Saturnalia by Antoine-François Callet Before December slouches on any further, I feel duty-bound to tell you something.

I don’t enjoy the Christmas/New Year season much. It’d be fair – if somewhat understated – to say that I am looking forward to February.

In the circumstances, please don’t be perturbed if you are unable to detect festive joy in these pages, or if I turn into a royal pain in the booty. Similarly, don’t take it personally if my comments on your blogs lose their bounce and become distinctly lacklustre. I’m not asking for sympathy or suggestions, just patience. My melancholy will pass, as all things do.

Of course, I shall quite understand if you choose not to visit me again until February. The blog may well be a bit of a downer, if you’re in full tinsel-and-baubles mode.

Secondly, as I don’t celebrate the festival as the birth of Jesus, I have decided to revert to calling it Saturnalia from now on.

It probably won’t make me love Overdraftmas any more than I do now, but let’s give it a go.

Tangential Foxy anecdote: Saturnalia is also the name of an ill-fated club night I almost put on in Shoreditch a few winters ago. It all fell apart when a friend – who was waaaaay more experienced as a club promoter – booked his event for another local club on the same night, including all the bands I had naively made only verbal agreements with. Ho ho ho.

(NB: this is not the source of my yuletide misery; I bear no grudge. The friend in question is now plying his wily trade in New York, and I’m most proud.)

Er… I was just about to concoct an excruciatingly laboured joke about myrrh-der on the dancefloor, but let’s leave it there, shall we?