As if the stuff we’ve all heard about Guantanamo Bay wasn’t enough, we now learn the Americans have been holding Professor Dumbledore there for five years on some shady, unspecified charge. Urging jihad among the house elves? Threatening to turn Donald Rumsfeld into a sentient human being? And heaven knows what other heroes of child-orientated British fantasy fiction are banged up on Cuba – Gandalf, Aslan and the Mad Hatter, maybe.

It all seems terribly unfair and we should be delighted that Dumbledore – under his pseudonym Jamil el-Banna – has been sprung from chokey by the sudden manifestation of that pouting Trotskyite luvvie Vanessa Redgrave, who arrived on a broomstick with a large sack of moolah. Vanessa stumped up half the £50,000 bail for el-Banna – the size of the sum perhaps reflecting the authorities’ concern that he might be tempted to do a runner, I suppose, or perhaps turn himself into a Hippogriff.

El-Banna’s commendably extravagant beard was apparently the consequence of his protest in Guantanamo about a punitive shaving regime imposed by the Americans. There’s a paradox here, I think, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Whatever, this is the season of goodwill and we should put aside our cynicism for a moment and rejoice in the happiness of all those British “residents” released by the US, even – perhaps especially – if they are Al-Qaeda operatives who wanted to blow us all to smithereens (and now have another chance, inshallah, to so do.)

El-Banna and one of his similarly liberated colleagues (Muhammad bin Voldemort, maybe) are wanted in Spain on terrorism-related charges, so there is at least a vague chance that they will be banged up again before you can say Slytherin. And then once released they can return to Britain to continue enjoying the benefits of our society.

The prime minister has just issued Britain’s immigrant community with a tough ultimatum: “Play by the rules or face the consequences.” However, the consequences to which he refers seem to lack a little vigour and, in fact, mean: continued residency, welfare benefits, free housing, free education for the kids, etc. What it clearly does not mean is deportation.

The Home Office’s Border and Immigration Agency has said it has “no interest” in deporting foreign national prisoners who serve less than a year in prison. There will still be “bungs” of £1,500 to encourage them to leave voluntarily (an innovation which should be extended to certain British nationals, such as Piers Morgan. Believe me, I’d pay up. I’d pay double). But no effort will be made to force them out. The thieves, fraudsters, skag-heads, pimps and burglars will remain among us, in perpetuity, if they so wish.

This is great news for Britain’s security industry, which in recent years employed 11,000 foreign nationals who were illegal immigrants, according to the latest government figures. But you might argue that it is less good news for the rest of us. Either the government does not get how angry this makes the overwhelming majority of British citizens, or it simply does not have the wherewithal to do anything about it, which suggests incompetence on a remarkable scale.

Old Dumbledore el-Banna, meanwhile, is a Jordanian national. Lovely country, Jordan, and very clement weather at this time of year. And it’s about as close to a democracy as you get in the Middle East, Israel excepted. Which is, I admit, not that close. So why doesn’t he go back there? He could wander around the ruins of Petra and take a dip in the Dead Sea. Or do the Jordanians have it in for him too? And if so, why?

Clinging to office – but not to honour

Sir Ian Blair, the Metropolitan Police commissioner, has kindly reminded us that he is still in office, in case we had forgotten. Chuckling, he told Radio 4’s Today programme that he was “a bit of a limpet” – presumably referencing not that mollusc’s lowish IQ, but its famed ability to cling mindlessly to rocks. Limpets can be dislodged only if you approach them in silence and then smash them very hard with a piece of wood.

His former counterpart in Northern Ireland, Sir Ronnie Flanagan, is currently demonstrating the same trait. Perhaps all of our top policemen are aquatic molluscs.

The debacle of the trial of the alleged Omagh bomber Sean Hoey would have been enough to dislodge most of us from our posts, but not Ronnie. “Thoughtless and slapdash” was the judge’s verdict on the police investigation that resulted in Hoey walking free in Northern Ireland’s most important trial in 20 years. A previous inquiry into the investigation in 2001 also strongly criticised the police.

“If this report . . . is true, I would not only resign, I would publicly commit suicide,” Flanagan said defiantly at the time. But if I were the relatives of those murdered in Omagh, I would not hold my breath.

Don’t fill out this form ...talk rubbish instead

At the government’s behest, local councils will soon be spending £55m on a survey to find out if you think your neighbours are bringing up their kids wrongly and whether or not you’re getting on with black people in your area. And lots of other nosy, pointless, stuff. It’ll drop on your doormat in the new year.

This is the New Place Survey, and if you try to read it online you will notice a thin, grey, wraith-like thing exiting from the top of your head, about half way through. That’ll be the will to live deserting you. The consultation document seems to have been written by some shrunken, sallow-skinned creature, possibly a goblin, who has never seen daylight and probably never will. It begins with a catchy intro about diagnostic performance indicators reflecting national priorities and, frankly, it’s all downhill from there. Ream after ream of the same dismal stuff.

God alone knows what they intend to do with all this data on you and me. Anyway, there’s a thing at the bottom of the document where you can provide “constructive feedback” on the survey before the closing date of February 8. I suggest something like: “Just empty the bloody bins and leave us alone.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, has offered us a slightly revised version of the Christmas nativity scene. That business about the wise men with their gold, frankincense and myrrh? Actually, Rowan reckons, they were astrologers. A sort of Levantine equivalent of Russell Grant, Jonathan Cainer and Mystic Meg. So not that wise then.

“Well, he’s Capricorn, Mary, love – that means king of kings, son of God, etc. But he may run into a spot of bother when the moon moves into Aries, around about the beginning of April.” I know the archbishop means well, but please, Rowan, let us abide with our collective memory of what happened in Bethlehem, amid the deep and dreamless sleep, 2,000 years ago.

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