In my younger years there was a small brick structure in the corner of the garden covered with some wire netting and, every Sunday, the family would wander out and encircle the fire, wildly inhaling billows of smoke, to watch the men cook the meat.

Men cannot cook without being watched and praised, especially while wearing silly aprons. We thoughtfully poke and prod the meat and every now and then toss a little beer on it - to improve the flavour, of course; but also a useful excuse to have a can of beer on hand at all times.

These days you need a degree in technology to work the things and when you buy one you should approach the barbecue shops, which are the size of small countries, with the same apprehension as you do when buying a new car or getting a new wife.

I won't be home for Christmas this year. My lady love and I are jet setting off to icy cold Russia for the entire holidays. But I still have fond memories of Christmases past. Each Christmas Day is very special in its own way, always hopeful - sometimes serendipitous or verging on disaster - but after a while most seem to blend into one. Of course, there are those forever etched in the mind.

A few years ago we barbecued the turkey. There was a complete fire ban. It was one of those days when the sun was an angry red and the air thick with smoke. During the course of the day we started three fires and dad, barefoot, stepped on several hot coals. Screams rent the air and various children were dispatched to find soothing unguents and lotions. He had to stand around all day on one leg, like a cross stork and, as far as we were concerned, the barbecue had forever cooked its goose.

As children, every Christmas Eve we would be taken with another family to see an early evening film, usually something silly to do with Steve Martin, and afterwards to dinner before midnight mass. Parking outside the church was always a problem, so the women and children would be dispatched at the door while the men prowled the streets for a space.

One year the sermon was well under way by the time our fathers appeared. There was a huge crash of the back door and the entire congregation turned to watch them surge optimistically like the Titanic up the aisle, jovially singing carols while distributing paper whistles and peanuts. They'd found parking spots outside the pub and fell among the proverbial thieves.