Thanks to our good friend Chris, who finally managed to get our satellite system working, we have German TV this Christmas.

Consequently, I am actually learning some German this year. Most of it of the bad variety. I can tell you all about how to send an SMS message to one of those pert young hussies who stroke themselves in the bath on the late night channel.

I can also tell you that German TV, like most TV in most countries, is mostly shite. Sorry, Scheiss. They even have The Office, but instead of a subtle comedy it's a broad sitcom with a laugh track.

Mind you, the Germans probably would not understand the original. Susanne doesn't get it at all. "Why don't they just tell the guy what an asshole he is?" It's difficult to explain why. They just don't. It's not the English way.

We are however having a mainly German Christmas, complete with a fine Weinachtsgans (Christmas Goose) from Moen and Company in Clapham (they were queuing out the door on Christmas Eve, and that was for stuff that was already paid for). I had to go and buy some Gehacktes Schweinefleisch for the stuffing. That's just pork mince (ground meat, if I still have any American readers), but somehow it sounds less appetising in German - Hacked Swine Flesh is just not what you want to tuck into at Christmas.

Remember the woman who sued McDonalds because her coffee was too hot? And a dumbass American jury awarded her three million dollars. Duh.

Well, like most people, I thought that was funny.

Then I noticed that, whenever you buy coffee in McDonalds, it's always really hot. Much hotter than you'd serve it at home. Why? At that temperature, you can't really enjoy the taste. You're too busy worrying that your mouth is going to be scalded.

Well, following a chain of links from some other story, I found this. There is much, much more to this story than meets the eye.

Firstly, the real case was much more complicated. The woman, who was aged 79, was served a cup of scalding coffee which caused serious burns to her skin. Some further information:

'McDonald's quality control managers specified that its coffee should be served at 180-190 degrees Fahrenheit [82-88 Celsius]. Liquids at that temperature can cause third-degree burns in 2-7 seconds ... From 1982 to 1992, McDonald's coffee burned more than 700 people, usually slightly but sometimes seriously, resulting in some number of other claims and lawsuits.'

'Witnesses for McDonald's admitted in court that consumers are unaware of the extent of the risk of serious burns from spilled coffee served at McDonald's required temperature, admitted that it did not warn customers of this risk, could offer no explanation as to why it did not, and testified that it did not intend to turn down the heat even though it admitted that its coffee is "not fit for consumption" when sold because it is too hot. '

That doesn't surprise me at all. Even more interesting, however, is that there is a major political story behind this. Many of the stories you hear about frivolous lawsuits are either invented or exaggerated. And at least some of them emanate from right wing political lobbies funded by big business interests who want to avoid being sued for malpractive.

Which just goes to show that it's always worth checking out any story you hear. Especially if it's about dumbass Americans.

I hate Ken Livingstone.

I didn't before, and I probably won't at some time in the future - but today I hate Ken Livingstone.

One of Ken's bright ideas: stop issuing tickets on London buses. It makes sense - when buses stop while the driver issues tickets to commuters, it slows the traffic down - including other buses.

So since the summer, you have to buy a ticket in advance if you want to get on a bus in central London. (Unless you're getting on a Routemaster, in which case if you sit on top you probably won't have to pay at all - often the conductors don't venture upstairs for long patches of the journey) Just like in Europe.

So there I was, on my way home from Argos in Victoria with a heavy parcel, and I was waiting at the terminus for the bus.

At the University of Life, I specialised for my degree course in Waiting For Buses. (This was before I was expelled, of course) Especially at Victoria station where I am an expert in positioning myself in the queue at just the place where the doors will open when the bus stops.

I had the parcel on the ground, and waited for ages, edging gradually into position, when it arrived. I was just about to get on board (using my parcel to impel rival passengers out of the way) when I remembered Ken.

I had forgotten to buy a ticket from one of the handy machines. So I had to fumble in my pocket for the change. I found two fifty pence pieces and put them in. They popped in easily.

And popped out again just as easily. I tried them again. Just in case they, you know, had just had a brief lapse of memory or something. But no. So I tried the other machine. Same result.

All this time, hordes of passengers, including some who had actually arrived later than me, were getting on board. Now I had to manouevre my package around the corner and into a sweet shop, where I waited behind a burly man who was busy buying his lottery tickets, using some strange and complicated system of his own.

Bastard.

Of course, by the time I returned, with a Mars bar and a handful of change, the bus had gone.

Eventually, another bus came and I used my famous parcel technique to get on board. But I was not best pleased, I can tell you.

It smells of pine.

Which is not all that surprising, considering that it is a pine tree.

We bought it yesterday, down the road, and Philipp and I carried it home. We put it in the hallway, then we put it up in the living room, and last night we decorated it.

It's the first time I've actually had a genuine Christmas tree. For all of my childhood and the early part of my adult life, in Dublin, we had a family Christmas tree. It came from Woolworths or somewhere like that, and it consisted of a tall pole of wire with several branches made of thinner strands of wire sticking off on every side. Each branch was wound round with green and silver strands of tinsel.

The advantage of this was that it could be easily folded up - just press the branches against the trunk - and it never shedded pine needles on the ground.

Then again, in its last few years it began to shed tinsel. I think it was getting old.

We had a few ancient Christmas decorations from the People's Republic of China (I'm not sure it was a People's Republic when they were made).

Every year, a week or so before Christmas, the tree would be unfolded and placed under the stairs. The fairy lights would be wound round it and switched on. They came from China, too. Hong Kong this time, I think.

When I came to London I spent most of my Christmases back in Dublin. Once I bought a small plastic tree that could be unfolded and placed on the table while I went away, and put back when I returned.

Anyway, this year the whole family were gathered round so it was time to buy a real, genuine Christmas tree. We bought lots of little nicky nacky Christmas decorations, from IKEA and Liberty and various local shops. Although I suspect they came originally from that great centre of Christmas cheer, the People's Republic of China.

Well, it's decorated now, and it smells of real pine. And it looks lovely. We decorated it (despite the German tradition that the decorations don't go up until Christmas Eve) and then we stood around and listened to Christmas choral music in the dark with just the Christmas lights on.

How Norman Rockwell is that?

What, exactly, is the point of beansprouts?

We had a stir-fry for dinner. Susanne suggested we could get a prepacked one.

"Aha," I pointed out. "Those ones look good, with lots of nice ingredients, but that's just the surface. Underneath they're all beansprouts".

"Sure," she said. "That's okay".

Well, I'm sorry but it's not okay. Beansprouts are not food. They are packing material. Nature's answer to styrofoam.

"Thanks," we should say to nature, "we'll, er, let you know".

It's like when you get a present, and it comes in a box, and when you open the box it's mostly packing. Or when you get a box of chocolates, and when you open it up there are about three tiny chocolates surrounded by a vast structure of plastic shaped to fit perfectly around the three tiny chocolates.

Say no to beansprouts. We need to be firm about stuff like this.

So, let's get this right.

The government has announced the wording of the proposed referendum (with no date attached) as to whether the UK should adopt the Euro as its currency.

The question will be, "Should the United Kingdom adopt the euro as its currency?"

Pretty straightforward, no?

Well, no. Those Euroskeptics disapprove. Tory spokesman Alan Duncan comments: "The proposed referendum question ... makes no mention that the pound would be replaced if people vote 'yes'. "

Right. Because that's an easy mistake to make. I mean, if someone suggests adopting a new currency, that doesn't mean getting rid of the old one.

Are the great British public really that stupid? "I had no idea that was what I was voting for. I just thought, well why not? The more the merrier. Why not have the yen as well?"

Obviously the normal election ballot papers need to be changed as well, to make it clear that voting for Labour, say, means the Conservative candidate will not get in.

I suspect that what they really want is that a question like:

"Do you really want to get rid of our lovely old coins with pictures of the Queen (God Bless Her) on them, and replace them with horrible foreign money that's been handled by lots of unwashed dagoes? Eh?"