ALBERT SANTATHORNE

When this little bearded chap turned up in the background of the interviews during the world snooker, my first unkind thought was that "Willie Thorne's let himself go…"

Then I thought about what Santa does for the rest of the year, before remembering Uncle Albert from "Only Fools and Horses…"

Oh, how I chuckled to myself, and there I was, on the very brink of posting such merriment out into the great big world when, suddenly, I had pause for thought.

Because all of these thoughts were, of course, completely wicked, wicked, wicked ones to be having.

Our hirsute friend has probably given more to life than I ever have, and may even have spent much of his youth bayonetting enemy combatants, as well as raising a family (or not, obviously - I know nothing of his life apart from his facial hair choices), so who am I to mock his appearance…? After all, at least he's dragging himself over to the shooting range that is Sheffield (the brave, brave fellow) instead of merely settling down in front of the telly and allowing the various pies, puddings and chocolate bars within arm's reach to wend their merry way to my ever-expanding fat backside.

But that sort of thinking, rather sadly, now seems to be the way of the world, and, despite what I occasionally try and persuade myself about, I'm just as bad as everybody else when it comes to snap judgements based solely upon appearances.

Mind you… Having just confessed, in a very public manner, to watching the snooker on TV, now I'm wondering just what conclusions you are currently leaping to about my pathetic, miserable little life…

(This is one of those "postponed" postings that I mentioned earlier - just to show you what you're missing - but, you know, even numbers and all that…)