Finally back in face-to-face 12-step meetings, after months in the Zoom wilderness, where meetings seemed more like the intro to The Muppet Show, or, if poorly attended, The Brady Bunch — sorry, younger readers, you may have to google that one.

Having been writing this column since the Napoleonic Wars, I can honestly say that 2020 wins as the surreal fountain that keeps on spouting.

Normally, the what are you doing for Christmas question starts bubbling up just after Halloween.

Could it be…. . whisper it…. .

In April 2016, the Large Hadron Collider – the biggest particle accelerator on earth – temporarily broke down when a small furry animal, thought to be a pine martin, although it could have been a weasel, chewed through a cable.

The dog is on paracetamol again from all the lockdown walking – like the rest of us, she’s worn out, but won’t give up.

Watching the state funeral of Samuel Paty on French TV as I fill out the track and trace form to re-enter the UK, where I will hide in my house for two weeks in line with current UK government requirements, the words ‘liberté, egalité, fraternité’ ...

“I mean, I think women should be more indulgent of affairs. I really do. It’s daft to kick someone out over a fling. Isn’t it? Everyone should turn a blind eye to men’s behaviour between the ages of 40 and 50. Let it blow over.

We are probably all in agreement that so far 2020 has been the temporal equivalent of that party when your acid trip went wrong and you ended up crouched in a corner fending off the giant carnivorous bats that nobody else could see, except in 2020, ...

John Lydon has made a career out of offending people, but now he is offending Us, not Them.