Can’t be mid December already can it? Seems like only yesterday that I wrote my annual Christmas diatribe for the blog 2023. Oh well, never mind, I’ve got this year’s ready to go, right here.

The thinking behind this one is the fact that I simply cannot stand the awful commercialism that now blights this time of year. To me, Christmas has been tarnished by the over-infatuation with the man in red.

Christmas was never about toys and over-indulgence back in the day and a large part of me wishes that that were the case now. So here, unexpurgated, is my own personal letter to the imaginary person that we lie to children about every year.

Enjoy…

Dear Santa

This year I have been a very good boy. I have been to church, given to charity, helped my friends, family and neighbours and done a fair bit of voluntary work as well. So I think I should therefore be on the NICE LIST this year.

Ok, yes, there might have been the odd occasion where I have thought ill of others who have behaved badly or sworn like a docker at a fellow motorist who clearly doesn’t know his highway code from his arsehole but apart from that, yes, I’ve been a good little boy.

So I was hoping for something really cool in my stocking this year, even though I don’t possess a chimney in my flat for you to come down. And I’m not entirely sure the building manager would appreciate eight or nine fully grown reindeer and a giant sled groaning with toys on the roof but I’ll have a quiet word with her and see what can be done.

If you recall Santa, you haven’t bought me a single thing since I was about ten years old. Not that I’m complaining or anything. I mean, who am I to complain? Friends and family members have filled in nicely ever since so it’s not like I’ve missed out or anything.

Actually, now I come to think of it, you’re a bit of a monumental let down, aren’t you? Promising this and that to kiddies so long as they behave themselves all year. For goodness sake man were you never a child yourself? I suppose that you were never naughty, were you? Oh no, not good old Father Christmas or Kris Kringle or whatever the hell else you go by.

Actually, do you know what, it’s time for a bit of a truth bomb my fat friend.

You’re a dirty old deviant really.

I mean, what kind of pervert spends all year spying on little children to monitor their behaviour and then checking a sordid little list twice. And that’s before all the trespassing you do every 24^th of December.

Ask yourself now, what would you do if you caught somebody sneaking down your chimney in the dead of night? Huh? You’d chase the blighter back up with the poker that’s what! And don’t give me all that “Oh the little ones leave mince pies and sherry out for me.” You bloated oaf. We all know that if you consumed that much alcohol and pastry in one night you would probably shit yourself to death on Christmas morning when you arrive back at the North Pole or Lapland or wherever it is you inhabit.

Mind you, I suppose it’s not all your fault. You are nothing more than a product of human gullibility after all.

Ever since Coca Cola changed your outfit from a distinguished long green gown to a natty racing red two-piece with matching hat and white fur trim, you’ve convinced us all that we need to blow as much money as possible on food and gifts every year so that we can all have a “magical” time.

Balls!

Do you suppose the kiddies in Gaza and Ukraine and Yemen are having a magical time? What are you giving all them this year? Kevlar vests and battle helmets? You echoing great lump of stale pudding. You’re full of shite Mr Claus, that’s what you are.

And what of the children who go to school in the new year and when their friends tell them they had a new X-Box have to remind themselves that they got a cheap action figure from B&M. And that’s some of the lucky ones. Oh yes, you whiskery old git, I’ve seen all those charity adverts on TV. All those boys and girls going without whilst you ponce about the globe on your poxy sledge!

Good God man have you no shame nor moral compass? No conscience?

And because of your nasty, negative, crappy little list, all of those that go without will then assume they are bad children who don’t deserve anything. How the hell do you sleep at night? I know I couldn’t. And if being dependent on good behaviour is the measure with which you determine who gets and who does not then I say, SOD YOU, YOU FAT, RED-NOSED, OPINIONATED, JUDGEMENTAL OLD FART!!!

Ooh, I am feeling vexed now. You do bugger all for 364 days except sit in judgement of the most vulnerable and innocent in our society. What kind of existence is that? You sad, sad man.

And the pressure, the sheer overwhelming pressure for parents to live up to your expectations so that they end up in debt every stinking year! And they spend all year telling their youngsters not to talk to strange men and then one day a year they say it’s ok to let some bearded old sherry-filled hermit into their bedroom.

Double-standards in the highest and a pack of lies to boot!

Look, I don’t want to put a downer on Christmas. So please stay the bloody hell away from me and my family and I’ll say no more other than I hope the reindeer go on strike and you spend Christmas taking a good, long, hard look at yourself.

Between you and the advertising executives you’ve sucked all of the joy out of Christmas and replaced it with materialism. It used to be about peace and goodwill to all men; now it’s about “what am I going to get? Me, me, me!”

Bloody hell we may as well ditch the whole Christmas thing and call it Winterfest or Santa Day or International Bank Account Emptying Season, because that’s what it’s become and that’s all down to you and your mates in marketing.

So I’ll finish, if I may, with these few well-chosen words from Daffy Duck – You’re despicable!

Yours truthfully,

Alan Stevenson (You know where I live)

PS – Here’s my Christmas wish. I wish your underpants “magically” turn into holly mid-flight somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.