So, this is me since September 19.

Now into my tenth week of life without the BBC. I decided to dispense with the services of the British Broadcasting Corporation during sombre hours of reflection after the referendum vote. It was not the reaction of a sore loser, more that of a naïve soul who had imagined that the BBC in Scotland might have treated the debate as a square go between Yes and No.

Instead, the corporation assumed the role of the Westminster Government's "Ministry of Truth", working to keep the populace in a propaganda-induced state of fear.

Among the highlights: Jackie Bird's shrieking aggression while interviewing Alex Salmond and Nick Robinson turning a five-minute response by the First Minister into the statement on the national news that "he refused to answer".

I haven't watched a BBC news or current affairs programme since, apart from the seconds it takes to switch over. I cancelled my BBC licence back in September.

The plan was to use iPlayer for free access to a very few programmes: the football, Have I Got News For You and Pointless (which is a quiz show and maybe a metaphor for the BBC).

But sadly, the household is again paying the £140-a-year BBC tax, which is required to maintain the supply of murder and mystery programmes on the rest of Freeview. At least the licence is not in my name. Not watching BBC news and current affairs is one way to try to live in a better nation.

My choice for book of the year is Mother India At Home. It is a collection of recipes, pictures and stories about how a young Glasgow man brought Asian home cooking to the city's already illustrious Indian restaurant scene. Monir Mohammed is authentic Glasgow. Born and brought up in the east end, his Punjabi family had a lodger, an Evening Times vendor who brought the weans sweeties and ice-cream when he came home from the pub on a Friday. The family had to flit to Cranhill when their tenement fell down one night. Which is very Glasgow.

Young Monir was no stranger to a deep-fried pizza. So how does a Calton boy go from chip-shop cuisine to the guru of the flavours of Mother India? In between learning his trade in various curry shops in central Scotland, Mohammed had to return to Pakistan to look after his parents who had retired to the family farm. His job was to cook. This involved milking the buffalo and making butter, yoghurt and paneer cheese. The only cooking ingredients bought in were lentils and salt; everything else came from the land.

Most of the recipes in the book involve the simplest of ingredient. Cabbage with fish is an unusual but delicious combination. My attempt at carrot, potatoes and peas with fenugreek has been received with acclaim. On a Glasgow note, the fenugreek garnish requires to be deep-fried.

Intriguing news arrive from the Hebrides about the creation of a whisky-scented Harris Tweed. The fabric is layered with a mixture called Aqua Alba which replicates aromas released from a glass of whisky, in this case rich malt, golden vanilla, red fruit and dark chocolate tones. The tweed used was woven at the Harris Tweed Hebrides' mill in Shawbost on Lewis and has the colours of the ingredients of Johnnie Walker Black Label.

I would like the weavers at Shawbost to go a step further. My Granny McGuigan liked a whisky or three. She was also partial to a large pinch of menthol snuff, resulting in a powerful and evocative aroma. A waistcoat of the finest Harris Tweed suffused with McGuigan's Mixture will do nicely.

A guaranteed deviation from my otherwise uniformly Bah Humbug mode at Christmas is the lunchtime panto at Oran Mor in Glasgow. It has become so popular that queues form for tickets three hours before the performance. It is a celebration.

Unlike previous offerings, such as Alice In Poundland and A Bit Of A Dick Whittington, this year's Emperor's New Clothes has not had its title tampered with, which is a shame. Dave Anderson, faced with the task of writing the script without his dear-departed cohort David MacLennan, has come up with a rich cabaret of adult humour, catchy songs and a wilful deconstruction of pantomime while cherishing the genre.

The Three Kings appear from nowhere in the plot to open the show with a musical number (which owes more than a little to Keppel, Wilson and Betty) exploring the suitability of frankincense and myrrh as Christmas presents.

The costumes are eye-catching, which is an achievement for a panto about imperial nudity. You may ask how the production addresses the issue of how the majestic Juliet Cadzow appears as a bare-naked emperor. Think bawdy stocking and the inventive use of a dangly decoration.

Compare and contrast this with Juliet's appearance later in the show as the glamorous fairy with a rerr perr o' legs.

I am in investigative reporter mode down at Waitrose, checking out whispers on the mean streets of Kelvinside that tramps and ne'er-do-wells have taken to hanging about the store drinking free coffee. But I see no-one apart from me fitting the description.

I am a bona fide customer. Today, I am buying fish, preferably with a reduced sticker attached to it. I have my eye on the red Alaskan salmon, but the young man in front is buying the large last remaining fillet.

I notice a slight hesitation when he is informed of the price. "Are you going to buy all that?" I ask.

He says: "Why don't we share. Would you like to take one-third of it?"

It's not exactly a violent Black Friday moment like in other supermarkets, but it is how things are done at Waitrose.

A family debate ensues on whether it should be a turkey or rib of beef for Christmas lunch. I say penguins seem to be all the rage in Christmas adverts.

Apparently, roast breast of penguin is verging on edible. But avoid the blubber unless you are catering for Inuit relatives.