I’m not sure who will be the more offended, Jesus Christ or the good people of Glasgow, but either way it’s still a really lovely picture, don’t you think? A baby Jesus in a pram is greeted by three wise chavs bearing stolen goods in a smashed-up Scottish bus shelter, waiting for the bus that will never come. Mary is a shell-suited hatchet-faced cow and sullen Joseph is replicated on the wanted poster behind him.

But Mary doesn’t look quite young enough - you remember the joke? Little Glaswegian girl watches her mother doing the washing up. “Mummy, mummy, you have such soft and gentle hands!” And her mother replies: “That’s because I’m 12, darling.” You have your doubts, looking at the picture, that it was a virgin birth, but you’re glad she’s now got herself a council flat.

You may be surprised to see that Joseph is there at all, rather than on the run from the CSA. You would bet against him being a chippy - several hundred thousand mysterious men from the east have taken most of the carpentry jobs.

The picture - published in the Metro newspaper last week and now a popular image for Christmas e-cards - would be my first choice to go in the proposed “museum of Britishness”, which the likes of Lord Baker and Sir Richard Branson are so anxious to set up. I also nominate: a copy of Russell Brand’s literary debut, My Booky Wook; a touch ’n’ feel installation of the home secretary’s breasts (which light up when you tweak a nipple); a life-size Kirsty Allsopp doll which gibbers at you about house prices when you pull the string in her middle; a disabled access ramp leading to a grey-skinned man warning you about health and safety issues; a pit bull terrier with a child in its jaws; and the gentle pop, every so often, of Islamist fanatics detonating themselves.

The museum would be situated on a First Great Western train parked on the relief track just outside Didcot Parkway station, for ever. Once every 10 minutes visitors would be told over the intercom that the train was delayed because of delays, and not to smoke anywhere.

I think that would give us a flavour of the country. The Lib Dem Chris Huhne was asked what he would put in such a museum and he said: “The Beatles, bobbies on the beat, Brighton Pier, bagpipes and beer.” Chris: you’ve misunderstood, it doesn’t have to be just things beginning with “b”. In any case, his vision of our country is from a very long time ago; mine, like that chavtivity scene, is bang up to date.

Just when you thought it couldn't get weirder

So, what was it that first attracted you to the multi-millionaire yacht-owning playboy Dodi Fayed, one would have liked to ask Princess Diana.

Women, we are told, go for status when choosing a mate – but Diana already had all the status she could get. Status seemed to be the thing she wished to leave behind.

So instead she bought a brochure of the Worst 100 People in Britain and worked her way through the list, flinging herself at weak-chinned, thick-as-mince toffs, coke-headed Eurotrash arrivistes and slightly nicer rugby players. The Queen of Hearts certainly got about a bit, I think it’s fair to say.

My favourite contribution to the bizarre and, by now, hilarious inquest into the poor woman’s death came from Dodi’s former squeeze, a certain Kelly Fisher. She was apparently suing her ex for $500,000 but he died before he had a chance to pay it. What a cad! Suing a dead man for breach of promise.

“But I still love him,” she sobbed in court, somewhat incongruously, given the nature of her legal action against him. What a strange world these people inhabit. Or once inhabited.

Oh dear, Fabio, it’s Stoke City next

So, Fabio Capello becomes the latest bejewelled foreigner to be charged with the task of teaching England’s multi-millionaire footballers how to trap and pass the ball.

Presumably his services have been acquired by the deployment of vast sums of cash – rather than by holding out to him the prospect of getting to know Rio Ferdinand a little better, both as a human being and a footballer. You sort of wish him well for what will be a miserable tenure, culminating in England losing in a World Cup qualifying game to a country in which the national sport is goat-wrestling or Jew-baiting.

The salary will be some compensation to Fabio when, in two years’ time, he is sacked from his post following harrowing failure and appointed player-manager of Stoke City, his long record of achievement at Juventus and Milan and Madrid forgotten.

My own overseas choice for England manager - Joseph Stalin - was sadly unavailable. My second choice, “Papa Doc” Duvalier, was similarly indisposed. Both of these would have approached the job with a wholly commendable psychopathic vigour and a squad of heavily armed homicidal thugs. But still, enough carping; Brian Barwick of the FA is to be congratulated on appointing a sentient human being to the job - a staggering break with tradition. Now all we need is a new team.

* * *

Been feeling a bit short of seasonal cheer, frankly – so was delighted to make the acquaintance of a certain Syaikh Muhammad bin Shalih al-Uthaymeen, who has been advising British Muslims on how to respond when their nonMuslim neighbours bid them “Happy Christmas!” this year.

This is not the simple issue that it might first appear to be. To respond similarly – “Happy Christmas to you too!” – says Syaikh, is most definitely haram, a grave sin.

“It is as great a sin as congratulating someone on murdering someone,” he adds, levelly. Perhaps the best thing to do is tell them they’re going to burn in hell for eternity.

Syaikh says nothing, sadly, about what one should do if a devout Muslim should suddenly be confronted by a mince pie or a brussels sprout.

I assume most Muslims take not the slightest bit of notice of him, which must be hurtful. We must invite him over for Christmas lunch and see what happens.

* * *

A Portuguese journalist has suggested that Kate McCann was only “one step away from prison” at one point during the police investigation into the whereabouts of her missing daughter, Madeleine. Manuel Catarino, the editor-in-chief of some Portuguese newspaper, believes that Kate McCann escaped prison only because of the preferential treatment afforded to her because she was English, rather than Portuguese.

It’s a shame that this “preferential treatment” didn’t extend to an even barely competent investigation of the case, you might think. Six months after Madeleine went missing, the Portuguese old bill at last got around to sending in sniffer dogs to the McCanns’ apartment where they think they found some specks of blood, but aren’t entirely sure. Meanwhile, the boss of the investigation, Goncalo “Sherlock” Amaral, was sacked. The Portuguese public – out of straightforward xenophobia – have always assumed the McCanns to be guilty, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Thinking of the Algarve next year? Think again.

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