Exclusive - News Flash - Santagate 2014
Letter from Santa 2014
Greetings believers and unbelievers - I’m not crash hot on the unbelievers, miserable lot, but don’t say I commented - I’m not allowed to discriminate.
Consider yourself privileged to be the first to know my news. News not yet released to the media.
I declare 2014 will be my last visit. I am retiring. Taking the package although I can’t pretend it wasn’t forced upon me.
The last email from the powers that be made me curse. Seems I’m a tad old fashioned, not au fait with the world anymore. Ho, yes, I’ve seen those reports on Tinseltube. I’m past the old use by date. I haven’t got Facebook. I prefer kids to write letters, not emails, sms, or endless twittering..
Clearly I am a victim. Ageism is alive and thriving and ignored by the masses.
The Biggest Loser
The next thing I’m told, is that Chef - Jamie Oliver has complained about the size of my girth. He reckons I’m not a suitable role model. Naturally I’m into all that festive stuff. Mince pies, cakes, pudding. Yoh!
Well Jamie – goody- goody has other ideas. He’s devising a scheme where the kids leave me a salad, and a piece of fruit. Yikes.
What’s more Jenny Craig has requested the pleasure of my company. Since when has being cute and chubby been a crime? Talk about cutting down the big round poppies. It’s rampant.
Bur hey, I’m sure as hell not giving up the port and pudding. Jamie has suggested a nice glass of cleansing aqua to refresh me. Well, I’m not playing, I enjoy my port. A port in every storm is my motto. Every roof I land on, every chimney I drop down, it’s all worth it for the port.
And I’ve refused the invite to that Betty Ford Clinic. I’m not ready for rehab. Port and pies is all this fellow needs for travel energy. As for the .05 drink and drive rule. They haven’t brought it in for sleighs yet.
Worse, even the missus has turned against me. For starters, I’m told I have to cut the term ‘missus’ out and refer to her as my - partner. And then she contacted a discrimination person. Wow did the bon-bons fly.
She’s miffed because I refuse to bring her with me on December 24th. I ask you? It’s no job for a woman is it? Now I’m accused of gender discrimination. What’s more, she’s been told she perfectly entitled to accompany me.
You should se her strutting around. Always on the blower to someone called Germaine. I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure and I don’t think now would be time to make her acquaintance.
I’ve no doubt the missus will cramp my style. I visit all the children of course, that’s my job. But between you and me I make time for my old favourites. When I’m in London it’s a quick G&T with Camilla, she loves to sit on my knee. She certainly has a way with men of a certain age.
Then I nip over and say a Ho to Meryl, and then a quick meander with Dame Judy. Yes folks, keep this to yourselves but Judy reckons its little old me she wants in her stocking. Somehow I don’t think the missus/partner will get my drift.
My Ground Staff
Just for the record there is no truth in the rumour that someone saw Daddy kissing Santa Claus. The paparazzi never stop trying to catch me in a compromising situation. And when they don’t - they grab one of my impersonators and just report that it’s the real me.
Truthfully, those impersonators give me a hard time. I tell you, they grab most of my glory before I arrive. And they never stop wanting more.
They email me constantly, complaining about the job – they want all meals provided! They want more toilet breaks, smoking rooms, and triple pay for evenings. And the union says they’re entitled to it. And I foot the bill.
All this and a now they completely refuse to help out and land on a roof. It’s considered a work hazard. Carrying a sack full of presents down a chimney might cause a bad back so they’re not allowed to do that either. Wimps.
I ask you folks. Is that Christmas? They’ll regret it now I’m leaving. No work at all next year – they will not deliver the goods without my magic. No show without the real Sants. Ho. Ho. Ho.
I confess to getting cranky now and again, especially at my first stop where it’s a tad hot and dusty. They call it down under but I don’t know why. It could hardly be down upper could it? Anyway, I tend to nod off from counting all those sheep.
And if it’s not sheep it’s kangaroos. And it’s always boiling hot and they insist I wear the beard and uniform. Thinking they’d appreciate a bit of up-to-date thinking, I sent a memo suggesting I arrive in board shorts and thongs. Ho, Ho, No – this time they state they want to hang onto tradition.
I intend to discuss the issue with her Majesty when we meet under her bedroom chimney at Balmoral. Hopefully, that partner of hers won’t be hanging around Oh anus-horribillis. He’s a prickly pear, and not a believer. He threatens the royal chop every time he claps eyes on me.
Then there’s the reindeer problem. Talk about travel hassle. Now animal rights are demanding reindeer vet checks every four hours. There will be hell to play if I don’t get around everywhere in time. And yours truly will get the blame if there are no Chrissie gifts. They should try my travel schedule and see how far they get.
I don’t like that those new big stadiums either. Last year they didn’t inform me a roof would be open. Imagine trying to land the sleigh! We dropped straight through. One reindeer lost an antler - but don’t tell the kids. (For the worriers it wasn’t Rudolph who was along for the ride.)
I’m suing of course – this is definitely a job for Workplace Safety. But it’s looking grim and I hear they haven’t a cracker to spare.
Life after Retirement
Well, now retirement looms I’ll do what normal folk do and pen my autobiography. Talk about best seller. It’ll be a boot in. All one hundred volumes.
The elves are excited – they want some relaxation too and they’ll be my roving reporters for any scandal I might miss.
Think about the project. I’ve been in everyone’s bedroom. I know what everyone wants for Christmas and sometimes it isn’t pretty. Not what you’d expect. This year I’m taking my camera. Candid shots of stars in whatever compromising position I discover them in.
There’s much interest in Pippa. And Edward of course. Madonna and Lindsay rate a mention. But I’m happy for you lot to nominate a subject for me to expose. All my stuff will be exclusive; no one can resist a venerable gentleman whose calling card is a sack full of goodies.
Well you know the old adage - all good things come to an end. So let’s make my last a blast!
And just for the record, and the people who do believe in me, hang in there – you ain’t read nothing yet.