The secret

As Christmas eve wraps itself around us (a foggy one too, just like the song), I get drawn into thinking about all the magical and mystical and amazing stories we hear that happen at Christmas.

Unless you've just tuned in, or have incurred a severe head injury of late, you may know we are holding out for one of those wee Christmas miracles of our own. (Although, if we have to wait for the January sales to get 20% off, then how bad eh?)

With all this festive reflection, I have realised something that has eluded me my whole life.

I can't be sure if it was for my own good, or the good of the planet, or the good the season, or the good of all the children of the world, but it was kept from me all this time, and now I know.

Santa Claus is real, and I am he.

Yes, it's true.

'Idiot!' I hear you cry, 'Drunken arse!' I hear you yell, but no! if you look at the evidence, it is as obvious as the face of the virgin Mary in my scrambled egg.

-Who lives alone with his wife with no children that we know of?

-Who finishes his nightly adventures all breathless, exhausted, and red of face?

-Who seems to be engaging in the same futile exercise over, and over, and over, and over?

-Who can be heard yelling about Hos and cracking whips into the night sky?

-Who is guided solely by the throbbing red extremity of his favourite personal beast?

-Who spends his evenings squeezing up and down in, before finally shooting off up, a tight dark space?

-Who has been obsessed this week with delivering the contents of his sack to exactly the right place at precisely the right time?

No question is there?

Now you know.

Sleep well kiddies, I'm on the case.

A very happy oh-shit-I-forgot-the-AA-batteries-and-everywhere-is-shut day to you all.