It’s happened again, as it does every year – I start getting ‘churchy’. The spark this time was a television commercial that suggests that maybe Father Christmas doesn’t exist (for the record, he does, and I’ve been a very good boy).

Anyway, a colleague of mine and I started debating this issue, angrily wondering why anyone would want to trash one of life’s great magical landmarks.

Inevitably, I started moaning about the lager advertisement in which a group of desert nomads are distracted from following the Star of Bethlehem (or their TomTom), by a lack of six packs.

Clearly it’s meant only to be a gentle poke, but I find myself wincing every time I watch it. Which is especially odd since Monty Python’s Life Of Brian makes me laugh out loud. I think it has something to do with what actor Bill Murray, of all people, says in the film Ghostbusters.

In this classic movie a giant Mr Stay Puft is rampaging through the streets of New York. Mr Murray takes exception to this wanton vandalism and shouts “No one steps on a church in my town” before blowing said spectre to Kingdom Come.

I understood that sentiment and have ever since.

It’s not that I’m religious but something deep down inside of me has clearly been welded to a very primitive moral compass, because despite my lack of faith, I’ll defend to the death any attack or assault on what symbolises decency, fairness and love.

I’m not getting heavy – it’s just while I can’t always do the Right Thing, there are people who, for whatever reason, can, and that knocks me out. Cold.

Once, years ago, while travelling through Spain, I passed through a small mountain town where a manifestation of the Virgin Mary had apparently appeared, ensuring a steady tourist trade.

I just wanted a beer but I’ll never forget being stopped in the middle of main street by a young American nun who asked me if I had ever been blessed.

When I said, trying hard not to laugh, I didn’t think so, she asked if she could perform the ceremony, there and then.

Despite the gridlock, I thought why not?, and for the next five minutes she rested her palm against my forehead and prayed.

Did the clouds part? Was there a heavenly choir? Did a swarm of locusts descend? No, but I did feel astonishingly touched and privileged. And have never forgotten that moment.

Which is why, round about now, I do start helping little old ladies cross the road.

So if you’re over 70 and white haired, be warned – I’m trying to earn my ‘Salvation’ badge.