Dear Father Christmas,
My name is Dave and I am not a child any more (despite what you may have heard). Nevertheless, I hope that you listen to adults as well as children because I have something to say.
I thought it better to write to you rather than finding you in a shopping centre and having to queue up with the kids just to have a little chat. I wouldn’t want to appear to be any weirder than I already am.
Last time I encountered you in a shopping centre, I was a child and you had been on the ale; frankly your behaviour was disgraceful. You stank of alcohol and your speech was slurred. And this was a few days BEFORE Christmas Eve as well. All the children were disappointed. I remember asking myself; if he is this bad before Christmas Eve, what on earth is he going to be like on the big day itself?
I know for a fact that every household in the world leaves you a glass of sherry and a mince pie to help you on your way, which presumably explains why you are so overweight and drive a huge sleigh. Or perhaps you pass the alcohol to your head reindeer, you know the one with the big red beer-drinker’s nose.
I’m sure that you are risking the wrath of the local constabulary, being in charge of a sleigh under the influence of intoxicating substances. And surely, forcing a reindeer to consume liquor is contravening a major RSPCA regulation.
How do you get away with it?
Maybe the police just turn a blind eye to your antics because it’s Christmas Eve. After all, how popular would they be if they arrested Father Christmas for drunk driving and animal cruelty? What bad press would they get if they confiscated all of the Christmas presents for the entire world? Furthermore, what would all of the other nations think of the UK for holding Father Christmas in a cell?
It would appear that you are above the law. Whenever I visit another country, I have to present a passport and then explain to the sadistic and ill-tempered immigration officer why I am visiting his country. You can just fly in can’t you?
I’ll bet you’ve never been searched when entering Australia to see if you have any foodstuffs. I’ll bet you’ve never had a beagle sniffing your rucksack for biscuits. I’ll bet you don’t get the third degree when crossing the US border. No US immigration official demands YOUR fingerprints.
My fingerprints are probably in an FBI database now. Are yours? I seriously doubt it.
I can imagine that you probably pop in and out of Europe like a ghost. I’ll bet the Russians and Chinese are unaware that you are flying into their airspace.
Are you James Bond or Jason Bourne by any chance?
In fact, talking of names, I am wondering whether I am addressing this letter to the right person. Is your name really “Father Christmas” or is “Santa Claus”? I’ve often wondered why some people call you “Santa Claus” – is that you rock star name?
I know that Bonehead – er sorry – Bono of U2 has a huge enough ego to get away with calling himself a ridiculous name, but your so-called philanthropy is legendary. All Bono does is sing and then shout at his audience for not being as great as he is, and all this despite the fact they have paid huge sums of money to see his concerts. You simply turn up at every house in the world and give away presents to everybody.
Except you don’t do you?
As a child I used to think you were the best man on the planet. You turned up, once a year, and gave me lots of gifts for absolutely nothing. All that you asked in return was that I was a good boy.
I still recall that dark December day as a five year old when my nan told me off for being cheeky to my mum. You see, Santa (or whatever you real name is), I have always been mischievous, rude and defiant. As a child I always wondered why grown-ups shouted at me. I’m not deaf you know.
But then that fateful day came when my nan said:
“If you don’t button your lip, Father Christmas won’t bring you any presents”.
I laughed and said “Yes he will. He’s a kind old man and he comes to visit me every year with lots of presents.”
“He doesn’t give presents to NAUGHTY children,” she countered with a stern look on her face.
I was five years old and I crumbled.
“I didn’t mean to be naughty,” I cried. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise to me,” she said.
“I’m sorry mummy,” I cried.
“Don’t apologise to me,” said my mum. “Apologise to Father Christmas.”
“He’s not here,” I said.
“He’s up the chimney,” said my nan.
Like a complete lemon, I sat in front of the gasfire and cried “I’m sorry Father Christmas,” as tears ran down my little cherubic cheeks. “Please bring me some presents.”
I took every opportunity to apologise to Father Christmas right up until Christmas Eve. My dad saw me shouting up the chimney and thought I’d gone mad.
“Father Christmas, I’ve been a good boy today. I’ve tidied up for mummy and I’ve behaved myself for daddy.”
“What’s going on?” whispered my dad to my mum.
“Shush,” she replied. “He’s been as good as gold since we threatened him with no presents from Father Christmas”.
I had been had. I was a victim of a cruel joke. I fell for it hook, line and sinker. I was a complete idiot. I didn’t know any better.
And it was all your fault, Santa Claus (or whatever your name is).
Because of you, my mother lied to me.
Because of you my father lied to me. Here’s another lie he told me:
“How can Father Christmas get all around the world in one night?” I asked once.
“He has a very fast car,” my dad lied.
“And how does he get to America then?”
“He also has a very fast aircraft.”
“And how does he get down the chimney when there’s a gas fire?”
Now I’m older I realise that you don’t make all the presents yourself, or even buy them; you are just a delivery boy. I have to buy the bloody presents for my kids and somehow you get the bloody credit.
All you are is a glorified postman.
And what’s worse – you are a burglar as well. You come round to my house every single Christmas Eve and break in; I don’t leave you a key or leave any windows open. I haven’t exactly double checked whether anything gets stolen but I do know this: you leave presents and my bank balance collapses like a house of cards.
When you visit, I get robbed. Last year we could have blamed it on those bankers but I bet you were in cahoots with them.
And you are lazy too. After your one night’s work, you bugger off back to the North Pole or wherever it is you drag your drunken bulk and then you go to bed and sleep until December next year. That must be some bloody hangover!
How on earth do you get away with that? Haven’t the inland revenue caught up with you yet?
How in blue blazes do you manage it?
As you can see from the tone of my letter, I have issues. Let me summarise:
You are a lying, drunken bandit, masquerading as a philanthropist when in reality you are just a glorified thieving delivery boy. You are a lazy fat bugger who works just one night a year, apart from the odd day when, drunk on beer and wine, you allow little kids to sit on your lap and intoxicate them with your fetid breath.
You cause parents to lie to children, you humiliate those children and then you rob the parents. You eat and drink so much in your one night of drunken debauchery that it is a miracle you can crowbar your blubbery body through any door in world, let alone squeeze your fat flabby beer-filled belly down a chimney.
You use aliases to keep one step ahead of the police; you drive while intoxicated and you break the immigration laws of every single country on the planet.
And you are cruel to animals.
I’ve found you out. I really should report you.
However, I still recall my dear old nan. She never ever lied to me. This year I have been a good Plastic Mancunian and I have not been naughty at all.
Can I have a Ferrari for Christmas?
The Plastic Mancunian.