CHRISTMAS, I'M advised, is nigh upon us. I'd be more appreciative of the occasion except that my sunburned skin is hanging off my carcass like an advanced case of leprosy, Angel Gabriel's tongue is dangling halfway to his paws and the calendar is ablaze in great, red letters: "AUGUST."

Nor is it easy to contemplate Santa and Donner und Blitzen and Rudolph sailing through skies filled with people flying to foreign beaches to take advantage of the boiling sun or to mountain resorts to get away from the wretched thing.

The forest mistletoe is shriveling in some of England's more broiling temperatures in 25 years, stomach-churning thoughts of eggnog need quenching with pina coladas, and the whiff of Fourth of July fireworks from the American airbase just down the road is still a fresh if sulfurous memory.

Angel Gabriel, our kitten, is only five months old, but I think he knows that whatever time of year this is, it ain't Christmas. As anyone who has ever been owned by a cat knows, the creatures go bonkers when they think presents and tinsel and decorated trees to rip to shreds are in the offing.

A.G. just lies there in the blazing sun, tongue protruding, with nary a vision of sugarplums dancing in his wee head. (Actually, he needs only wraparound sunglasses, a beach blanket and a chilled glass of white wine and he'd be right at home on the French Riviera.)

Yet Christmas it apparently is, because Argos tells us so. Argos is a British mail-order firm that has shops across the country, and its branch in Sheffield - home to fine steel and a couple of the worst soccer teams in the history of the game - is aglow with the Yuletide spirit.

"Aglow" is the appropriate word. While the saner segment of the population - that is, the 99.99999 percent not working for Argos Sheffield - are stripped down to bikinis or shorts, or somewhat less for streakers, the remainder are sweltering around the firm's shoppe in Santa costumes in Sheffield's Meadowhall shopping center.

In mid-August, the Argos display window is a picture of Christmas tree and lights and tinsel, and a miniature Santa hanging from a fireplace, and candles and glittering stars and presents gaily wrapped in red and green ribbons.

The scene evoked a spirited response from shoppers and other passersby, but rather more in keeping with a contemplated lynching than in any sense of goodwill to men, women and rug rats on earth. This is, after all, not the planet Zog, where they also dress in pink for St. Patrick's.

"I could not believe it when I saw it," was the reaction of Lynne Moxon, an astute lady with 20-20 vision. "It was boiling hot inside Meadowhall."

Lynne has a perception of reality that seems to have eluded the bosses at Argos: "Schools have only just broken up for the summer holidays, and Christmas is almost five months away."

Julie Clayson, who has four kids and does relish the 364-day break between the annual bouts of greed and gluttony, observes that "it's far too early to be bringing Christmas upon us."

"As a parent," she explains, "the last thing you need is children writing Christmas present lists at this time of the year."

Indeed.

Actually, it's not that I have anything in particular against celebrating Christmas on July 29, say, or February 3 or October 17. It is a fact that for many years I observed the occasion more or less solemnly on August 9, until my wife Elizabeth caught me at it.

That had its origins when as a news agency journalist I was based at the Space Center in Houston and had just been told I was being transferred to Vietnam (my choice - on my National Geographic globe, Saigon was just about as far from Houston as I could get and remain on the planet).

My pals, in their sorrow to see me go, immediately planned a party and asked me 1. if I wanted to attend and 2. What sort of party did I think it should be. Allowing as how I would be abroad in heathen lands for untold years to come, I proposed a Christmas do.

Thus it happened that on August 9, 1966, they closed the doors at the Escape Velocity Press Club, ran the air conditioning down to about 52 degrees F., lit up the fireplace, decorated a tree and threw a Christmas party for me, presents and all.

For 20 or so years thereafter, I threw a Christmas party every August 9. Getting a tree wasn't always that easy - one year I had to borrow a potted plant in Deal, England, and drive it 60 miles back to London. On another occasion someone loaned me a bush that turned out to be a marijuana plant, which did look nice with the lights on it.

This also was advantageous to me in that, since August 9 was my Christmas Day and no one else's, I could reap a bumper crop of gifts without having to give any of my own. It ended when Elizabeth ruled that the whole business was in total violation of the Christmas spirit, besides which she got stuck with the dishes.

So as you can see, I am no crotchety old fogy when it comes to rigid adherence to the calendar. I am, however, a crotchety old fogy who takes exception to an entire nation trying to muscle in on the act that I copyrighted so profitably for lo, those many years.

It does seem that the Christmas season is starting earlier and earlier with each passing, in England, at least. (I blame it on the fact that something called the August Bank Holiday is our last until Christmas, whereas in America there's at least Thanksgiving to break the all-work no-play doldrums).

Ah, well, if you can't beat 'em, etc. It's only about 79 more shopping days 'til Christmas, and I have to start my list of desired gifts all over again. Dripping sweat ruined the first one.

Thought for the Week: If you want to make love in the worst way, try standing up in a canoe.

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