Being out of circulation following an appointment with the surgeon’s knife is quite an eye opener, particularly during the season of goodwill to all, writes our Grumpy Old Man Bill McCarthy.

Forced to sit at home, through immobility, it’s either books or the telly for my entertainment.

I can only read so much so the TV comes into its own. It makes you wonder why the idle and feckless, who would rather not be at work, can put up with the dross on offer.

Their lives revolve around pap that should be an insult to human intelligence.The surgery without aneasthetic would be less painful.

From early shows like Daybreak, through Loose Women and Jeremy Kyle you are bombarded relentlessly with meaningless drivel, dressed up as entertainment.

The lowest of the low life prostrate themselves in front of Kyle and the appalling Judge Judy, showing there is no limit to how low people will sink for a few minutes in the limelight.

Try to escape to the movie channels and it is just as bad. A couple of channels have been showing Christmas films since the beginning of November. We pay a cable premium for this rubbish, yet, perversely, I still find myself watching them.

It just shows how quickly the human mind can be shut down and subverted.

And to top it all, we had the final of X Factor and Strictly Come Dancing  – the karaoke clowns like Wagner against baby hippos in slingbacks like Ann Widdecombe. Yet again moderate singers will become millionaires for being a slightly better at karaoke than their competitors, while Simon Cowell continues to laugh all the way to the bank.

The like of Widdecombe are a sick joke and now we are faced with the sanctimonious Vince Cable at Christmas.

It makes me yearn for a  whiff of the anaesthetist’s gas.

*****

I live in a modest house in a fairly posh area. Sadly, it has a substantial population of  well-to-do, ill-mannered boors.

Walking into the doctors surgery, on crutches, I was confronted by two, well-dressed, well-spoken, elderly women.

Most people, you would think, would hold the door open for you with a little grace and manners.

Not this pair of oafs. “I suppose you want to come through,” the one sneered, reluctantly grasping the door.

“That’s the general idea,” I quipped, only for her to let the door go.

Her hatched-faced pal, didn’t even bother with the secondary, allowing me to bodge it open with the my crutches.

Sadly, these are not the children of Thatcher. They are old enough to know better and clearly expect lesser mortals, like me perhaps, to hold the door for them.

Generally speaking, younger people are much more polite and helpful.

Money may buy material things, but it cannot buy class or decency.

Well Christmas and New Year are upon us, so I suppose I should wish long-suffering readers compliments of the season.