Hark, the Sunday Herald angels sing. Well, perhaps not sing, more howl as they realise the office canteen is shut for a week. Bring me flesh and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither? No chance. You’ll not even get a fried egg piece. Even yonder peasant turned his nose up at the meagre offerings. Christmas may be a time for churning out good will to all men but it’s also a period of spectacular inconvenience as you try to fight, elbow and gouge your way along jam-packed, dog-eat-dog High Streets amid tumultuous scenes that resemble the opening 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan.

Yes, the last gasp shopping spree can be an appalling fankle. But forget about that Teasmaid for Auntie Doreen. What about those items you simply can’t find in the department stores, order from Amazon or pinch from the back of a van? Let’s start with Andy Murray, Scotland’s greatest living king of everything. A hip has not caused such a stooshie since Elvis was filmed from the waist up on the Ed Sullivan Show because the startled censors feared his shoogling, gyrating thrusts would corrupt the entire teenage population of the USA.

When Murray bravely hirpled out of Wimbledon at the quarter-final stage with that sair bit of the anatomy, the tsunami of national grief in SW19 just about forced the Thames Flood Barrier to shut. The best surgeon money can buy, the soothing hocus pocus of a witch doctor, the divine intervention of mass, collective prayer? Santa, just pull something out of the sack and give oor Andy a hip that works.

Talking of things that are crumbling, what do you do at a museum? That’s right, you shuffle around in whispering reverence while peering at old shards of flint, cracked vases or dog-eared, yellowing clumps of parchment. For the Scottish Football Museum this Christmas comes a sporting gift that will allow Hampden to showcase a truly magnificent exhibit in the shape of The Rangers Statement.

Released in the wake of Derek McInnes’ managerial snub, this spell-binding, historic and jaw-droppingly laughable body of work now sits in the pantheon of cherished documents alongside such venerated antiquities of humanity like the Dead Sea Scrolls … except the good dwellers of that ancient Qumran settlement were probably far more civilised than the Rangers PR machine. Such will be the interest in said document, the SFA will stay put at the national stadium as visitors queue round the block to catch a glimpse of its enchanting, enduring majesty.

As for Rangers themselves? Well, Graeme Murty has already demonstrated his athletic dexterity this season with that celebrated headstand, a manoeuvre which was so eye-catching in its nimble prowess, it resembled something out of the later pages of the Kama Sutra. So, for Murty this Christmas comes a new copy of that ancient Indian Hindu text which, with all its concomitant carnal curiosities, has done for sexual positions what the Haynes Manual did for a bloke’s knowledge of the intricate workings of an Austin Allegro. Murty may even find a position that accommodates Eduardo Herrera.

And as for the aforementioned McInnes? Perhaps old Saint Nick will provide him with “an offer he can’t refuse”. Yes, it’s a boxset of The Godfather DVDs signed by Dave King.

“Woah, Rudolph,” bellows Santa as he continues this imaginary flight of fancy and rears up on London Road. “Is that the star of wonder, star of night gleaming up there?,” asks Faither Crimbo. “No, it’s just Brendan Rodgers’ teeth reflecting off the trophy cabinet pane,” snorts Rudolph. “Either that or Kieran Tierney has just been for a scale and polish?” For the Celtic manager, a simple gift this year. The Pictorial Guide to the Brexit Negotiations which outlines how to make a prolonged withdrawal from Europe.

We are skating on thin ice as far as either side of the Glasgow divide is concerned so let’s tenuously move on to the Winter Olympics, that shimmering, snow-capped celebration of shivering endeavour which grandstands the art of plummeting from one end of a slope to another and birling about on frozen things. Scottish speed skater Elise Christie remains one of our terrific flag-bearers and she heads for Pyeongchang in 2018 determined to banish the memories of the 2014 Sochi Games when she racked up more disqualifications than the West Lothian constabulary doing morning after breath tests on Boxing Day. From Santa this year, then, a silver lining of redemption. A gold one would be better, of course.

On the rugby front, meanwhile, it was a topsy-turvy year for Stuart Hogg. His Lions Tour was abruptly halted when he fractured his eye socket before he embarked on a period of abstinence and healthy eating to shed a few pounds after becoming “sick of seeing photos of how fat I was getting.”

To bolster Hogg’s culinary crusades over the festive period, Santa has the delightfully titled book, ‘Cooking with Poo’, a gathering of recipes from renowned Thai chef, Saiyuud Diwong.

There’s also a spare manual kicking about in the bulging sack which may do the coach of England’s Ashes cricket flops and is called ‘Working with S***e’, a wide-ranging and informative read which, funnily enough, also provides useful hints and pointers about dealing with some of Pedro Caixinha’s signings.

Merry Christmas everybody.