Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

let’s cut the crap. You don’t like me and I don’t like you.

We loathe each other.

For most of the year, our mutual hatred matters not one jot (at least not to me). But now it’s that time of year again when traditionally I let you know how good I’ve been and you treat me with utter contempt. Even as I write, you’re probably sitting on your fat arse, gleefully rubbing your hands in expectation of yet another chance to dash my hopes and leave me feeling dejected.

Well, Mister, I’ve news for you. This year things are going to be different.

And do you know why?

Because I’ve got you sussed, that’s why.

You give your official address as The North Pole. Hogwash! In 1909 a man named Peary led an expedition to where you supposedly live and found nothing but snow, snow and more blooming snow.

No toy factories. No elves. No reindeer. And no you.

In the meantime, I’ve clocked you in England more times than I care to count. You might think a false beard and a red hood is a good disguise, but I don’t fool that easily.

Just the other night, I saw you in the local flea market, standing beneath a Christmas tree and ringing a bell.

‘Yo ho ho,’ you said, over and over in a manner I frankly found annoying.

In brave defiance of several court orders, I followed you home so now I know for sure where you really live. All that bollocks about living at the North Pole is just that: bollocks.

I’ve got your number, matey. You’re faking non-domicile status in order to diddle the tax man.

How long has this been going on? Centuries, isn’t it?

I wouldn’t want to be in your boots if the tax man ever comes knocking on your door. All that back tax! Plus interest!

You must owe enough tax to clear the national debt twice over.

Now I’m no snitch and I’d hate to see you bankrupt, so I’m willing to reach some kind of accommodation with you.

Yep. It’s blackmail. Let’s call it what it is. And before you tell me it’s an ugly word, I have to say I disagree. Right now ‘blackmail’ is the most beautiful word in the world. If you want an ugly word, you should try ‘phlegm’ on for size.

So what do I want in exchange for keeping mum? Good question, Fatso.

Let’s start with what has been top of my wants list every year for as long as I can remember. Sure there are only so many Cameron Diazes and Jessica Albas to go around and they’re already spoken for. But you’ve got flying reindeer which suggests you’re a dab hand at genetic engineering. Therefore a bit of cloning must be well within your capabilities.

Secondly,  I want you to sort out a remake of ‘Daredevil’ as the original movie was abysmal. I’ll leave the casting up to you, but I get to vet the script and have final say on all editing decisions.

Next up is the guy down the road from me with the flash car, sharp suits and a never-ending stream of beautiful girlfriends.

Kill him.

And while you’re at it, you might want to throw in world peace and a cure for cancer but I won’t insist upon it.

So what do you say, Santa baby? It’s just as easy for me to send a letter to HMRC as it is to you. And – unlike you – the taxman doesn’t come just once a year.

The ball’s in your court.

Yours truly,

Patrick Whittaker.


About Patrick Whittaker

I'm a writer and director of the occasional short film. Although a Londoner, I'm based in Blackpool on the north east coast of England.

Posted on December 16, 2012, in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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