Oh Jesus, son of Mary, Joseph and the almighty, I know it was your birthday and I totally forgot all about you but please, I've only just managed to kick Santa out and wave him good bye.
I went against everything I stand for and invited him in this year. Normally I like to leave a mince pie, a thank you note and a shot of brandy out for him but the neighbourhood has turned and unless it's tied down, locked up or wrapped in barbed wire you can't take your eyes off of anything, not even for a second.
I often hear my next door neighbour shuffling up and down after midnight, scratching about for loose change and cigarette butts so the last thing I wanted was her getting a sniff of alcohol and a taste for shortbread around my backdoor. This is the type of person who uses bin liners for curtains so I wasn't about to let that penny pinching old bint any where near to Santa's velvet sack.
I was a little nervous about inviting him in. You hear so many horror stories don't you? I am loathe to letting strange men into my house unless I've spoken to them for at least 10 minutes online or they are carrying some form of ID, but it's difficult to get anyone to verify Santa. There isn't a main switchboard or a helpline to call and even if there was I'd never trust an elf to tell me the truth anyway.
My rule of thumb is never trust anyone who's mouth is level to your genitals, you don't know where they've been.
In the end I decided to trust my instincts and just check the quality of the red suit. If it wasn't red velvet trimmed in ermine and if it didn't match the exact shade of Rudolph's nose then this Santa was an impostor and the only thing he would be getting from me would be a kick to the crotch and a tug on his beard.
It's a fail safe method to check his authenticity, if he hasn't got a Rudolph then you can bet he isn't Santa. Mr Clause will not be arriving in an unlicensed mini cab and expecting you to foot the bill, he's in a sleigh and he should be jingle belling all the way.
That's actually how I heard him arrive, by the sound of the bells. It made such a pleasant change to the wail of the police sirens that I was up and out of my bed quicker than a pensioner with a prostate problem. I saw him circle my flat a couple of times looking for a safe place to land so I decided to guide him down safely with a few shots of the pistol I keep in my bedside drawer.
Like I mentioned earlier, it's rough where I live. Rough enough that every time my next door neighbour hears a police siren she thinks it's a wolf whistle. I just knew the warning shots above her roof would lull her back to sleep and I'd have Santa all to myself.
Santa landed pretty quickly once I'd let off a few rounds and after I'd managed to get him inside and he'd stopped shaking we really hit it off. He let me check the authenticity of the suit. In fact he was very agreeable once I'd said he could put his hands down and he stopped screaming. I explained I didn't want to take everything he had and that I was sure Rudolph would still be able to fly once we'd fashioned a splint for his leg.
I question why the reindeer need legs when they are flying anyway? Okay, they may need them to land but I've seen a rancid pigeon land with a broken foot so Rudolph should just man up and stop being such a cry Bambi (or I'll shoot him in the other foot).
Santa's suit was beautiful, although a little ripe. I know the gun shots may have frightened him but my word, a diet of mince pies and brandy does not make for a happy ending. Let me just say that it will take more than a rinse through and a squirt of Febreeze to get them pantaloons fresh again. I offered to lend him a pair of old Abercrombie jogging bottoms but he could barely squeeze a thigh into them.
That man is so fat!! There is no excuse for any man to be that fat. He works one day a year and he can't manage to drag his fat ass to a gym the other 364? I checked his list to see if he delivers to Jenny Craig because I'm sure the two of them could work out some kind of deal.
It's no good those Reindeer's doing all the cardio and Santa just holding the reins - he should make like they are a resistance machine and rock that sleigh back and forth every now and again.
I wrote a note to Jenny asking for her help:
Dear Jenny Craig,
Seeing as you're the weight loss Queen, please help Santa lose some of his girth or you are not getting ANYTHING next year (and I'll make Mariah Carey balloon to twice her pregnancy weight and maybe even start "singing" again).
I hope it works.
Once I got Santa indoors and I'd tied the Reindeer to a lamp post I managed to speak to old Father Clause about what was troubling me:
I asked him why he was such a tease and only turned up once a year?
I asked why every year he gets me to blow a whole wad of cash and get really drunk when the end result is I wake up alone anyway?
Why do I always have a huge amount of bows and ribbons left over? I am a grown man not a prepubescent drag queen.
Why did I buy a cheese board and five jars of pickled onions? I live alone . . .
Should I really mix the port, with the tequila, with the whiskey and the cough medicine again?
Why didn't he bring me a sack full of Valium like I'd requested?
What kind of moisturiser does he use?
How has he managed to look like he's in his late 50's for the last 100 years?
Why the hell doesn't he buy some "Just for men"?
What's his profile name for online dating sites?
Has he ever seen anything below his belly?
Doesn't he know nothing will ever grow in the shade?
Does he think Rudolph will be able to fly with only three legs?
Can he bring my neighbour some new curtains?
He answered all of my questions and he ate his mince pie ( I was still holding the gun at this point). He had a shot of Brandy and we bandaged Rudolph's foot, he even managed to fix some drapes up at my neighbours windows.
As he flew off this evening I saw her hanging out of her window, she was shaking her fist and screaming "I don't believe in you Santa, I asked for a 36" plasma TV and all I got was these crappy curtains". . . . .
But I believe in him all over again and I can't wait until next year when he comes calling, especially if he brings me that rifle I've asked for and Rudolph gets a new prosthetic. . . .