I wonder which bit of Jamie Oliver you've got in your stocking. It could be one of the books - The Naked Chef, Return of the Naked Chef or Happy Days of the Naked Chef (that's the joy of Christmas: you never know which one it's going to be). Or it could be a video - Pukka Tukka, perhaps, or Happy Days Tour Live!, the video of Jamie's sell-out stage show. Maybe it's the CD: Cookin', a compilation of Jamie's favourite tracks to cook by.
Then again, you might be in line for a more offbeat bit of Oliverabilia. Your folks might have rolled up a Jamie Oliver poster (sitting position) or the Lambretta Luna leather strap watch (as seen on Jamie Oliver), and stashed that under the tree. If there are some inexplicably big boxes, brace yourself for the Jamie Oliver crockery collection at John Lewis, featuring Cosy mug, Well Handy plate, Little Tinker bowl and the inevitable Pukka plate.
You'll already be in the mood because you heard the boy on Desert Island Discs yesterday and you made a last-minute dash to Sainsbury's, where he beamed at you from behind every counter and atop every shelf.
In other words, Jamie Oliver is - like the Lord himself - all around us. He is available and on sale in every format, real and virtual. We can look at him, cook like him, look as we cook - and every permutation in between. It is getting hard to spend a day without seeing his face or hearing his voice.
The traditional British reaction to this extreme level of success is resentment and envy - particularly when the star in question is just 26 years old. But it's hard to feel that for Jamie. On the Desert Island yesterday he managed to sound charmingly chuffed rather than arrogant. He works hard - 16-hour days, seven days a week - loves his mum and dad, and is right-on about food, admitting to being quite "deep and political" about organic produce. He chose songs that could be the soundtrack for the Cold Feet demographic who idolise him, and his chirpy Essex patois is the perfect dialect for the end-of-deference country we have become.
So you can't hate him, even if his omnipresence begins to get you down. Instead you feel something like worry. For Oliver is not just selling a gastronomic style: he is selling himself.
The Sainsbury's ads, the weekly Times magazine spreads, the books and vids all feature more than recipes: they serve up Jamie's life on a plate. There's his nan, his folks and the ever-present Jools - first as girlfriend, then wife and now mother-to-be. The latest Sainsbury's commercial zooms in on Jools's bump - a rare on-screen role for an unborn child. (Watch out for the Jamie's Nipper babyfood line in 2002).
I worry what this can be doing to Jamie. No corner of his private life is left private; the world knows the names of his "mates" and the inside of his flat. They are for sale because they are as much a part of the Jamie Oliver brand as his recipe for fish pie with a "Mediterranean vibe".
Of course, he's not the only one doing it. Nigella allows us into her home, while her life story is a crucial part of the product she's selling. We know it well, thanks to her late husband, John Diamond, who inserted their most intimate triumphs and travails into the public realm: it was what made him famous.
It's curious why we might demand this new kind of human branding, why we are willing to pay for Linda McCartney veggie meals, Loyd Grossman pasta sauces and Jane Asher cake mixes. Before, the names on products were either the companies that made them - Heinz or Campbell's - or fictitious friends - Uncle Ben or Mr Kipling. Now, just as we flock to reality TV and read as many non-fiction memoirs as novels, we seem to want the stamp of real-life authenticity on the foods we eat, too. In this age of food safety scares, apparently the best reassurance is the endorsement of a trusted celeb.
But this must be exacting a price on the people who offer themselves for sale. The anti-corporate critique has already told us how big brands try to burrow their way into the innermost imagination of the consumer. But what can it be doing to the person at the other end, turned into a commodity by agreeing to put their lifestyle, their family, their friends, even their unborn child on the market? Jamie Oliver may be under a million Xmas trees tonight - but there ought to be one place, one part of his life, that belongs to him alone.
