
But they will likely just not care,
And wave two fingers in the air!



It is reported that the Royal College of GPs has warned that the traditional image of Father Christmas is unhealthy and he should stop smoking, eating and drinking … but may otherwise have a merry Christmas.

When Father Christmas comes to town,
He is a figure of renown,
But underneath his coat and hat,
I’ve long suspected he is fat.

The evidence for this is scant,
I’ve never seen him puff or pant,
But that might be ’cos Christmas Day,
He doesn’t walk much anyway.

But now suspicions are confirmed,
Because, today, I have just learned,
That doctors – and I mean GPs –
Say that he’s fat above the knees.

He eats too much, drinks sherry too,
He smokes a pipe like some men do;
And one more thing as you may guess –
He might have work-related stress.

And if all that were not enough,
On Christmas Eve his work is tough,
For even if his gifts are cheap,
He’s sure to be deprived of sleep.

So when you go to bed tonight,
Do think of him in red and white,
And leave no cake or sherry glass,
Because, although this may sound crass,
Just one more drink or some mince pies.
Might well result in his demise.

Then we would all the poorer be,
With Santa Claus in A&E,
Although, no doubt, the NHS,
Would save him from still more distress!