I wrote a mostly serious think-piece called ‘Why the Santa Myth is Bad for Your Children’s Elf’, which you can read by clicking on the highlighted link. The article inspired a set of questions, challenges and accusations, which I’m going to address in bite-sized pieces, day-by-day (well, every other day), in the run-up to Christmas. I hope it makes you laugh if we’re sympatico on the subject, and still makes you laugh even if you think I’m a monster (even though it’s clearly you who are the monster).

Oh, come on, you believed in Santa as a child, and I’ll bet YOU liked it, you big spoil-sport

I’ve got quite a simple response to that question, really.

Nothing should be done to inhibit a child’s burgeoning critical faculties, or to corrupt their very sense of the world as an observable, rational and comprehensible place. You can pretend, play-act, stretch the limits of their imaginations, sure, but don’t for Christ’s sake have them believing a lie for seven fucking years!

Don’t get me wrong. You’re right. I myself used to believe wholeheartedly in Santa Claus. I used to get letters from him, in very ornate handwriting. And I thought: this could only be the work of a magical being; he writes like a bloody pro. This guy’s the real deal. I also used to get plenty of Valentine’s cards. I don’t think I can properly express the horror I felt on the day I was old enough to realise that the letters from Santa and the Valentine’s cards were all in the same handwriting. That was a shock to me. “Well, Santa. I see last year’s presents have come with a few strings attached. I’m not that sort of boy. But maybe throw in a few Easter eggs and we’ll talk.”

The truth was even more horrible. I cross-referenced the Santa letters and the valentine’s cards with the handwriting on my birthday cards. Turns out the Santa letters and the Valentine’s Day cards were from my gran.

“Roses are red, and I’m your mum’s mummy, just wait till I stuff you, back up in my tummy.”

I know she was just trying to boost my fragile little-boy ego, but I really bought in to the whole romantic fantasy.

And all that time the unrequited love of my young life was a bloated septuagenarian Glasweigen lady who smelled of cabbage. I was cat-fished by own gran before it was even a thing.

So, no, Christmas was quite traumatic, actually.