What's the definition of comedy? It's this: a super-secret spy guy is trying to break stealthily into a high security installation. He outlines the plan to his comrades in big, dramatic detail, assures them that nothing can possibly go wrong, and then sets off... immediately stepping on a rake, and knocking himself out.

TWIST: This super-secret spy guy... is me!!!!!!

My plan had been to ease my way out of 2016, keep my head down, and try to avoid any major disasters in the final couple of weeks of this horrible year. Unfortunately, I spent all of Monday night in excruciating pain, intermittently vomiting, while reading the news about the assassination of the Russian ambassador to Turkey, and the Berlin Christmas Market tragedy, and wondering if this was the End of Times.

The tummy pain and puking was my own fault: I had an endoscopy last week, during which I learned that I have mild erosive gastritis. It's not the worst thing I could have admittedly - though hilariously, my GP had sent my appointment through emblazoned with the words "SUSPECTED CANCER".

Nonetheless, I'm on medication for it, and in order to let my stomach heal and not aggravate the condition, I'm not meant to be eating much more than gruel over Christmas. No really: actual gruel is one of the few things that's okay to eat. Think of me when you're stuffing your fat face with Quality Street.

Of course, I can rarely avoid a rake, so on Monday night I decided to make myself a massive plate of spicy buffalo wings, which I washed down with a big bowl of Cheetos. Hence: pain-oh-vom-oh.

Two further things you should know: 1) An endoscopy is litertally worst thing ever; 2) Except for gastritis, which is slightly worse. 

This isn't a review. I don't do reviews of films. Look up above this bit: the title actually says specifically that this isn't a review. I mean, I wrote Pudsey The Dog: The Movie. What the hell do I know about what makes a good film? 

So no. Not a review.

​However, I know whether or not I enjoy something, so it is my thoughts on Rogue One, as a massive Star Wars fan. In part I'm writing this because I'm trying to process and acknowledge my disappointment, and not spend days trying to convince myself that it was the best thing ever - like I did with The Phantom Menace. Before, y'know, finally admitting to myself that it was terrible and weird, like everyone else did.

Rogue One isn't terrible. It's a servicable action movie, which is painted with big, broad, Star Wars-y brush strokes, many of which put a big, broad smile on my face.

So... why am I disappointed? What's going on? Follow me as I try to find out.

Beware: Here be a few spoilers!

Star Wars toys defined my childhood. They were almost more important to me than the movies themselves, and it's only right - to me - that Lucasfilm is sticking to a Christmas release schedule for the new films. You see, Christmas was the only time I'd be guaranteed fresh toys and figures to play with.

Rogue One is out today, and it's as good a time as any to get some stuff off my chest. I've been bottling this up for decades, and I need to let it go. And it is this: some of the Star Wars figures were really bad.

And these are the worst of the worst: figures so wretched that I couldn't even suspend my disbelief to play with them.