Hey Grandude! might be endearing in its mizzly Englishness, but there is an all-round risk-averseness here that’s puzzling. The book concludes with everyone safely tucked up in bed – tremendously comforting, aged four or 64. But every gleeful scenario ends badly, with Grandude and the chillers fleeing when some avalanche or stampede invariably kiboshes the thrills. Why didn’t an editor ask McCartney to take this sad song and make it better?