The Christmas I spent with only Ol’ Blue Eyes for companionship

I’m telling you a sad story today about the Christmas that Santa Claus let me down and left me with a disaster of a season of goodwill. It happened on Christmas Eve 1948, when I was 12 years old. And the old guy in red with a white beard decided I was just a wee bit too grown up to require his attention.

But before I relate how Santa put me in my place that time long ago, let me explain how that 1948 Christmas was just one of three Yule occasions that have gone haywire in my lifetime so far. Which, when I think about it, isn’t too bad for an old lad like me.

Now, getting back to Christmas Eve 1948, when I hung up my stocking as usual over the fireplace in the McIlwaine homestead in Carnmoney village, just as my sisters, Mattie (8) and Sally (4), were doing, refusing to take note of a discussion my mum and dad, Martha and John, were having, in which I overheard my name being mentioned.

I know now that they were about to tell Santa that, at 12, I was far too old to be still taking part in the loveliest of Christmas traditions.

And, next morning, as December 25 dawned, I discovered that my stocking was filled with cinders. Not a present in sight. I was glad when Boxing Day came round.

Which brings me to Christmas 1967, exactly 50 years ago, when the second disaster struck.

I was having Christmas dinner with friends Doreen and Bobby in Lisburn and it was a happy occasion — until, that is, we sat down at the lavishly decorated table and Doreen served up the turkey: the bird was off. Our Christmas dinner consisted of stuffing, vegetables and spuds.

Finally, let me tell you why Frank Sinatra (left) singing I’ll Be Home for Christmas brings a tear to my eye. You see, the ballad reminds me of Christmas 1970, when I didn’t make it home for Christmas at all.

I was in Manchester, working on a story for the Daily Mirror, and missed the last flight home. I spent Christmas Day in my hotel, sad and lonely, talking to family on the phone. And listening to Ol’ Blue Eyes chunnering on about going home for Christmas. That song nearly drove me mad. What made it worse was the fact that the disaster was all down to my own carelessness; my story was not urgent and could have waited.

I did get back home on Boxing Day, but it wasn’t the same.