If we do end up getting locked down at Christmas again, we’d better hope that there’s something good to watch on television. As it happens, I’ve been flicking through the festive schedules. And it looks as though there’s a real treat in store on ITV.

Agatha Christie’s Poirot, 9.00pm

New episode. The Belgian sleuth (David Suchet) takes on his toughest case yet, as a leading politician asks him to investigate whether or not a series of wild parties took place over a period of six weeks inside his own home.

I’ve only watched the trailer, but it looks terrific.

“So, Monsieur Johnson… you are telling me zat, on perhaps half a dozen separate occasions, as many as 50 people entered your abode and drunkenly played loud Christmas music for several hours, wizzout you ever noticing?”

“Well, you know, Inspector… I’m a very heavy sleeper.”

“You slept right through, each time? Even though zeeze people were behaving as if zey were, how you say, backstage with Mötley Crüe?”

“I do have quite a stressful job, Inspector. So I always make sure to get a good night’s kip. That’s why, until this week, I’d never even heard about any of these parties.”

“I see, Monsieur. But you were not invited to attend zeeze parties zat were taking place inside your very own place of dwelling?”

“No. Never. But then, everyone knows I’m a terribly shy and retiring sort of chap. Not much of a party animal.”

“Have you tried reporting zis matter to the police?”

“Yes, but they got back extremely promptly to say that they couldn’t possibly investigate because there was absolutely no evidence that the parties ever took place.”

“Mais Monsieur, if the parties never took place, why has a young lady in your employment resigned over them?”

“I say, that’s a jolly good point. It does seem a bit odd, now you put it like that. Perhaps you could investigate that mystery, too.”

I can’t wait. It promises to be Poirot’s most gripping case since the mystery of the man who discovered to his shock that someone had paid to cover his flat in expensive designer wallpaper.

Saving the world, one pair of Pampers at a time

Elon Musk, the billionaire entrepreneur, has issued the world with a stark warning. If we don’t start having more children, he says, civilisation will crumble.

I fear that he may well be right. Yes, the global population has never been higher. But for years the birthrate has been falling almost everywhere. While the proportion of old people grows, the proportion of young people declines. Eventually, there won’t be enough people of working age to subsidise the retired. So the few children we have will need to be sent out to work, like Victorian chimney sweeps.

Experts say that the more educated a society, the lower its birth rate. Which suggests that the way to save civilisation is to educate the young less. As it happens, Ofsted says that, during the pandemic, almost every child in England has fallen behind at school. This news may seem dispiriting now. But perhaps in two or three decades we’ll be thankful.

What Mr Musk plans to do to incentivise procreation among his staff, we do not yet know. Possibly he will offer employees a bonus for each child conceived. He could even encourage office affairs. This may be why our own Government has ruled that office Christmas parties should still go ahead. If so, I congratulate ministers on their forward thinking.

In my view, we should follow the excellent example set by our Prime Minister, who, according to the latest estimates, now has at least seven children. At this rate he’ll save civilisation all by himself.

From a Deacon to a Bishop

Today is a very special day. Because it happens to be the 15th anniversary of perhaps the most enchanting newspaper story of our age. This is, of course, the immortal tale of how a grey-haired man in long, flowing robes was allegedly observed sitting on the back seat of a complete stranger’s parked Mercedes, throwing children’s toys out of the window – and, when asked to explain his actions, replied: “I’m the Bishop of Southwark. It’s what I do.”

What a delightful vignette that is. Evelyn Waugh would have been proud to come up with it.

It is of course important to stress that the Bishop, who moved on from Southwark in 2010, disputed the accuracy of these reports, stated that he had no memory of being in the Mercedes, and strongly denied being the worse for wear. Or, as he might have put it, but sadly didn’t: “I’m the Bishop of Southwark. It’s not what I do.”

I appreciate that the former Bishop might not wish to be reminded of this period in his life. Personally, though, I think he should take pride in it. Because, whatever the truth of the story, the fact is that it lifted the spirits of the entire nation. It conjured such a wonderful image, which to this day never fails to raise a smile. To me, and I’m sure millions of others, the Bishop is nothing less than a hero.

And so, in these dark and gloomy times, as we face being deprived of so many other pleasures, let us once again picture that magical scene, and celebrate. Tonight, throughout the country, let us raise a glass in toast to this happy memory, clamber into the back seat of the nearest car – ideally our own – and hurl children’s toys out of the window.

We are the people of Britain. It’s what we do.