2016 may well go down as the year that many would rather forget. Bombs, Brexit, Bowie. Still, at least that Trump chump didn’t…oh, hang on…

Grandpa died, too.

The finest of fellows he was, and he was very good at doing Christmas. Bells, baubles, yule logs, the Queen.

Grandpa insisted on turkey on Christmas Day, so if there’s any good whatsoever to come from the horrible things that have happened this year, it’s to be the roast goose on the Mackley Christmas table.

I’ve nothing against the turkey per se – after all it’s just a bigger, uglier version of a chicken – but it’ll be nice to have a change.

Grandpa goes, the turkey goes, cometh the hour, cometh the goose.

The greatest food writer of them all, Elizabeth David, once wrote: “If I had my way…Christmas Day eating and drinking would consist of an omelette…a nice bottle of wine at lunchtime, and a smoked salmon sandwich with a glass of champagne on a tray in bed in the evening.”

Bravo Elizabeth, chance would be a fine thing.

I’ve never cooked a goose before, but how hard can it be? After all, it’s just a bigger, uglier version of a duck. Apple sauce, not cranberry. Less leftovers, more grease.

I might not even bother with sprouts. My lunch, my rules. Nobody actually looks forward to eating sprouts, whatever you do to them. Spiced red cabbage? Yes please. That goes with goose.

This column is dedicated to the memory of my oldest (she was 91) Ludlow chum, Mirabel Osler who died recently. The person I liked to talk food with above all others, Mirabel was much like Elizabeth David in that she wrote so finely and shared a similar filthy sense of humour.

Unlike Grandpa she’d have had goose over turkey, any Christmas Day of the year.

Along with everything else we lost this year, I’ll miss them both hugely.