Some simpering bishops are urging their clergy to make sure that carol services do not interfere with the ship of football. That leads to an obvious conclusion: Christmas is too important to be left to the Church of England.

The vulgarities of commercialisation are distressing, but survivable. Last year, one friend became fed up with his brats’ lust for presents and upbraided them: ‘If this goes on, you’ll be given nothing but bibles and prayer books.’ He remembered his father saying the same to him. No doubt his grandparents delivered similar thunderbolts in their day.

Thus life rolls on. Even amid the transfiguring and transcending grandeur of the Christmas message, when a manger in Bethlehem becomes the still point in the turning world for all eternity, there is an enchantment in the littlies’ delight in their stockings. It is possible to move onwards and upwards, from Christmas cake and a glass of port for Santa Claus, to the wafer and the wine of redemption.

Those of us who revere the spectacle yet cannot succumb to its truth – let alone to the bland wokeish banalities offered by half the C of E’s hierarchy – find ourselves on the outside. The most powerful meaning which the human condition can offer remains ultimately meaningless to us. We reread Eliot’s ‘Journey of the Magi’ and come close to sharing the bleakness of the cold coming: thus a stoic could be consoled when deprived of faith. But no: this is a season of joy. Even if we cannot accept the Gospel, we ought to respect its glories. Although we may not believe that the fire is divine, we can still warm ourselves at its flames. Even I have been known to take part in an open-to-all Messiah, expressing my reverence by contributing a very low volume.

Down in Dorset, where the Garden of Eden planted new roots after the expulsion of Adam and Eve, they are not bothered about volume. Young Arthur, a numismatist and dog-owner, has become a chorister at Sherborne Abbey. The human condition has profundities, but also chuckling paradoxes. For centuries, angelic voices have sustained English choral music, while the angelic singers have remained living instances of the doctrine of original sin. Long may Arthur do both.

Thus far in my Advent, vinousness has been the route to veneration. The choirs of Bordeaux have been in fine voice. In the last column, I praised several St Juliens. Since then, more have come my way. Every time I drink a Léoville-Barton, I raise a glass to the memory of Anthony Barton, a superb vigneron. I have praised his 2005 here before, but as one can never drink enough of it, repetition is justified. The 2006 was not really ready, but is showing every reason for optimism.

Some of us broke off from Christmastide to celebrate a great friend’s birthday. Robbie Lyle has attained three score and ten with flagons rather than flagging. As a change from claret, the Vosne-Romanée, Les Champs Perdrix 2010 was worthy of the occasion, as was the 1970 Graham’s.

We recalled a story from an earlier 70th in honour of Vic Garland, sometime Australian high commissioner. The guests included two good men who had studied together for the priesthood: Gerry Noel, who did not stay the course, and Cormac Murphy-O’Connor, who became a cardinal.

At about 3.20, His Eminence rose and announced – with obvious reluctance – that he had to return to the office. On Christian-name terms because they had been boys together, Gerry interceded: ‘You can’t go now, Cormac. They’re about to serve some Yquem.’ The cardinal resumed his seat and they did.

That was an expression of the Christmas spirit. May there be many more such over the next few weeks.

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