With the traditional burnt offerings of Hercules Poirot sadly missing from the BBC’s Christmas schedules this year [at least in the copy of the Radio Times I managed to smuggle through customs], it seemed like we might be left without a Yuletide mystery to keep our 'leetle grey zells' active.

Or it did –until the folks and me sat down to Christmas dinner at my sister’s house and, in between post-prandial belching and farting, started to work our way through the mountain of Christmas Crackers. How the fists flew as we accused each other of cheating, by gripping the fat bit! How we marvelled at the prescience of the Fortune-Telling Fish! How we laughed at the hilarious jokes! How we…​

Wait a minute! What in the name of Jivvens is this all about?…​

And verily the manuscript was passed from hand to hand around the Christmas Dinner table and all gathered there did look upon it. And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And much furrowing of brow. And many a Christmas Cracker Hat was rent in twain. But not a person there gathered could tell what the bloody joke was supposed to be.

Well, as I’m sure you can imagine, Christmas was completely ruined from there on in and we spent the rest of the festive season, in sullen silence, eyes downcast and avoiding the accusing gazes of our fellows.

So, in the desperate hope that, even at this late stage, it’s possible to put our shattered family back together again, I’m offering a shiny ten pence piece to the clever boy or girl who can help, by deciphering this enigmatic joke. Suggestions in the comments, please.