On Saturday I thought Advent calendars had treats?

TIS a funny old life, and no mistake! Which is a funny thing to say in itself, because people often used to end their more declarative sentences with the phrase “and no mistake” – an utterance that no one seems to use any more.

I was thinking this after watching two old British comedies – Passport to Pimlico and The Titfield Thunderbolt – both starring Stanley Holloway, who was a great one for harrumphing “and no mistake”.

Sometimes, when I feel down or depressed, I crank up the BBC iPlayer and whack on some old movie to make me feel more cheery. Those old films, and others from the wonderful Ealing Comedy stable, portray another world – an altogether more sunny and innocent British world that I vaguely remember being part of as a child.

Of course, it wasn’t anywhere near as cosy or sunny or fault-free as the movies convey. When I was growing up on a West Country council estate, the realities of life were more grim than those cheery Ealing producers would have us believe. I remember hearing one guy cough this way to oblivion – you could hear his endless tobacco-inspired hacking echo among the Cornish Units morning, noon, ’til night, until one day it ceased and they closed the curtains.

Which is what they used to do when someone died at home, and a lot of people did. Like the old lady down the road, who wailed through her final hours to let everyone know that she was going and that she didn’t want to.

And I can think of several housewives who, looking back, were treated badly by their husbands. ‘Put up and shut up’ seemed to be the lot of all too many women.

But, cor blimey! Today when I enter the world of Stanley Holloway, Margaret Rutherford, Sid James, Alec Guinness, Joan Greenwood, et al, I am able to luxuriate for an hour or two in a happy victimless world where even the baddies are good.

I know… it’s an illusion. A weak man’s escape to something that isn’t, and was never, real.

Unlike today’s news bulletins, which hour after hour insist on being very real indeed – which, inevitably, means delivering misery heaped upon misery. I wouldn’t have it any other way – it’s their job.

But, cor blimey Mark 2, it don’t ’arf get depressing.

This week, for the first time I can remember, I turned off the main BBC news halfway through. There’d been an incredibly harrowing report from Gaza – and more power to the elbow of the brave camera crew who shot the footage. Then we were treated to a lengthy but agonising report which included a tearful mother describing her grief after her lovely young teenager had been brutally murdered.

Of course, such cases should be reported – of course we would know when horrific things happen in our society – but there seems to be a trend in news coverage nowadays to dwell upon as much human pain as can be crammed into a three-minute bulletin. We know the mother will be griefstricken beyond belief – everyone will expect her to be – so why is it deemed “powerful television” to dwell upon her devastation? I find it almost voyeuristic and feel deeply uncomfortable watching or listening to such stuff.

Even my favourite broadcast news outlet, the BBC Today programme, gets in on the act. It’s been featuring what it calls its “Advent Calendar” – replaying memorable moments from throughout the year. They have cheerful festive music, then re-run some meaningful moment that’s meant to make us all feel... well, not festive or merry, that’s for sure.

This week the producers were proud to rerun an interview with another mother of a murdered child – the reporter had taken her to the spot where the crime happened and the poor woman could hardly speak reliving so much grief. Hearing it shadowed my entire day. If that’s what is meant as “powerful” then I cannot disagree – but I thought Advent calendars were meant to contain treats, not horror stories.

I am sure a modern news producer hungry for awards would hear my views and say: “Who is this old fantasist sticking his head in the sand? Our job is to tell it how it is.”

I’d counter: what was new or instructive? The story could have been wrapped up in the headline “Mother is griefstricken”. We all knew she would be. Why do we need every last sob and tear?

Perhaps all this is down to personal taste. I have friends who love nothing better than to watch those Scandi-Noir movies which are filled with grimness and brutality.

“It was so upsetting I couldn’t get a minute’s sleep last night,” one traumatised friend told my wife.

Asked if she’d stop watching such things, she replied: “Oh no. We’ve got several lined up to watch over Christmas.”

Call me an old fantasist with his head in the sand, but I’ll be looking for something light and joyful to watch on TV during the coming days.

The Guardian newspaper once made the following observation about the old British movies I love so much: “Our native cinema had a reputation for decency and good manners.”

Not the most gushing of endorsements perhaps, but it’ll do me in a world which has become darker and more unhinged.

So, a light and happy Christmas to you all... and no mistake!