TOM UTLEY: I’d hate you to think that I don’t love my grandchildren… but their Christmas visit brings back all the horrors of parenthood!

My wife made a strange comment after we went to the cinema this week with our two oldest grandchildren, aged six and three, to see the sing-along version of The Muppet Christmas Carol. She said she thought Michael Caine was sadly miscast as Scrooge.

It's not that I disagreed with her, because what she said was clearly true. But I found her comment odd, because I personally thought Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy were even more clearly out of place as Mr. and Mrs. Bob Cratchit, Tiny Tim's parents.

I also wasn't entirely sure that Gonzo, a Muppet with blue and purple fur and an extended trunk, was quite right in the role of the Victorian genius, Charles Dickens. But then I'm not a film critic. What I know?

The great thing, people will tell you, is that Christmas is a time for children, and all that matters is that they should enjoy every minute of it. Well, I can testify that our grandchildren thoroughly enjoyed The Muppet Christmas Carol.

I suspect this was mainly because they had seen it countless times before, either in theaters or on an online streaming service. After all, very young children never seem to get tired of seeing the same movie or reading the same book over and over again.

Our two young guests, visiting from Bristol, even made valiant, tuneless attempts to sing along as loudly as possible to the drearily unpalatable songs.

As for me, this was the first time I saw the film – and I pray to the Almighty that when I am brought to my final rest, it will also be the last time.

Still, I had reason to be grateful for the Muppets and their poor production.

This was because our trip to the cinema gave me the chance, despite the cacophonous din, to get some much-needed shut-eye for a few minutes in the cinema halls, as a brief respite from the duty of entertaining the little brats while they at us to stay. in the run-up to the Big Day.

Oh, I hate that you think I don't love my grandchildren. I do that with all my heart – and not just in theory, but even a little in fact.

Certainly, I have no hesitation in affirming that all four of us, and counting, are the smartest, most beautiful and most committed grandchildren in the world. In fact, dare I say it, even yours, dear reader, if you are lucky enough to have one.

But let's be honest: very young children can be. . . Oh, how can I say this kindly? Let's just say they can be a real pain in the neck – and never more so than at this time of year when they are exhaustingly over-enthusiastic.

The fact that they had to stay this week has brought back to me, at the grumpy age of 70, all the horrors of my own early years of parenthood in the 1980s and 1990s.

I must immediately admit that in my case most of the burden of those years was borne by St. Mrs. U, who stayed home to care for our four boys, while I went to work for a little peace and quiet, pretext to bring home the bacon.

But in my thirties and forties, even I couldn't quite escape the torments of parenting. Enough to say that the nightmare has continued to haunt me this week, renewing my genuine sympathy and admiration for practical mothers and fathers – and especially for the mothers who continue to bear the brunt of work in these supposedly liberated times.

I think of the delicious pain you experience when you stand with your bare feet on a Lego block, when you come to the kitchen with blue eyes for that morning cup of coffee. I also think about the children's anguished demands to stay up late and watch a horrible cartoon on Netflix, when I want to watch something on the BBC.

Then there are the three-year-old girl's piercing cries of laughter at her own endlessly repeated, pointless jokes.

“Grandpa, grandpa, what's your name?”

“It's Grandpa.”

“Grandpa, grandpa, what do you call that on your face?”

'My nose.'

“Grandpa, grandpa, what do I have in my hand?” (She keeps it empty).

'Nothing.'

'YOU SAID IT!!!! GRANDPA NOSE NOTHING!!!' Watch for raw hysteria.

Okay, it was sweet enough the first time. But after the seventh repetition, the joke tends to fade.

Then there are the sudden bursts of angry tears when the excitement becomes too much, or when she is gently told to give the poor dog a rest from her incessant, loving attentions.

Her six-year-old brother can be just as difficult. When he's not running around the house knocking things over, he spends the week quizzing me about his three current obsessions: dinosaurs, the Roman Empire, and strange facts about our country's story, as collected from the excellent series of children's books, Horrible Histories.

Alas, he finds my knowledge woefully inadequate – and roars his delighted disdain when I do something wrong. Humiliatingly, at the age of six he seems to know a lot more about many things than I did at 70 with an MA in History from Cambridge University.

As for dinosaurs, I thought he might like a trip to Crystal Palace Park to see the full-size models, which were commissioned in 1852 to accompany the Great Exhibition, after it was moved from Hyde Park to the location had moved. But not a bit of it.

Instead of being grateful for his little treat, he declared himself disgusted by the Victorian modelist's inability to get the details of the iguanodon, the ichthyosaur and the rest just right.

I had to endure all this, in addition to the daily search for missing shoes and the filthy mess everywhere – the yoghurt on the carpet, the felt-tip pen on the new tablecloth and the Brio train set scattered across the living room floor.

Not to mention the murderous toothache that has been bothering me all week, or the fact that I am not allowed to smoke in my own house when the grandchildren are in the building, and that I have to shiver in the drizzle in the garden.

Grumpy as I am, suffice it to say, I'm not exactly overflowing with the joys of the season, or the joy that so many grandparents seem to take in the company of their little ones.

Yes, I know many people say their ambition is to live long enough to see their grandchildren grow up. But I've never been quite sure why. Speaking for myself, I have no particularly strong desire to see my progress toward the stage of slamming doors, marching against the oil companies, and preaching about the sins of my selfish generation.

No, my only ambition as I write this is to live long enough to see the little darlings go home.

But that's enough bah-humbugging from me. So let me end by wishing all of you, young and old, a joyful Christmas – and, please God, a little peace when it's over.