We are about to celebrate, or so the leather-elbowed, lentil-eating Guardianistas inform us, the holiday of "Luminos" or "Winterfest". Such terms, they insist, are more inclusive and less offensive than anything containing the dreaded C-word. And further to that, C******** cards are banned from Red Cross shops and multi-cultural workplaces while C******** lunches are being re-named "festive" lunches by councils nationwide.

The worker ants in the public library in High Wycombe have refused to pin up an advert for a carol concert, such is their desire not to offend. Offend who, for God's sake? People who hate carols?

Even the school Nativity play is under attack, with those teachers brave enough to stage one being forced by equal opportunities legislation to squeeze a third-year kid dressed as a Palestinian suicide bomber into the already overcrowded stable next to the donkey.

What have we done to deserve this? God only knows that there's precious little left in our lives that brings us all together. You'd think that they'd at least allow us to enjoy a bit of innocent fun on December 25th.

Now I don't know about you, but I've yet to come across a Muslim, a Hindu, a Sikh or a even a Rastafarian who felt insulted by the fact that 90 per cent of us still hang up stockings on C******** Eve. Despite the best efforts of the NuLabour social engineers, this is still – just – a free country. No-one is forced to celebrate C********, just as no-one is forced to celebrate Eid, or Passover, or Chinese bloody New Year.

Each to his own, even if it does entail running up enough credit card debts to buy Bruce Forsyth a lifetime supply of wigs.

But just as new laws are brought in that could see comedians going to jail for telling jokes about other religions, no-one seems to give a toss about Christianity. Now I admit that most of us don't see the inside of a church from wedding day to funeral service (and those of us who do are usually half-cut on C******** Eve), but when I last looked, this was still a Christian country.

Isn't it time that someone realised that pandering to the imagined grievances of non-existent minorities does more damage to community relations than a dozen race riots? Or is the English, white, Christian majority of this sceptered isle supposed to merely curl up and die while our customs, our traditions and our religions are steam-rollered out of existence by the forces of the politically correct?

I'm sorry if this all sounds a bit BNP, but that's the danger inherent in standing up for your country. You're immediately branded a racist, even if all you're bothered about is the continued presence of a silver sixpence in the plum pudding.

Of course, the real reason for this unnecessary and unsupportable anti-English campaign is the preponderance of newly-invented civil service apparatchiks occupying non-jobs at the taxpayers' expense. At the last count there were 800,000 more of them than there were under the Tories.

This explosion in publicly-funded jobs has nothing to do with improving services and everything to do with securing another election win for NuLabour. After all, turkeys don't vote for C********, do they?

But while they may be in non-jobs, these placemen have to find something to do, and that something appears to be interfering with every aspect of our day-to-day lives. So it is that the Health and Safety Nazis have launched their own assault on the traditional C********.

Out go the festive civic lights of Bury St Edmonds (in case they fall on someone's head, of course). Out goes the traditional office party just in case some fat secretary falls through the photocopier machine while duplicating her lardy arse and then sues for damages, or the office perv gets carried away and ends up molesting one of the call centre cannon fodder, resulting in huge embarrassment and an unbudgeted January pay rise for the victim.

Quite what they would make of a fat, bearded man climbing down your chimney and then creeping into your childrens' bedrooms in the middle of the night with a bulging sack, G** o*l* kno*s. There'd be mobs carrying blazing torches burning down paediatricians' homes from Land's End to John O'Scrotes.

In fact, so incompatible are many C******* customs that I'm amazed they've survived at all. Imagine, for instance, how you would explain to an alien visitor to this planet the tradition of pantomime.

"So there's this principal boy, right? Only he's played by a girl. Wearing fishnet tights. He gets to kiss the Princess. No, of course they're not lesbians.

"Then there's the Dame, who's really a man. He gets to kiss Buttons, the footman. Yes, he's a man as well. No, they're not sausage jockeys.

"Oh, and in one show some magic beans are central to the plot. And in another, seven dwarves live in the forest with a pretty young woman. She gets drugged as well.

"And who is this transvestite, drug-orientated, gay porn fest featuring unnatural acts by persons of a restricted growth aimed at? Children, of course."

The mind boggles.

Blow-dry Burton, hairdresser to the stars (Cyd Cherise, Freddie Frinton, and Mike and Bernie Winters) telephones in a state of high dudgeon.

"Bazza," he cries. "Are you still giving the disabled a drubbing?"

I am somewhat mystified by his assertion, because this column has always been a champion of Spaccers' rights, but I play along. Mainly because I can almost hear his mascara running in indignation.

It appears that Mr Burton has been inconvenienced at an airport by an orange badge merchant who blagged a free wheelchair, jumped the boarding queue for the EasyJet cattle truck, and then positively sprinted up the stairs to grab the big seat by the emergency exit.

Further to that, Blow Dry is beginning to have doubts about the Motability scheme at his local shopping mall. You know, the one where they get those electric scooter things to ride around the shops on? Apparently, they're now fitting bull bars to them, so making it easier for the ignorant sods to barge you out of the way at the spare leg counter.

I do have some sympathy for him. I myself have suffered at the hypothetical hands of the limbless.

Did I tell you we'd recently had the builders in? Well the renovation of the East Wing transept has fallen subject to current building regulations, and what a dog's bollocks they are.

For some unfathomable reason, everything has to be built with disabled access in mind. So the sweeping stairway up from the drive has had to be replaced by a ramp, the downstairs toilet is big enough to park an Airbus in, the light pulls are at ankle level and the electrical sockets are around your knees.

Why? I know I've hit the old Buckfast and Vimto a bit hard in recent years, but I'm still able to stagger up onto hind legs. This is my house, not Tony Blah's. If I finally succumb to terminal gout and require a bath chair to get around, I'll happily pay to have my home "disabled". I don't need someone to do it for me "just in case".

As it is, every new home in Britain now looks like skateboard park, with ramps and bends all over the show. It can't be long before stairlifts become compulsory. (I can, in fact, think of occasions when that might be beneficial.)

The only people happy with situation are the Differently Abled Association and the bastard builders. They get to charge you thousands of pounds for features that you don't want and will probably never need.

They must think all their C********'* have come at once.