And a happy New Year! Like yourselves, no doubt, I am lying supine on my chaise longue dictating this message to you all in between massive eructations and in a miasma of toxic gas cause by overindulgence. I honestly never wish to see a mince pie again. Of course every year I invite the great and the good from the culinary world to my humble castle for Christmas lunch, an event that invariably stretches out until Boxing Day as Thespian friends enact charades deep into the night. Many top gourmets and gourmands also grace my table, lured by the promise of a meal that eclipses any to be had elsewhere in the land. However this year there was unlooked for disappointment.

It has been my custom for over a decade now to serve something different from the terrible traditional turkey. I have tried swans (with dear Elizabeth’s permission, of course) and one memorable year I was caught stuffing a pike. But the favourite dish, and one which has delighted heads of state, has been Roast Giant Panda.

This year I am sorry to say, the Chinese Embassy let me down very badly. The sorry tale began on December 23rd when the usual crate with holes punched in the side arrived in a large truck accompanied by grinning gentlemen from the Embassy. We always have our Giant Panda delivered fresh; the normal routine is for the under-gardener to stun the animal with his spade before I administer the coup de grace with my old .303 target rifle (I was Bisley Pershing Cup Champion 1965 – 1969). The whole estate gathers to watch the ritual as the end of the box is gently teased off, the animal lumbers out clutching a few bits of bamboo, and the trusty Spear & Jackson is administered in a quick and humane fashion. The children of the village then drag the beast over to me for dispatch before taking it around back to the kitchen. A decent Giant Panda will feed about twelve hungry adults with some left over for curry on Boxing Day. The rest is distributed to the hounds.

This year, however, the Embassy called to say there had been a problem. They had been fattening up a Panda, as usual, on bamboo. (Pandas actually love to eat grass by nature but bamboo is better for the flavour) but some interfering people from a wildlife association had made a fuss saying that Pandas were an endangered species. What rot. If their numbers weren’t kept down Pandas would breed like rabbits and engulf all the other wildlife, as any true naturist knows. Of course in the good old days the Chinese authorities would have taken their usual robust line with these people – imprisonment without trial, no phone calls to lawyers and only hand them back when a Pop Star asked for their release. Unfortunately this sensible line of action has been closed off thanks to the Internet and its millions of users with nothing better to do in between massive sessions on thehun.com than organise petitions.

So we had to have Koala once again this year. Barely enough for the guests, as usual, and a disagreeable smell of Vick’s Vapour Rub all through Boxing Day. Next year I intend to fatten my own Panda. London Zoo tells me there is every chance of a cub delivery soon and I am second on the waiting list after Prince Charles. And now, I fear, I must visit the lavatory again. Don’t you find that Koala goes straight through you? I know I do.