SCARING UP OLD CHRISTMAS MEMORIES

CHRISTMAS often brings back a flood of childhood memories – my favourite goes back to when I was five years old. I am the youngest of four kids and, during the 1960s, we were a typically poor working-class family in the East End of Glasgow.

Christmas was always a financial stretch for our mum and dad.

My dad had put up the big fake plastic tree at our bedroom window and my brothers, sister and I loved decorating it. I can still see those old twinkling lights that lit up our whole room and, from the street, you could see the red and white sparkly glow. I loved it.

We also got to dress up the living room walls for the season. Back then, the house decorations were those old-fashioned paper-concertina and tissue affairs with holly printed on them. They were strung along the walls and golden-coloured tinsel was draped around the open fire using the previous year's dried-out sticky tape – which never seemed to do its job.

The decorations often dropped off the wall and fell into the flames. Due to their highly flammable nature, they almost set fire to the house on more than one occasion.

We had burn marks up that wall for years, but the scars of Christmases past had taught my family nothing. Mum would just jump up and flatten the flames with a cushion from her chair and shout: "That tinsel will kill us all one day!"

My dad once brought in a huge box of chocolate tree ornaments covered in coloured foil. They lasted about three hours. Me and my brothers and sister ate the whole lot in one sitting and tried to hide our greed by squeezing the foil back into shape and hanging them on the tree again.

But he wasn't fooled. He was so angry he banned us from watching telly on Christmas Eve. We were gutted as that was prime Christmas telly viewing and we got sent to bed early.

My bedroom was pitch black with the tree lights switched off and I lay there in the thick darkness, looking at the branches of our tree which looked scary in silhouette with that excited anticipation that is reserved for wee five-year-old kids on Christmas Eve. Ann was my bedmate and big sister and she lay there and sang every Christmas carol she knew, her voice ringing out, me coming in on the chorus and my mum shouting: "Shut the hell up or Santa will p*** off back up the chimney!" through the wall at us.

The moment of waking up on that Christmas Day is just the most intense feeling I can recall. I was so excited.

It was still dark in the bedroom as it was about 5:00am. My eyes adjusted to the dense shadows, my heart beat fast and I was searching for signs of Santa.

Finally, I saw boxes and shapes in the room that weren't there when I fell asleep. Santa had been here!

Then, in the corner of the room, I saw a small child standing still. She had big eyes and seemed to be staring at me.

I shuddered and hid my face, hoping she would be gone when I looked up.

But she was still there, stiffly staring. Who was she?

"Ann," I whispered to my big sister.

Ann was fast asleep.

I decided to face the demon child, who was standing near a sock full of tangerines hanging off the fireplace. My feet hit the cold floor and I slowly got closer to the girl.

She was almost the same height as me and her jet-black hair was teased into a giant beehive, her eyes had thick black eyeliner and her lips were vivid red. Thinking back, she actually looked like a miniature Amy Winehouse.

I touched her cold face, but her eyes never blinked. Her stiff limbs held their position.

There was a dead toddler standing in my room.

I screamed and screamed until I woke the whole house up.

"Why is there a dead girl here?" I yelled.

Turned out it was a big Spanish doll my mum got second-hand from a friend.

Mum had to get rid of it on Boxing Day as I kept telling anyone who asked that I got a dead girl for my Christmas. The good news was I also got a pair of roller skates and managed to split my lip on Christmas Day.

Good memories all round!

THERE WAS DANCING IN THE STREETS...

I WAS in Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow last week at the peak of the pre-Christmas rush. It can be a dark scary place, but there was one oasis of calm in this festive mayhem.

A young, pretty girl stood playing a guitar and her amazing voice rose above the tinny Christmas songs leaking out of the various doorways in the busy shopping area.

Amy Belle is awesome and easily the best busker in Scotland; the 26-year-old is an amazing chanteuse and her repertoire is huge.

I sat there outside a coffee shop and soaked up her tunes when two wrapped-up woolly pensioners walked past.

Amy sang out her rendition of Me and Bobby McGee. The two elderly folks paused, then locked hands and started dancing!

It was a wonderful wee moment. People stopped and smiled and a crowd applauded.

Glasgow with style indeed!

GIVE THE GIFT OF TIME TO HELP THE HOMELESS

I WAS in Edinburgh last week and saw a young homeless girl trying to get warmth from her dog as she curled up on the pavement. It was freezing outside and I felt so awful watching her.

We always have the quandary of giving cash. Are they on drugs? Will they use the money to get drunk?

So give them some hot food or warm clothes instead.

I bought a warm, cheap parka for £10 in a clothes store, I gave it to the girl and she immediately pulled it on. She took a cigarette and burned several holes in the sleeve.

"Now it can't be sold, missus," she said quietly. "Thanks."

People should not be dying on our streets for want of shelter.

Please help the homeless at this time of year. A hot drink or even a chat may help them get through one more night.

CHURCHILL OF GLASTONBURY

Arabella Churchill, the granddaughter of Winston Churchill, died of cancer last Thursday. She co-founded the Glastonbury Festival which I have performed at since 2004 and take my daughter Ashley each year.

My enduring memory of Arabella was one night this year, when I could not find Ashley anywhere.

I wandered around shouting her name in the darkness. Then I saw a camp fire and I spotted Ashley swigging expensive champagne from a bottle and giggling with an older woman, both of them sitting in deck chairs. The two were lying back staring at the stars and chuckling away happily.

"It's funny," I heard my daughter burp, "but you do look a bit like your grandad and I look a bit like mine." Arabella laughed loudly and almost fell out of her seat.

She was a wonderful woman who will be missed greatly by many, including me.