I’ve had some memorable Christmases over the years…

Christmas has always been one of my favourite times of year.

I’m one of those unashamed traditionalists who insist on a real Christmas tree. None of this plastic evergreen business that smells faintly of loft insulation.

Give me the sharp, resinous scent of a freshly cut fir, a hearty lunch bubbling away in the oven, a decent bottle of wine breathing impatiently on the counter, and the warm hubbub of family as presents are torn open and another round of board games begins.

It’s sad that we’re all so busy these days that Christmas becomes that special day to enjoy these little things together. As I have got older I’ve come to cherish these moments, and I am grateful that they have now become the normal Hardy family Christmas. You can’t beat it.

That said, I have had some pretty memorable Christmases in my younger years too. They just looked a little different…

As a boy, we had a rescue dog called Toby; a grand jet-black Lab/German Shepherd cross, and a big fluffy cuddle monster of a hound. He was ace!

One Christmas, in a moment of catastrophic misjudgement, we left the lid off the Quality Street tin. And I am not talking about the skinny little plastic tubs that you get today. This was a large, grand metal tin seemingly capable of holding four metric tonnes of shiny, sugar-wrapped joy…

Of course, dear old Toby took full advantage of our Christmas complacency and ate the lot.

I then spent the next two days picking up undigested sweets… and yes, if you were wondering, foil-wrapped toffees do come out whole!

Regular readers may know that I also served as a soldier in the Grenadier Guards, many moons ago. As you can probably imagine, Christmas in the Army brought its own unique flavour of festivities.

One year, I had the privilege of performing royal duties on Christmas day at HM Tower of London. With the Tower closed to the public until the Ceremony of the Keys, this was an eerily quiet affair that made every jangle of keys and every crisp snap of drill boots all the more special. I remember feeling as though I were locking up my own Christmas palace! Even centuries-old traditions don’t take a day off for Christmas…

Then there were Christmases spent deployed in Northern Ireland. These weren’t exactly the stuff of glossy greeting cards and, to be honest, they were a bit of a non-event. But still, they had their own charm. The little things were held more dearly, like seeing the efforts to decorate the accommodation bunks with whatever could be found, or being served hot “gunfire” (tea and rum) from an urn at reveille on Christmas morning.

After the Army, you’d think I might have opted for a quieter profession. You’d be wrong. Christmas in the police force is many things, but quiet is not one of them.

I remember one year as the custody officer in Brixton for the entire Christmas stretch. If you ever want to see the full range of human decision-making, try working in a custody suite at Christmas!

I never knew so many people did their utmost to be arrested because a warm bed in custody was better than being cold and alone outside whilst the courts were closed. Then of course you had the Christmas Eve revellers who had enjoyed one festive drink too many and woke up bewildered in a cell the next morning. Not a pretty picture!

But the worst were the domestic incidents. Christmas, for all its glitter and goodwill, seems to bring simmering arguments to the boil. I’ve attended more festive domestics than I care to remember, but one stands out… a man so enraged by the state of his Christmas dinner, that he stabbed his wife!

Perhaps that’s why I hold my Christmases so dear these days. After seeing and experiencing so many alternative versions, I’m grateful for the simple luxury of a full table, a warm home, and the people (and dogs) I love around me. Or maybe it’s just because I’m getting old!

That being said, every Christmas has been good – each a little different – but all memorable in their own ways. And despite all the adventures over the years, my love for the festive season nearly always comes back to what I like to call “the three Fs”… family, friends and food.

Oh, and fighting the urge to raid the Quality Street… turns out dogs aren’t the only ones who can’t be trusted near the chocolate tin!