Shoe Zone bids for University Status

Shoe Zone recently got rather butt-hurt on Twitter after being called-out on their dubious unpaid apprenticeship scheme. The following should be regarded as satire. The reality as black comedy.

Shoe Zone bids for University Status

School leavers who have been excluded from higher education by eye-watering course fees have an unlikely new champion on their local High Street! Footwear retailer Shoe Zone now offers an eight-week unpaid work experience/apprenticeship scheme to those wishing to build on their knowledge of maths and English.

A spokesperson for Shoe Zone said:

“Spreading the course over two months allows us to venture far beyond the normal classes in basic adding and subtraction offered by half-day apprenticeships. Currently our lessons touch on algebraic field theory, Dirichlet's unit theorem and Kirby calculus, specifically how they relate to the sale of shoes in our provincial retail outlets, up-and-down the United Kingdom.

He added that English-language skills also featured highly on the intensive curriculum:

“Our students require finely-honed communication skills in order to pass on their understanding of how our shoes function to our customers, who may lack the same grasp of advanced mathematical concepts.”

Reading material for the apprenticeship includes the old English text of Beowulf and the selected animal poetry of Ted Hughes:

“We encourage our students to break the fundamental rules of grammar and syntax in the hope of uncovering deeper ontological truths about our range of competitively-priced, quality footwear,” said another Shoe Zone spokesperson.

They continued:

“Research carried out by Shoe Zone's statistics team shows that in 2013, 70% of the UK's top mathematicians were successful graduates from our course. While some choose to work in other fields, many of our former apprentices decide to stay on and continue their research in branches of Shoe Zone".

Animal victims of nature documentary crews recall their experiences

Matthew (Desert Monitor Lizard)

I was sunning myself near a big pile of rocks when a sandy-haired man-child, dressed in khaki shorts, grabbed me. I tried to bite him but he held me firmly in his grip. He angled my head towards the camera as if he was filming me for a kidnap ransom video!

All the time this was happening he kept saying: “You're alright mate. You're alright mate.”

In fact I was far alright. My wife, Angela, had been eaten by a Booted Eagle the previous day and I was still getting over the shock.

After the man put me down I ran away and hid under a boulder, where I have remained ever since.

I will come out when I have evolved venom glands.

Jennifer (Great Blue Heron)

After I left university in 1972, I lived at London Zoo for a while. The late children's television presenter, Johnny Morris, would often drop by, dressed as a zoo keeper from the 1920s. He would stand outside the enclosures of his favourite animals and enact pretend conversations between him and us, with him doing both of the voices since none of us couldn't speak English. In most cases his impressions played heavily upon stereotypes and were extremely insulting.

Because I am a heron, and therefore predisposed towards perching beside bodies of water for long periods of time, Morris developed a routine in which he would imply that I had accidentally dropped my house keys into my pond and was searching for them like an idiot.

He deliberately portrayed me as a Canadian hick. In fact I was born in UK. As I previously mentioned, I am also highly educated and have a degree in Economics from the LSE. I was in the same year as Barbara Morris and took some of the same classes that she did. You probably haven't heard of her but she is very clever.

Bridget Mason (Bengal Tiger)

As one of the few remaining wild tigers, I am constantly being trailed by the wildlife paparazzi. They want to know everything about me: How many wild pigs I've eaten; the relationship between me and a male Bengel Tiger called Colin who occupies an adjacent territory, and so on. They even go through my stools!

I don't mind when the focus is on me. When they start following my cubs around it's a different story: The other day, one of my three sons was nearly eaten by a crocodile! It was only through the timely intervention of my line-manger at the call centre (a Kingfisher called Claire) that a disaster was averted. You read about these things happening to other tiger families but you never imagine that they'll happen to you.

The camera crew who filmed the incident later informed me in a letter that they didn't want to intervene, as they were there in an observational capacity and couldn't be seen as interfering with nature.

I take this as meaning that they wont get involved when I indulge my natural instinct to tear open their director's soft belly and feast upon his warm entrails.

On an unrelated matter, I recently discovered that I have been 'adopted' by hundreds of different people around the globe under a 'save the tiger' program. I would like state for the record:

• I have no direct involvement in this project.
• My name is not Mindy.
• That photo isn't me. If you look at the date you can see that it was taken in 1991, several years before I was reincarnated as a tiger.
• I didn't write any of those letters. That is not my paw-print at the bottom. If I were to write you a letter I would sign it using my proper signature.
• I am not on Twitter or any other social media platform.

Ben (Wright Whale)

The newest addition to our pod is a robotic submersible device that is supposed to resemble a whale. Some of us had taken to calling it the 'Gayle' until we were told off by Karl for being intolerant.

It greets us with pre-recordings of whale song, which I suppose its designers imagine are opening pleasantries. In fact they are recordings of Graham complaining about the krill-to-saltwater ratio in the North Atlantic, and asking where he can score some methamphetamine. It's actually quite poignant as Graham died last month from a heroin overdose.

Last week me and Nigel wrote 'Fuck Poseidon!' on the sub. I also wrote 'Clean me' in the algae on its underside.

Whenever it's around, my friends and I make a point of singing offensive whale punk songs, which are full of swearing and anti-establishment sentiment! When the researchers at National Geographic play these recordings back and get their heads around what we're saying, it's going to totally blow their minds wide open!

Julian (Meerkat)

“That camera/rock that the BBC put outside our burrow: I pissed on it. It's my rock now and I'll bite any fucker who tries to take it away.”

Simon (Lowland Gorilla)

That bastard David Attenborough sat down no less then ten feet away from where I am now and started talking about me like he knows me. You don't know me Attenborough. Fuck You.

Harriet Bowden-Steward (Lioness)

I was lying in the shade of a baobab tree, swishing my tail at some flies, when my my partner mounted me and engaged in 20 seconds of uninspired humping before wandering off to growl at a hyena. While this was happening, no less than three camera crews were filming from the back of those stupid open-top safari jeeps.

I don't come into your over-priced, 2-bedroom terrace in Clapham and gawp, while you and your partner attempt to rekindle the cold ashes of your decade old relationship. Show me the same respect bitches!

I am woman and also a lion. Hear me roar!

Keith Tyler (Barnacle Goose)

I would like to thank the presenters of Springwatch for broadcasting to the nation the fact that my wife Claire and I have recently flown north on our annual migration. I expect we will return next year to find our nest has been burgled. Is this what I pay my TV licence fee for?

How I Lost The McPherson File

It was Donald Herrington OBE - my predecessor at Collins, Collins, Collins, Collins, Collins Albertson & Collins – who, upon his retirement, bequeathed to me his slender copy of the McPherson file.

I remember his words as I took receipt of the curious gift:

“Carry this around the office with you at all times. If anyone ever invites you to attend a strategy meeting, or asks you to assist them in something that clearly lies beyond the terms of your job description, tell them that you are up to your eyes in the McPherson account. They will leave you alone and you can get on with your actual work.”

“What's in it?” I enquired, doing my best to sound grateful, while I stared disconsolately at the flimsy brown cardboard folder in my hands.

“It's mostly foil wrappers from Tunnock's teacakes that I carefully removed and then flattened. I like the pattern. It's what I imagine the Japanese flag would look like if it had been designed in Glasgow.”

I later came to realise that Donald have granted me a rare and precious object – one that would drive sane and rational men to commit all manner of vile atrocities in their bid to wrest it from my grasp and make it their own.

My copy of the McPherson file was one of only seven still in existence. The original had been lost in 270AD, during the Aurelian sacking of the Library at Alexandria. The reproductions that had come after were imperfect facsimiles and shared only tenuous links to the source material, but were still highly-prized.

A week after the McPherson file was gifted to me I deployed it in an unsuccessful bid to deflect attentions of Guy Colin, Head of the Marketing Team. At the time I was unaware that managerial staff above a certain level were trained to resist the persuasive powers of the file with their own scripted responses. These were practised in weekly, early-morning team-building sessions until they became second nature.

“Talk to the hand that gives a fuck!” was the curt response, that cut my excuse dead before the words could exit my mouth.

He thrust his right palm towards me like a traffic policeman laying down the law to an advancing column of cars.

(This incident occurred during the mid-1990s, when people were happy to delegate the resolution of interpersonal conflicts to their hands. Frequently a stand-off would ensue with two opposing palms, separated by a distance of no more than a few feet, mutely facing each other. In such cases the argument was usually won by the person who could bear to keep their arm in that raised, straightened position the longest, although there was also an equally strong case for there being no winners in this particular situation).

“Just to clarify, my left hand is one that gives a fuck,” said Guy. “It wants to sensually massage your genitals. My right hand wants to tear off your fucking penis before you bring children into the world.”

I watched in horror as Guy Colin's prurient left hand began a steady advance towards my groin.

Behind him one of the automatons from human resources issued a prolonged cough that sounded like a dog attempting to bark the words “sexual harassment suit.”

Guy whirled around to face the source of the interruption.

“It's at the dry cleaners!” he snapped.

I took advantage of the distraction to dart away. In my haste I abandoned the McPherson file on a nearby desk. I returned ten minutes later to retrieve it, but it was gone.

I have heard rumours that Graham has it now.

Graham!

~

The rows of cubicles on the floor of the building where I worked had all been given street names. My cubicle was situated on Merryfield Avenue. I was told by my line manager, during my induction, that this was an up-and-coming quarter of the office with “a funky bohemian vibe.”

“I want you to think of this as your home address,” were her parting words to me.

My neighbour, Andrew, had been given a potted psychotropic cactus by his son as a Fathers' Day present. One afternoon, while using the inch-long spines as toothpicks, we slipped into an hallucinogenic trance. Together we shifted from the earthly plane and entered a parallel dimension where we communed with Bamvarada - a floating, blue turtle with the face of the Buddha, who delivered silver-tongued sermons on efficiency in the modern workplace. Andrew, David from IT, and myself spent an average of three hours a day in the company of the spirit guide, absorbing his teachings. During this time our productivity increased by 15% and then plateaued, only decreasing to its former level after the cactus toppled from Andrew's desk and was crushed under the wheels of the mail trolley.

It was during one of the Q&A sessions that typically absorbed the last quarter of an hour of Bamvarada's seminars that I asked him:

“Are you in the cactus, or are you of the cactus?”

“I am the cactus.”

“Bollocks!” said Andrew, his exclamation of incredulity, muffled by a mouthful of white bread and cheddar cheese. He rapidly swallowed the partly-chewed bite of his sandwich.

“I'm sorry but that is just total bollocks. If a cactus and a turtle were the same thing then they wouldn't have such divergent physical traits and there wouldn't be individual words to describe them. You show me one thesaurus where 'Turtle' and 'Cactus' are synonyms for each other.”

“Maybe you see the cactus and the turtle as separate entities because you have not yet been awakened to the true nature of things,” replied Bamvarada serenely, if somewhat smugly.

“Bollocks!”

“All this and more will become clear to you upon the commencement of the new financial year, my child.”

The following day, during our lunch break, the three of us drove to a local garden centre that also sold exotic pets. Andrew approached the help desk and asked to directed to the part of the store where turtles could be purchased.

The assistant smiled knowingly and then sent us to the house plant department.

On the otherwise silent drive back to the office, David gave voice to what we were all thinking:

“Do you ever get the impression that Bamvarada might be fucking with us?”

Why all wardrobes are bastards and cannot be trusted

Last year I returned home from work to find that my house had been completely emptied of its contents. The fold-away bed, that I keep in the spare room for guests, had sold all my possessions to fund its raging meth habit. Further investigation by my sceptical insurance company revealed that the bed had also sold my family into slavery. I am currently working three part-time jobs in the hope of raising enough capital to buy them all back.

Your house and garden furniture will, if presented with an opportunity, kill you as soon as look at you. If you don't believe me then grab the nearest Ouija Board and consult the blood-soaked spectre of General Henry Scott O'Callahan, of the King's Fifth Riflery.

His own armchair shot him in the back, following an argument over who owned a threepenny bit that was lodged partway behind the back of its seat cushion.

Show me one example of an armchair that has ever given so much as a single fuck. You can't, because such a thing doesn't exist and never will. There is a reason why you never hear about any armchair saints, or why an armchair has never been knighted by the Queen for services to the realm.

Q&A

Now onto the important business of answering questions that I have received from telepathic members of the British public: 

Today, Mary from Stoke on Trent enquires: 'Can a human being ever form a meaningful bond with an item of furniture?'

Dear Mary,

The short answer to your question is an emphatic 'No!'

I once witnessed a wardrobe push in front of its owner and take the last seat in a lifeboat. It was a male wardrobe too; in accordance with centuries of nautical decorum, it should have held station on deck until all the women and children had been accounted for.

As a wooden object the wardrobe would have comfortably floated. It would have been at minimal risk of shark attack and, while adrift on the open ocean, would have been unlikely to suffer the unwanted attention of woodpeckers. The very worst that could have happened to it would be perhaps washing up on a pristine tropical beach, with a few garishly-coloured equatorial whelks clinging to its paneling. These could have been easily removed by a qualified furniture veterinarian.

I was ensickened by the selfish actions of the wardrobe, that I clearly witnessed from my vantage point high on the upturned prow of the cruise liner - The Marigold. Prior to it being sold into prostitution by my meth-crazed camp bed, I kept my own wardrobe chained-up in the basement and only allowed it to store my worn-out or irreparably damaged clothing.

Mary, the only relationship that you can expect with your furniture is one of treachery and backstabbery.

I strongly advise that you start storing all of your clothes in a big heap on your bedroom floor. But be careful, as your clothes also want to embezzle your life savings, and then kill you, and make your death look like suicide, which is why I have started walking around naked.

I hope this is of help in your journey through life.

~ backwards7

Useless dating advice for Christian teens

Being a teenager with two men in your life can be tough, especially when one of those men is Jesus and the other is a really cute guy called Chad who plays on the school football team and who is pressuring you into having sex!

Don't despair. Simply allow the seven rules below to guide you through the does and don’ts of Christian dating. Plus get the low-down on the church youth scene from Christian Abstinence Advisor, Tina.

1. The name of the man or woman you are going to marry is your own first name spelled backwards.

It's true that God has a plan for everyone. But it is also true that God works in mysterious ways and hides his plan in his creation. For example, did you know that opposites attract? Well, what could be more opposite than your own name spelled backwards!

Tina says!

“My future husband is called Anit, so I guess that he's from Eastern Europe, or maybe even Russia, which would be really neat because I am so totally into ballet! After we get engaged he will need to relocate to South Dakota, but I don't see that as being a problem because South Dakota is awesome.”

2. If Jesus or the Holy Ghost catches you in engaging sexual intercourse out of wedlock, they have a legal obligation to file a report at your local police station.

The police will pass this information on to your parents or legal guardians, and the pastor at your church. It will go on your permanent record at school, be disclosed to employers, and published in newspapers around the world. It may also may affect your credit rating. Don't risk it Kids!

Tina says!

“There's a rumour going round my school that you can kill Jesus with a silver bullet through the heart, but that isn't true. Pastor Roberts says that all bullets bounce off Jesus. When the police find out that you tried to kill the son of God they will charge you with attempted murder.”

3. 'If You're Happy and You Know It' is a great song to dance to at Church events.

You can't put your hands down yours or somebody else's pants if you are singing a song that requires a lot of clapping and waving your hands in the direction of heaven.

Tina says!

“I'd rather clap my hands in time to a catchy song, than catch the clap! LOL!”

4. Even in an ankle-length prom dress you can still out-run Satan.

You don't have to be a winner in the Camp Forbearance Christian Summer Youth Games (CSYG) to beat the devil in a foot race. Why? Because the devil wears high heels over his cloven feet. Remember the last time you put high heels on a goat and it got angry and chased after you, but couldn't catch you? Well, neither can the devil.

Tina says!

“Jesus wore sandals. Only jezebels, harlots and my uncle Mike (who we are all praying for) wear high heels.”

5. It's okay to have sexual fantasies about people from the Old Testament.

The Old Testament caters for all tastes, from bad boys like Cain and King Nebuchadnezzar, to totally-ripped hunks like Moses and Joshua.

Tina says!

“You can keep The Jonas Brothers. Johanan and Jonathan, the sons of Kareah (Jeremiah 40:8) are totally hot.”

6. Attending non-church social events is a gateway to prostitution and methampetamine addiction.

According to covert research carried out by Father Lionel, at a non-church event (typically a sleazy, inner-city massage parlour, or crack den) you are never more than 15 minutes away from hearing an Elton John record, or something totally fucking mind-blowing from one of the early Black Sabbath albums, that makes you want to shoot dope and have sex with strange men at the same time!

Tina says!

“The Ten Commandments have two less rules than the 12 Step Program that Father Lionel is legally mandated to complete as part of his state-ordered rehabilitation.”

7. Julian seems like a really nice guy.

Julian's just started working for his dad's agricultural feed business, which is really sweet. Okay he's a bit older and he has a beard, but girls mature faster than boys. Plus he plays guitar in a totally awesome Christian Rock band called Flaming Sword of Eden.

Tina says!

“Remember rule number one! You can only marry Julian if your first name is Nailuj.”

I want to tell you about this great girl I knew

I first encountered Cat Moore not long after I was diagnosed with Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis - the same disease that claimed her life at the age of 35, a few days before Christmas, 2013.

In the aftermath of my diagnosis I had searched online for fellow sufferers and support groups. It soon became apparent that sharing an illness with someone doesn't mean that you will find them tolerable, or want to listen to their awful survivors poetry, or endure their incessant prattling about “god's plan.”

In desperation I typed PSC into the search bar of the blogging website Live Journal. Two user accounts came up. One of them belonged to Cat.

Although our respective geographical locations (I live in the south-east of England/Cat lived in Vancouver, Canada) meant that we would have never crossed paths had it not been for our common ailment, our relationship was not defined by it. I like to think that, had we met under different circumstances, we would have been friends anyway.

Cat was a tiny, pale, strange looking girl. Her thick glasses and her fondness for wearing berets gave her the appearance of Buddy Holly reborn as an art-house film director. She was a self-confessed introvert who yearned to come out of herself - somehow this inner conflict made her a larger than life character, in way that was endearingly off-kilter. She often seemed to find herself in bizarre and unusual situations that were tinged with pathos:

One of my favourite Cat Moore stories concerns the time she took part in Team Make-Out – an event in which strangers engage in kissing and light petting on public transport. With no male partner available she ended-up in “an awkward, sloppy, and intensely gum-flavoured” clinch with another girl, which took place under the watchful gaze of a CCTV camera.

Cat loved music: Spiritualized, My Bloody Valentine, Sonic Youth, Stereolab... One of the highlights of her life was travelling to Austin, Texas, in 2010 for the SXSW festival. She later described her experience in a single paragraph of breathless prose:

“My time in Austin was a mindblowing blur of movies, rule-breaking, food, IFC happy hours, meeting people, Motorhead, more movies, Broken Social Scene, weirdness, and fun. I got a swag bag, got sick, got better, got drunk, got a few shirts at Mondo Tees, and even got starstruck once or twice. (Bill Murray on the red carpet for Get Low.) I did and saw so much, there's no way I can regret the things I didn't get to do or see. Besides, they're on the list for next time. And there will be a next time.”

However, her main passion was for the cinema. She worked at multiple theatres around her home town, selling tickets, working the concession stand, cleaning the toilets. Few people had a better excuse to succumb to fatigue, but I don't know of anyone who worked harder than Cat did

Common interests and mutual suffering aside, I liked Cat because she was a good person:

Her mother died in 2003. Cat spent the remaining decade of her life in a succession of sub-par, rented apartments with her father (always referred to as 'the Dude') who she looked after and worried about and fretted over. Although she sometimes entertained notions of living elsewhere and wondered whether this might lead to a better job and a better quality of life, she was not a martyr to her circumstances. She maintained that her decision to stay with her father was the right one and the one that she felt most comfortable with.

Cat had an accommodating nature – the kind that people can take advantage of without meaning to. She routinely put the needs of others before her own well-being. I lost count of the number of times she would mention finding her beloved pet, Parker J Cat, asleep on her bed and, instead of waking him up, would squeeze as best she could onto the remainder of the mattress.

Despite her illness, and the fact that part of her bowel had been removed, she continued to indulge an unhealthy lifestyle that included Coca Cola for breakfast, Slurpees, fried chicken and pulled pork – all things that you really shouldn't consume if you have PSC. I admired her for doing it; for leading the life she wanted to live. If you can't give the grim reaper the finger once in a while then what is the point.

We both left Live Journal around 2011. I was disillusioned with the site. Cat, I think, was coming to terms with having less energy. The 140 character limit of Twitter was less draining for her than the prospect of composing lengthy blog entries.

In mid-December of 2013 I noticed that she hadn't posted on Twitter for a couple of weeks. On the 21^st of the month I sent her a direct message:

“How are you Cat? I worry.”

When there was no reply I assumed that she had been admitted to hospital. Her condition often seemed to deteriorate around this time of year.

On the 5^th of January, with a heavy heart, I typed her Twitter handle into the site's search engine and learned of her death through one of the cinemas that she worked for. After getting in touch with one of the staff there I was able to fill in the gaps:

Cat had been admitted to hospital either in late November or early December, where she underwent a number of unsuccessful surgeries that were aimed at saving her liver. Her other organs began to shut down and the consensus among her doctors was that another surgical procedure would be too much for her. She was suffering and her father made the decision to turn off her life support. She died on the 20^th December, 2013, the day before I wrote to her.

When I heard the news of her death I felt swamped by a tidal wave of grief that couldn't be expressed in words; it was the kind that builds up inside faster than you can get it out and is physically painful. In the days that have followed I have felt the occasional aftershock. They always seem to catch me off guard. My eyes filled with tears at the mention of a forthcoming new season of Mad Men and the thought that Cat will never know the eventual fate of Don Draper.

I visited her Twitter account. She is still following me. Nothing has changed and it as if she is on a long hiatus.

I read her penultimate tweet from the 24^th November:

“The good news is, I'm not dead. The bad news? Still living this life.”

Her last written words appeared the following day: 'Thanks!' in response to a comment posted from a protected account.

I felt guilty that we had not communicated more, and in more depth, since we left Live Journal.

I returned to our last flippant exchange on Twitter (which occurred on the 3rd and 4^th November, 2013) and wished that I had said something more comforting:

Cat: Haven't got the spoons for much today. Work and disease do not a good combo make.

Me: I'm (sic) intend to re-brand my PSC as 'Liver Away' and market it with the help of investment from the millionaires on 'Dragons Den'.

Cat: I'll look for you if I can get the UK version...

I found a recent tweet – one where she mentioned not being able to imagine a world without Lou Reed in it. In another, that I had overlooked, she described sitting on the couch answering email when something had “popped/snapped” inside of her. X-rays at the hospital revealed nothing. One of the hallmarks of having a chronic, ultimately terminal, illness is how quickly you acclimatize to the horror of your situation. You learn to shrug off things that would appal and disgust a normal, healthy human being.

I visited her lastfm account which had been inactive for many years. The last track she listened to there, way back in 2010, was The Fox In The Snow by Belle and Sebastian. I don't think I will ever be able to hear that song again without being reduced to a sobbing wreck.

I read her old Live Journal entries:

“I'm not afraid of dying. No sense in fearing the inevitable, really. What's the worst that could happen? Besides a slow, painful, lingering death that brings out the depression and angst in everyone including yourself, that is.”

The thought that, in her final weeks, she might have been scared, or conscious of the scale of her pain and suffering, is unbearable to me.

I half-watched The Matrix and wished that we lived in a computer simulation, and that somewhere in an alternate reality Cat was still alive.

I bargained pointlessly with an unnamed, benevolent deity for the opportunity to swap places with her. Cat stood up to her illness. She had hopes and dreams and things that she looked forward to. This past year I have felt like it's enough. I am coasting along on my own diminishing momentum. I think if a doctor said to me 'We've done all we can for you' then I would welcome it. Cat had more to live for and she died before she was ready. It wasn't fair.

I never met Cat in person or heard her voice. Our strange relationship unfolded on disparate strands of social media and the occasional email.

She leaves in her wake the faintest of footprints. An iPod Touch (which she would periodically lose) containing her favourite music; a few possessions in a rented apartment.

Those who knew her in person and worked alongside her, remember her fondly.

I remember you too Cat Moore. 

 

“I did and saw so much, there's no way I can regret the things I didn't get to do or see.”

26^th June 1978 - 20^th December 2013

Keeping the dream of Santa Claus on life-support for another year

My niece and older nephew are frankly a bit too old to be writing letters to Father Christmas, and were adamant that they weren't going to do it this year. At the last minute they relented and decided that they would leave their lists by the fireplace in the lounge, along with the customary mince pie, half glass of milk and carrot for the reindeer.

As the person who assumes the role of the beleaguered present giver, and writes the replies to their letters (something they are well aware of, although we do not discuss it) I was rather caught off guard by their eleventh-hour about face. I briefly toyed with the idea of writing them a letter, allegedly from Richard Dawkins, informing them that the universe is a black amoral void where all your hopes and dreams die. 

Instead though I wrote this:

Dear Beth, Jack & Stellan,

The reindeer have been selling clippings from my beard on Ebay. This has been going on since July apparently. I have been too preoccupied with the business of getting everything ready for Christmas Eve to notice.

My new workshop lies along a route to the North Pole that is popular with Arctic explorers. Only the other day a party of Norwegians knocked on my door and asked whether they could borrow some milk. I gave them some of Donner's. She insists that all reindeer milk is green. I think that she may have a cold.

It was my wife (who is called Deborah Claus – not Mary Christmas as many seem to think ) who first remarked on my mysteriously shrinking beard and complimented me on how youthful it made me look.

When I confronted the reindeer on this matter they were all adamant that my beard was the same size that it had always been, and that I was imagining things. As they very seldom agree on anything, this immediately roused my suspicions.

It was Dancer who proved to be the weak link, blurting out “It was all Rudolph's idea!” and confessing that they had spent most of the money they had made on moisturising antler glitter.

“You can use it too if you want,” said Blitzen weakly, as I stormed out of the shed.

~

Tonight, as I take a five minute break from my deliveries, and put my feet up on your uncle Tom, who is snoring soundly on the spare bed in your front room, I feel a great sense of nostalgia for a more innocent time, long before you were all born. Back then the worst that would happen on my rounds would be a child awake long past his or her bedtime, catching a brief glimpse of me through bleary half-closed eyes.

These days it is common for families to lay out Santa traps: Cameras disguised as Christmas baubles, triggered by tripwires and light sensors; their intention is to catch me in the act of delivering presents and sell the incriminating photographs to Hello! Magazine. I suppose if I were to trip and fall over, as I sometimes do, video footage of the event would invariably appear on You've Been Framed.

In the last hour, I have been forced to cut my way out of a weighted net that dropped down from the ceiling after I picked up a mince pie that was positioned suspiciously in the centre of an otherwise empty room (A handwritten sign on the door read: Please put presents in here). I don't know what these people imagine they would do if they were to successfully capture me. Maybe they want me to entertain their children while they watch Eastenders and the Queen's speech.

Your street is particularly bad when it comes to this kind of behaviour. I have been left with no option other than to issue stern written warnings at many of the houses. The attempts by one family (I won't say which one) to trap me made me so angry that I instructed Rudolph to lick all the icing off their Christmas cake.

It comes as a great relief that you have welcomed me into your home as an honoured guest. I drank the milk and ate the food that you left out, and shared the carrot with the reindeer, who, I must admit, do look rather splendid in their antler glitter.

I wish you all a Merry Christmas.

Dictated but not read

Santa Claus (Father Christmas)