Auntie's recipe for winter cheer

Happy New Year all. The FA Cup, like the Queen Mum, shall always be with us. That is not to say that they couldn't do with a little more attention to detail.

There is no doubt in my mind that at this time of year viewers love nothing more than minnows, giant killers and the fairytale of the cup. Many of you have quibbled that we don't lavish such affectionate coverage on no-hopers in the British Open or Wimbledon (unless they are British or claiming to be). Lighten up out there. Football fans are different.

It is my belief that the third round of the FA Cup is a heartwarming, out-of-the-trenches, play-the-pipes-of-peace time when football followers abandon their traditional partisan stances and sit back to watch a little non-league team being thoroughly patronised by the media.

To this end the corporation feels that non-league teams in the cup shall, like costume dramas, be flogged to death. Like costume dramas, we propose one completely over the top production every winter season. The sort of thing that gives pause to the man in the street and makes him reflect that the good old Beeb does this sort of thing very well.

The appeal as television makers is simple and comfortingly familiar. Our coverage shall fall into several distinct and traditional patterns. To this end I have taken the liberty of refreshing the collective post-festive memory with a few loose guidelines.

Firstly, go BIG, BIG, BIG, on those charming locals. Lay it on thick with the little village and big dreams stuff. It keeps the hardened football fan agog. Who wants to ponder the implications for the domestic game of Manchester United's imminent destruction of Chelsea when they can cosy up to Compo, Cleggy and Nora Batty and the last of their little footie dreams?

Together with the print media we should be aiming to shoot a gathering of (roughly) 20 locals who have agreed to pose in the main street. This will be used as an establishing shot, together with some slow-motion footage of the mill on the floss and the local haywain and an elderly groundsman sloshing about in some bog which we will pretend is their charming little pitch.

In this motley group there should be at least one person wearing a scarf, at least one child, at least one very old person who remembers the last time that Emley won a cup match, and at least one gormless woman clutching a match ticket as if it were the newly-donated organ which would save her life. (Note to production: Can props make up a few of those old-time football rattles which were all the rage in the fifties?)

We seldom have hard information on how many tickets have been sold in, for example, the chosen area, but the standard guidelines still hold fast. All estimates of ticket sales shall suggest them to be in multiples of at least three times the local population figure, unless the town is so charmingly bereft of a population that this calculation doesn't get us into the high three figures area. In this "rugged, barren, but beautiful and windswept" scenario, use your imagination. The sky is the limit. Tickets are always to be described as "like gold dust in these parts".

One word of warning. On no account are followers of Emley/ Stevenage/Hayseed Athletic to be asked what their team's last fixture was, what the team's next fixture is, or when the last time they saw the inside of the local ground. This snippy sort of sarcasm can lead to the sort of embarrassing silence which threatens the happy picture we are trying to paint.

Players are the stars of this particular production and are to be interviewed in their workplaces or not interviewed at all. Semi-professionals are no good to us. The greatest accomplishment which we will tolerate on our airwaves is "Clogger once had a schoolboy trial for mighty Colchester. He played badly that day, but he has never stopped dreaming. The dream comes around once a year etc etc."

The phrase team of "butchers, bakers and candlestickmaker" is incredibly evocative for viewers and any local football players who follow any of those vocations should be interviewed at length. Hammer the point home by beginning interviews as follows: "You are actually the proverbial butcher, baker, etc. What a wonderful story."

Never let reality intrude. Nobody will have been to the local ground since the dressing-rooms were used as air raid shelters during the last war. If used properly, this unfortunate circumstance merely adds to the immense charm of the story.

In cases of extreme dereliction try any of the following intros:

"The ground may need a lick of paint and the roof might sport a hole or two, but to the men and women of Emley/Stevenage/etc this is home and, as we all know, there is no place like home."

"They've seen better days here at little (state name of yokel outfit), but with the exploits of Compo, Cleggy and the boys, folk around here believe that little Yokelville is about to put itself back on the football map."

Root out a local crank who will rattle on about the exorbitant wages of Premiership players. Marvellous stuff to be had here. Ask him if he keeps ferrets. It is top-notch football journalism to coax the flatcapped old bugger into guessing how much a top player earns. There is of course nowt which would make him swop the like of that Vialli for Clogger Burton, the stalwart forward.

Feelgood words and phrases: Pride. Battling. Cherished. Pluckly. Little. Part-timers. Fairytale. Local. Dream. Exploits. Folk around these parts. Prize Marrows. Ferrets. Real Ale. What the Cup is all about. Magic of the Cup.

Feelbad words and phrases: Fodder. Saps. Makeweights. Hammering. Stuffed. Flukey second round win. Ever been to Wembley? Dream on.

NB: In the aftermath, reflect briefly that little Bumpkin Albion gave it one almighty rattle on their big day out this afternoon. And cut to manager (whom we have grown to love) pondering that they had them worried there for the first three minutes, played out of their skins, this is what the cup is all about, did all places in the back of beyond proud.

Alternatively, put the boot in. We never have to see these little people again.