Happy Christmas to all our readers, Patreons and contributors.
I have got used to doing a Christmas message now, thanking everyone and saying a few deep words, but this year it was something I left until the last minute. Regulars will know why – it’s the first Christmas that I will have without Dad, who was a big part of the Stacey West, and well-loved by many of you.
It doesn’t mean that I can’t say thank you to everyone. There are probably too many people for me to thank directly, and I would fear missing someone. Obviously, the direct team here are brilliant, and we’ve grown that family by one, again, with Emily coming on board. We have such a good group now, so thank you to them.
Thank you to our Patreons as well. This is the first year the Stacey West has been technically full-time, and that wouldn’t be possible without those of you who subscribe each month. At this time of year, that commitment is even more critical, and I appreciate it hugely.
Thanks to everyone who reads the site, because those pesky adverts now pay my mortgage. I know the site feels a little more cluttered, but if we were to continue the level of content into 2026, it had to become a thing. My apologies to those who feel they impede too much, but please show me some all-year Christmas spirit and stick around!
I have a massive group of people who do stuff for the site, you may or may not see. The likes of Malcolm and Stu contribute directly, while some, such as David Ward, help unseen behind the scenes. I’ve fallen into a trap of saying thanks to individuals, and fear missing someone, so let’s just say ‘from Stu to Dave, Malcolm and Bubs’ thank you to everyone. That includes those who give me a heads-up on stories, helping me stay ahead of the curve.
That even includes Nick Oxberry. No, really, it does.
Of course, Christmas is a time for thanks, but it’s also a time for spending time with family and loved ones, and this year, my Christmas dinner table has one spare place. Perhaps, had Dad not fought and lost his battle with cancer, I’d be toasting the London Marathon achievement, but instead, 2025 feels like it was my annus horribilis, in more ways than one. It hasn’t been my finest hour, and with so much upheaval, uncertainty and sadness, I won’t be sorry to see the back of it.
Still, I choose not to dwell on the negative this morning. I ask that you raise a glass/can/bottle to all who have been lost, not just in 2025, but for all the spaces we all have at our dinner tables, new and those that have been empty for a while. While they’re not here in body, they’re always with us, one way or another.
My hope is that tomorrow, Dad is looking down as we grab a win at Stockport, and that come May, he’s having a Guinness with all the other lost Imps, celebrating as we make our way into the Championship. I hope that in one year, I can be writing about a happier 2026, even though that space will now always be there.
Merry Christmas, and love to you all.