SO, we’re officially into the ‘no’ season. The season of saying no.

As in: “No, you’re not having an iPod for Christmas. You’re six years old.”

These are the opening shots in a long and unwinnable war.

Similar to Afghanistan and Iraq, it’ll drag on for 10 years, each side becoming more entrenched.

When I can’t win arguments with the six-year-old daughter, I reset to 1970s working class Dad.

“I don’t care who’s got one at school...you’re six years old. You’re not having one.”

“Who do you think I am? Rockerfeller.”

There’s a certain joy in repeating to your own children what was once said to you.

“You’ll get a doll and a drum and a kick up the bum for Christmas if you’re not careful!”

The six-year-old is enjoying the banter so I carry on.

“So what would you put on this iPod then?” I scathingly ask.

She thinks for a minute then shouts: “1D!”

The Mother Superior steps in to explain to me what 1D means.

Like I’m the out-of-touch High Court Judge.

“Come on Daddy,” she says. “Get down with the kids.”

I cut her off: “I know 1D! It’s that Harry and that Niall and that other one with the hair.

“Simon Cowell puppets!” I say, slamming the chair for effect.

Everyone in the house is looking at me – even the goldfish.

With my attentive audience, I say “When I was growing up...”

And with these words everyone leaves the room. But the pets can’t because they’re trapped.

“We listened to real music, didn’t we?” I tell the goldfish.

“Music with soul. The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, The Rolling Stones. Joan Baez! Blondie!

“Kate Bush and Babooshka! Mad as a hatter was Kate Bush, but what a woman... what an artist!”

The fish decide to swim into their mock castle and wait till I’ve gone away, but at least I’ve always got the dog’s ear.

Man’s best friend! (If your definition of friendship is defined by picking up the other’s poo, which I suppose is quite a good analogy in a way).

I carry on: “Of course, there was parental and establishment outrage towards The Beatles and Stones, wasn’t there son?”

Holding the dog’s head and looking into his eyes, I tell him: “But they wrote their own songs, didn’t they boy!

"And played their own instruments! They don’t do that today...ohhh nooo...do they son?” I shake his head.

“All you need to be a star today is high cheekbones and walking round with your kegs halfway down your backside, don’t you?”

I make a note to myself. Make all underpants grey again – no one will want to walk around with them on show then.

I will introduce this when the country sees sense and I walk through the doors of Number 10.

“Blinking iPods! Who gives iPods to six year olds? iParents, that’s who. iParenting. Palm them off with a screen.”

The dog jumps down and goes to lie on his bed looking depressed.