Playing devil's advocate in the name of Christ

HARDEEP IS YOUR LOVE

I had a heated debate at dinner the other evening with a very bright and well-informed woman. Let me set the scene. She was a white, middle-class author and critic; I was a slightly overweight Weegie Sikh with an unhealthy love of corduroy. The crux of the discussion was about the death of belief and faith, and the consequent lack of moral and religious under-pinning of Christmas; a light-hearted topic for chit chat, I trust you'll agree.

The argument widened into the notion of Britain not being a Christian country any more and all the problems contingent on that. One side argued that the Christian heart of Britain should be reinstated. The other side argued that Britain had long since ceased to be Christian; that the influx of other religions had created a pluralistic, multi-faith country; that, if anything, Britain was moving towards Humanism. Bizarrely I found myself arguing for the first position and my friend arguing the second.

Perhaps not what you'd expect, but to me it's quite straightforward. These nations of ours, loosely collected under the banner of a Kingdom, are nations founded on Christian beliefs. As a Sikh I have absolutely no problem with that at all. In fact, I celebrate it and argue for its strengthening. Now this may strike certain of you as a curious position to hold, but it makes absolute sense. Christianity and Christian thinking are woven into the very fabric of the country. To deny that would leave a moral and religious vacuum, a vacuum that would be remain unfilled or worse still, filled by other, less desirable belief systems.

I'm not for a moment suggesting that we turn our country back into an outpost of The Holy Roman Empire or have it run strictly by the diktats of Calvinism, but I do think we need to embrace the historical fact that this country has a Christian heritage.

It could be me, but we do at times seem to have lost our moral compass, a compass that was at one time guided by faith and belief. I was taught by the Jesuits in Glasgow, and an excellent education it was too. Not just an academic upbringing, but one that educated me in notions of social justice, of equality, of morality. These beliefs built upon those instilled in me by my Sikh upbringing, beliefs of a very similar nature.

I'm not for a moment suggesting that we all become hyper-religious: I like vodka and tonic too much to become properly holy. I just think we should occasionally look back at the antecedents of our society rather than continually look forward to an altogether unsure future.

In some way, this embracing of our Christian heritage would help assuage the fears we have with regard to Islam. A recent survey among Scots showed a marked suspicion, a lack of empathy towards Scottish Muslims. Underpinning this, perhaps, is a misplaced sense that Scots and British Muslims are attempting (en masse) to exert their religious identity on the rest of us. Now clearly this is not the case; but perhaps one cannot be too critical of those Muslims who are exerting their faith. There is no Christian ballast to push against. What is Christian about our cities and towns full of drunk, violent youth? What is Christian about the celebration of mediocrity that celebrity culture has invoked? And what, my friends, is Christian about endless shopping, wrapping, eating and the watching of James Bond films? What is Christian about Christmas?

Stickler for the Scotch

Being home means many different things to me. Mum's cooking; dad's driving; lunch at Café Gandolfi; and Aman and his whisky. My cousin Aman has been drinking whisky ever since I can remember. He is very precise about his whisky, very prescriptive about every detail of the whisky drinking experience. The whisky must be a) a single malt, preferably the less smoky, peaty types; b) the glass must be crystal. I have been sent back to the drinks cabinet on many an occasion to decant into the correct glass; and finally c) plenty of ice. And I will spend this Christmas like I have most others, preparing a well deserved whisky for Aman. He doesn't ask for much in life.

Legless by lunchtime – the turkey that is

I've just got off the phone to James Allen, my wee brother's butchers up in Glasgow. I'm doing the cooking on Christmas Day. I love cooking and I love cooking on Christmas Day, but I'm only home for about 72 hours, so I don't feel like spending 10% of that time waiting for an over-sized bird to cook. Therefore I was compelled to harass an already harassed butcher less than a week before the big day. I have left explicit instruction that the enormous organic turkey have the legs removed and de-boned. Much as this is a fiddly job, it is absolutely necessary. The crown (the bit of the turkey minus the legs) will be stuffed with sage, onion and apricot and the boned legs will be stuffed with sausage meat and sage. Having visited this surgery upon the bird, the cooking time will be slashed from the normal six-and-a-half hours to something more reasonable, approximately half the time. For the first time in the history of the Kohli household we may even have had lunch before Only Fools And Horses. What more could you want for Christmas?

Winter fashion's a pain in the neck

Given the seasonally cold snap we have been enduring of late I have been faced with the perennial problem of the polo neck. Now, for most, the polo neck presents no great problem, other than that of style. Jazz musicians favour the black roll neck, while those inspired by Lloyd Cole opt for the taupe turtle neck, enjoyed widely in Glasgow in the early Nineties. Occasionally one sees a polo-neck under an open-collared shirt (with or without medallion). The polo neck is priceless. As a man with a turban I have a unique set of dilemmas to deal with: a polo-neck tends not to be easily removable over six yards of hand tied (invariably lilac or pink) cotton. Turbans and polo necks are uneasy bed fellows. If I start the working day with a polo neck on I will have to end the day with a polo neck on, having spent the entire working day wearing the aforementioned polo neck. I have no room for manoeuvre. Quite literally.