Santa's big plan

It's time for my traditional Christmas interview with that much-loved festive figure, Santa Claus. So here goes.

Nick: Well, Santa, are you looking forward to delivering all those presents on Christmas Eve?

Santa: You must be joking. It's an absolute nightmare. It's one crisis after another. The elves go on strike for better pay and conditions. Or the sleighs need urgent repairs. Or the reindeer have fallen sick. Or the wrapping paper's run out and we can't get any more for a week. I'm too old for this malarkey. I've had it up to here. Once Christmas is over, I'm retiring to my Caribbean penthouse and someone else will have to take the reins.

Nick: That's terrible. But you've done the job for quite long enough. You deserve a good long rest. Everyone takes you for granted. If they don't have the right presents on Christmas Day, they abuse you non-stop on Twitter and send you threatening letters. You could do without it.

Santa: Too true. I can't wait to put it all behind me. I can shave off this horrible scratchy beard, chuck out this ludicrous bobble hat, throw away this ridiculous red outfit (I've always hated the colour red), stop being polite to all those little brats who come to the grotto, and stop saying "ho ho ho" every two minutes.

Nick: So what are your plans for retirement? What's on your bucket list?

Santa: I'm going to get super fit. A whole new lifestyle. It's horrifying how much weight I've gained sitting on my arse in the toy factory all day. From now on it's the gym every morning, jogging, rock climbing, yoga. I'll be thin as a rake, with rock-hard muscles and the heart of a teenager. You won't recognise me if you pass me on the street.

Nick: That's terrific. I can't wait for the selfies in six months' time.

Santa: No selfies. I've had enough attention to last a lifetime. I shall just vanish.

Nick: Ho ho ho!

Emotional labour

Christmas calls for a huge amount of emotional labour - manipula-ting your emotions in order to please others - and women in particular are expected to provide it.

Emotional labour was originally defined in terms of the workplace - jobs where you have to be nicer or harsher or pushier than you would naturally be, at the cost of your psychological well-being. But of course it can equally apply to occasions like Christmas.

It's seen as the woman's job to smooth over ruffled feelings, manage children's expectations, deal with tactless relatives, bottle up family feuds, and generally keep people happy for the duration. The stress involved is colossal, but men are usually excused from such emotional labour on the grounds that they're "not very good with emotions", "haven't been socialised to do it" or "would make a mess of it". How very convenient for them.

Luckily for Jenny and I, we don't have big family Christmases anymore and are normally on our own. So the only emotions we have to manage are each other's. And the only quarrel will centre on how many points you get for axalotl in our Scrabble tournament. Or whether we should watch Some Like It Hot or Casablanca.

But emotional labour was very necessary when I was working. I had to be constantly nice to bookshop customers, councillors, charity supporters, social workers and whoever else my job required me to mingle with. Suppressing anger, abuse or antagonism, however justified, was the order of the day.

As a customer, I've had to be studiously polite to bank officials, civil servants, tradespeople and call centre staff to ensure they treat me properly and don't try any funny business. Telling them exactly what you think of them would be fatal.

But sometimes I forget myself. I once told Santa he was a drunken old fool who needed to lose some weight. I haven't had a present from him since.

Malicious rumours

Santa Claus has once again had to quash the constant rumours that he doesn't exist. In a statement today, he insists that he is very much alive and the claims of his non-existence are malicious and upsetting.

"Of course I exist" he said, as he poured me a generous glass of prosecco at his luxurious home, Santa Towers in Reindeer City, Lapland. "Here I am, as large as life, as you can see, working hard on the production of this year's Christmas presents. These mischief-makers should shut up and stop distressing all those children who're looking forward to Santa's annual visit.

"Every year I have to deny these absurd rumours that I'm just a fantasy figure who doesn't exist in real life. I may be extremely old, I may have had one too many on occasion, and I may be a little too plump for the smaller chimneys (I leave those to the elves). But I haven't yet kicked the bucket.

"My lawyers are dealing with the most persistent offenders, and they can expect to pay substantial damages to the Exhausted Elves Benevolent Fund."

Children everywhere have been devastated by the claims that he doesn't really exist. Five-year-old Lucy Gristle of Potters Bar, Hertfordshire, cried non-stop for a week after hearing the rumours. "She was inconsolable" said her mother, Melanie. "I tried everything to stop the tears but nothing worked. I don't know how people can bring themselves to start such pernicious tittle-tattle, knowing full well it will break so many children's hearts. They should be ashamed of themselves."

After watching Santa's TV interview, little Lucy is now over the moon and eagerly awaiting his visit. "He's so clever, he always knows exactly what I want" she said. "I only show my present list to mummy, but he finds out somehow and there they all are under the Christmas tree. I love Santa so much."

Dear Santa

Dear Santa

I hope you are well. I hope that your new diet is working and that Alcoholics Anonymous is keeping you off the booze.

Gosh, there are so many things I want for Christmas, I don't know where to start. Here are some of them anyway:

1) A perfect memory that actually remembers everything. Like the plots of books and TV dramas. Like people's names. Like whichever shop it was that had that brilliant potato peeler.

2) Super-fast legs so I can forget the car and walk the seven miles to work in ten minutes.

3) A maximum body-weight setting so that however much chocolate cake, trifle and ice cream I eat, I don't gain an ounce.

4) Fluency in several languages so I can read all those great books that have never been translated into English.

5) A female body for a month so I can wear all those fabulous clothes I can only drool over as a bloke.

6) A totally adjustable body temperature, so I'm always comfortable however cold or hot the climate, and I don't need central heating or air conditioning.

7) Telepathy, so I know whether someone is telling the truth or lying non-stop. Or whether they're just pretending to like me.

8) Infinite empathy. However extreme a person's emotions, I can understand them instantly. I can feel exactly what they're feeling.

9) The gift of the gab. Whoever the person, whatever their situation, I always have something to say, and it's always what they want to hear.

10) A magic wand that will melt all the pain in other people's hearts.

I think that's enough to be going on with. Don't worry if there's one or two you can't manage. I know you must be awfully busy!

I hope Mrs Claus has recovered from the flu and that the elves aren't dabbling with the crack cocaine again.

Big hugs, Nick

PS: You're my favourite person ever in all the world!

Santa's troubles

Santa's trying to keep it quiet, but there's growing unrest in the Grotto. The elves are demanding a pay rise and better working conditions.

They say the toy-production targets are impossible to keep up with, and dangerous machinery is causing serious injuries. They also want a few female toymakers to increase job satisfaction.

Not only that but the reindeer are demanding strict mileage limits on the distribution run, after several reindeer died from exhaustion during last year's deliveries. And they want in-flight entertainment instead of having to stare into space all night. "It's so fucking boring" said one disgruntled reindeer, who didn't want to be named.

An angry Santa has hit back at the rebels, threatening mass sackings and blaming outside troublemakers working for rival toymakers Here Comes Santa. Inside sources say the stressed-out super-hero is drinking heavily, chain-smoking and running up massive gambling debts.

Santa is already under pressure from consumers complaining of the declining quality of his festive gifts. Said Jason, 10, of Croydon, "It was a load of rubbish last year. Everything fell to bits or wouldn't work. The clothes were embarrassing, I couldn't possibly wear them. The senile old git should have been pensioned off years ago."

On top of all that, Santa's wife of 19 years, the astonishing Pixie Ambrosia Angeldust, is seeking a divorce on the grounds of incompatibility. "I mean nothing to him. All he cares about is his bloody workshop. It's toys, toys, toys, morning noon and night. I might as well not exist. I'm not hanging around like a spare bogroll any longer."

Santa was not available for comment.

Pic: Santa and Pixie

Sozzled Santa

It's the end of the road for Santa. Retirement beckons. He's been condemned as a shockingly unhealthy role model for children, encouraging all the worst possible lifestyle habits.

Dr Nathan Grills, an Australian public health doctor, has accused him of obesity, drink-driving, speeding, lack of exercise and spreading disease.

The lovable red-suited old beardie is denounced as a thoroughly bad influence in the Christmas edition of the British Medical Journal.

Dr Grills points out that Santa is extremely fat, goes everywhere by sleigh rather than walking, drinks numerous brandies left by householders, ignores speed limits to get all his presents delivered, and has children on his lap even when he has flu.

Other critics have asked if he has been checked by Criminal Records for his suitability to work with children. And then there's his cruelty to reindeer, pushing them to the point of exhaustion with his punishing Christmas Eve schedule.

All in all, not the sort of person you would want your impressionable offspring to take after. The sooner he's pensioned off and put out of harm's way, the better.

However, a spokesperson for Santa responded angrily to Dr Grills' comments. "It's just sour grapes" she said. "He would love to be as popular as Santa, adored by children everywhere for his charm and generosity. Instead he's just a sour old academic nobody's ever heard of, trapped in some musty office. Who needs him?"

When asked for Santa's exact weight, height and body mass index, she threatened legal action and abruptly hung up.

Still, at least Santa doesn't smoke. Or does he?
..................................................................................

A very happy Christmas to all my wonderful blogmates around the world. Forget all your everyday worries and let the festivities commence!