Sort of but not exactly
November 2012
An open letter to Santa Claus
Dear Santa,
Here’s my Christmas wish list. You want to know, I suppose, that I’ve been a good boy. But how do you define ‘good’ and ‘bad’? And how bad do I have to get before you withhold my pressies? Have you devised a formula to calculate degrees of goodness? Is it Quality Assured? Did you consult all relevant stakeholders? Don’t mess with me, I know my rights. I’ve got lawyers in the family.
I’ve heard rumours that you won’t be giving General Petraeus any socks and jocks this year. That’s rough justice. Sure, Dave-o cheated on his wife but why do you care? I’d understand if he’d exchanged bodily secrets with some triple agent employed by Iran and funded by the ghost of Stalin, but his biographer? Ease up there, big fella, everybody’s got egos and urges.
While you’re at it, cut Kristen Stewart some slack. What’s a snog or two with a dashing director when you’re rich and famous and beautiful and 22? Mind you, she did parade her guilt to the whole world, apologising to all seven billion of us, one hand-wring at a time. I had to take leave without pay just to monitor Twitter. Still, massaging a wholesome public profile is a tough gig: surely she’s earned herself a Vampire Barbie Doll. And a bloodless Ken.
The real question, Santa, is have you been good? I’m not insinuating some buried scandal but I do wonder if your standards have slipped. That whole fat Elvis persona is tired. It’s time you got yourself a makeover and cast aside confused history: Santa Claus or Father Christmas, red suit or green, Coke or Pepsi, North Pole or Finland, it’s old news. Yes, I know, you feed on nostalgia. People love your predictability. But never take the kid population for granted – they get more sophisticated by the hour. Just last night, my three-year-old finished A Christmas Carol in one sitting and then explained to her proud parents that Charles Dickens uses way too many words (she’s terribly advanced for her age).
Never mind children: stop neglecting adults. For starters, be a better role model. I’m not just talking about your weight, although you could drop a few kilos … and make some extra cash along the way. With your international profile, you could pitch ‘Santa’s Skinfold Challenge’ to Channel 10 (coming in 2013, 7.30pm Mondays to Thursdays). Think of the cross-promotional possibilities: you could put a free pedometer in every Christmas stocking – you’ll make a killing on replacement batteries – and a discount voucher to any gymnasium willing to give you a kickback. But hurry up: Russell Brand is gagging for your job. He’s already wearing his costume, jeans tight as a water balloon, flame-red shirt unbuttoned to the navel, beard wild yet ornate.
Seize the moment. Even if you don’t exist, you’re the man to defy that whole ‘true meaning of Christmas’ mantra. I’m not proposing that you trash Christianity’s good name – that’s George Pell’s job – but I dream of a jolly old grandpa telling us straight that Christmas is a secular celebration of family and friends and booze, a time to dimly sense that force-fed joy and peace and goodwill to all humankind sounds lovely but might, just might, be a grubby salve.
Instead of sneaking down chimneys and disappearing into the night like a thief, transform yourself into a human prawn cocktail, the prawns the size and colour and consistency of a big toe, the sauce hot pink and flowing like lava. Stick fast to our tongues and resist all our efforts to rinse you away. Every time we brush our teeth, serenade us with that faint but unmistakable lament ‘what about the starving masses in Africa?’
That’s what I want: Kristen Stewart levels of guilt. Oh, and world peace (of course) and gender equality (except when it inconveniences me) and a humble Lance Armstrong (even though there’s something sexy about his absolute arrogance). I’d love a permanently angry Julia Gillard. I wish Malcolm Turnbull would stop jogging laps and start running an actual race. I’d be grateful if the slipped disc in my spine magically reinserted itself. And – on behalf my family, who adore Christmas just the way it is – maybe you could help me lighten up.
TAGS patrick allington
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