Gifts of frankness and mirth

WE'RE a little late with Christmas, and a little early. There is good reason to believe that Bethlehem's big moment happened in November, in the year 7. According to the astronomer Heather Couper, Jupiter and Saturn had drawn close together three times already that year, to the intense excitement of stargazers who saw these two as representing the State of Israel, Kingship and Justice. In September, they drew very close indeed, and very bright, just before sunrise. Then, between 11 and 19 November, they appeared as one dazzling light, standing still in the firmament.

From among a distant confusion of bells, the first four notes of the Missa dei Angelis rang out, shimmered, and dissolved into a dawn muezzin. We were in Palmyra where, Ozymandias-like, a vast and ancient palace is disappearing under the desert sand. To follow in the steps of the three wise men, The Modern Magi (R4) were preparing for their trip: a bishop, an astronomer and a journalist, all knowledgeable but all modestly eager to learn more. Their experimental camel-riding was brief but challenging, Paul Vallely grumbling that Bishop Rowan Williams seemed to be the only one allowed stirrups; everyone sounded bruised but, from then on, a real camaraderie was born.

Professor Couper expressed an almost astrological delight that their journey began with a total solar eclipse, Vallely spoke of the spiritual resonance of the old story of a star, truth, power and a baby in this materialist age. The Bishop, endearingly, was looking for his own lost simplicity. An encounter with nomadic Bedouin impressed them, and then they too set off across the harsh, stony Syrian desert which is the crucible of civilisation. On Saturday they reach the manger. Elegantly produced by Christine Morgan, this is the kind of programme that could easily be mawkish or cynical, but is neither. It is an intelligent, original reappraisal of a million Christmas cards.

Clearer bells heralded Not the Nine Lessons and Carols (R3). The jokey title was a misnomer. What we got were indeed nine lessons and carols, but the lessons were read in a variety of languages, all of them Swiss. Over the Schweizer-Deutsch, the Romansch, the Italian and the German came the halting voices of the Swiss reading from the Authorised Version, though R3 listeners were expected to work out the French for themselves. The idea was to show that Switzerland is a microcosm of a united Europe, wherein individual traditions happily survive. The trouble was that the speakers then offered their own commentaries, which were pretty feeble. One remarked that the message of the Magnificat was a bit cruel towards the rich, and very radical; another that the story of the Magi was (indulgent laugh) "for children". Not much spiritual uplift, then, from, the severely practical Swiss, though they do sing well.

Toyah Willcox is Not the Principal Boy, but you wouldn't guess it. She starred as Peter Pan (R4), a sequel to her dashing Puck in Regent's Park last summer. Her voice has just the right rough, anarchic edge to play these wild boys. There was a great moment when everyone was asked to clap if they believed in fairies. A howling silence followed, except in my bath where I was listening and dutifully clapping, from some atavistic compulsion - and I was jolly glad I did, when Peter malevolently promised to punish everyone who hadn't. Dirk Maggs's production was surprisingly gripping, its strong streak of sentiment supported by Georgina Cates's heroically maternal Wendy, heading a great cast; handkerchiefs at the ready for tonight's denouement.

For there's no avoiding sentiment, however you may try. Even those who would cheerfully terminate Tinkerbell cannot resist a seasonal wallow in the maudlin schmaltz of Dickens at his potboiling worst. This week, Foreign Correspondence (R4) gave us another Dickens, definitely Not A Christmas Carol. The programme, introduced from Washington by the estimable Bridget Kendal, quoted letters written home by various renowned past visitors, and nicely acerbic they were. In 1842 Dickens was not impressed by Congress, whose members he thought very like our own politicians, "some very bilious- looking, some rough, some heartily good-natured, some very coarse". Perhaps he had a psychic vision of the Ghost of Today in Parliament, in that city of "slavery, spittoons and senators".

Another visitor distressed by local manners was Mrs Basil Hall, who was revolted by the Niagara of spitting at "a very squeezy party" in 1828. These days, Kendal remarked glumly, you wouldn't even dare to smoke.

Finally, a couple of oddities: an artist talking about literature, and a cross-dressing comic choosing music. The second was infinitely preferable to the first. Peter Blake provided a selection of readings With Great Pleasure (R4), but they provoked great boredom. Ridiculous man, he asserted grandly that poetry was an elitist art and quoted, virtually exclusively, from books he had illustrated, only avoiding ill-concealed self-advertisement by the unseemly inclusion of his little daughter reading her own - admittedly quite sweet and, presumably, non-elitist - verses.

Barry Humphries, on the other hand, was a delight when discussing his Private Passions (R3). Gently witty and astonishingly knowledgeable, he talked about a life filled with music. The pieces he chose were all short, complete and highly unusual. Most of them were truly gorgeous, particularly the Mendelssohn Variations he commissioned from Jean-Michel Damase for his own wedding. We are promised Dame Edna's - probably considerably less elegant - choice next Christmas. Whoopee.

Right then, that's done, ready for Christmas Eve. It's time to follow Eddie Grundy's advice to the long-suffering Clarrie: I'm off to pluck a few turkeys, to soothe my nerves. Happy Christmas.