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I am afraid I have not been a very good boy this year, but on the other hand, for a variety of reasons – ragged morality, shortage of cash, shortage of time, those funny law-type things – I have been nowhere near as bad as I would like to have been.

I am not going to ask for universal peace and love, or for an end to world poverty, because I’m assuming all those people with far better character than the smudged shreds I possess will be asking for those, and I imagine you’re more likely to listen to them than me.

Mind you, your pal with the white frock and the snowy beard doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to them, either. Wonder how He feels about the Marxist Pope? Which reminds me, thank you for giving me the Marxist Pope I asked for in last year’s letter – it’s just what I wanted, and enormously funny to see all the rich Catholics writhing and wriggling.

Anyway, Santa, please may I have for Christmas…

That, obviously.

A personal alarm that tells me when the nicest, most kindly, helpful and do-gooding of our neighbours is anyway near me so that, for example, when I jam my fingers in the garage door and call it a Jeremy Hunt, I can be sure she is not going to hear me.

I would like, please, just once, to fill the dishwasher. What I mean, Santa, is that I would like to put things in the dishwasher and close the door and not turn round and find a stray mug or a buttery knife or a sinkful of teaspoons that I have missed. I would like this, Santa, just to know what it feels like.

I would like, one day, to meet in the lanes around my home that mythical Cornish figure of whom the old ones speak: The One Who Can Reverse.

Please, Santa, give me some tolerance for Christmas, so that if ever again I find myself in a crowded supermarket I am not nearly overcome by an overpowering urge to set about me with a baseball bat.

That, obviously.

I would like, please, a reasonable amount of money.

And finally, Santa, please, I would like one of those fridges that dispenses automatic ice cubes. At present I laboriously fill a plastic tray of ice-cube shaped compartments with water, then totter to the freezer to place the tray within and create ice. As an exercise attempted after several scoops of Tesco Value Gin, this is difficult and results in spillage and Criticism. I know that Brother Fiddle would like such a fridge, too, by the way, and it would be kind of you to give him one, as it were, as he does rather look like you – white beard, red nose, jolly smile, big wobbly tummy, etc.

Which reminds me of some of the other friends of this place – and seeing as it is apparently better to give than to receive, may I ask for some presents for them, too?

For Old Father Cullingham, some flying lessons, so that the next time he takes to the skies over Cornwall he knows how to land.

Please send The Brother Who Must Not Be Named a bevy of Dickensian carol singers to knock on his door on Christmas Eve and regale him with jolly festive music. I know he’ll like that.

For our Sister who is our Spiritual Guide, a gig on Christmas Eve.

For Brother Stents, a new sheepskin coat, a flat cap and a subscription to Auto Trader. For our sister Stents Minor, a real new year. I mean a new year.

For Brother Bertie, a huge underground car park in which to keep his growing collection of vehicles.

For Brother Hamster, an autographed copy of Dr Kempthorne’s Home Health Encyclopaedia and a copy of ‘Inzimam Ul-Haq’s Weight Loss For Cricketers’ DVD to help him in his struggles.

For those of our Brothers and Sisters who have not Seen The Light, a week’s holiday in a council flat in Wigan in January with £28.70 to spend. I’m thinking of you, our Stormin’ Brother, and your Rickety friend.

For dear Captain Kay, an intimate candle-lit dinner for two with Wade Dooley.

For Sister Wizard Woman, a couple of pints of the milk of human kindness so she can turn it sour just by looking at it.

For Brother Numbers, a ride in a car that goes as fast as 40mph so that, freed from the confines of his camper van, he can see what real speed feels like.

For our Sisters who dispense essential medicines from behind the bar, a generous government subsidy for rural pubs so they can half their prices. For our Sister who dispenses essential medicines from behind the bar on a Tuesday, earplugs.

For Brother Yardie, who has a wife and two teenaged daughters, a visit to a house empty but for a giant TV and a bathroom, so he can see what these things are like.

For our Matron, the restoration of a National Health Service under state control, staffed, supplied with drugs, free from privatisation. Oh, and unlimited euchre, obviously.

For Brother Badger, promotion for something called Nottingham Forest, whatever that is. I think he’d like that. And by the same token, Brother Skoda would appreciate salvation for Torquay (the football team, not the town, apparently, though God knows the town needs it more).

As for our Chief Scout, Santa, I ask you to lend his dibber vigour, and stiffen his woggle.

For our brothers and sisters who teach, I would like, please, a classroom full of Wilshaws and Goves and the temporary restoration of corporal punishment. Using a big stick. With nails in. On a related subject, I hear that David Cameron has asked you for some stubble to grow on his bum face. I would like to ask, please, that it grow inward.

For Sister Shine, a Christmas visit from Rafael Nadal. Covered in chocolate.

For our Brothers and Sisters who read this in foreign places, such as our Swiss Uncle, may they have three or four days of dank grey misery weeping from the leaden skies, to remind them of the Cornish summers they have left behind.

There are a few good people, Santa, who read this place, who have never met me. It would be kind of you to preserve their good fortune.

And finally, Santa, I’m sure you know the truth of my favourite old countryside legend, as told by Thomas Hardy:

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

“Now they are all on their knees,”

An elder said as we sat in a flock

by the embers in hearthside ease.

 

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

they dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.

 

So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years. Yet, I feel,

if someone said on Christmas Eve

“Come; see the oxen kneel

 

In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know”,

I should go with him in the gloom

Hoping it might be so.

But as for me, Santa, I’m happy never to know. So keep it to yourself.

Lots of love,

Stuart.

Merry Christmas

Well, my good friends, it is daytime but so dark my garret is lit only by the glow of the screen. Outside, the sounds are far from festive – gales and lashing cruel rain, as usual. Inside, on Spotify, the immortal Paul Desmond, may he rest, is blowing his alto sax, the most beautiful sound Earth ever made. It seems a good moment to wish you all a very, very merry Christmas.