"Ho... Ho ho"
I watched sadly as Santa stumbled hopelessly around my kitchen.
"Ho [hiccup] Ho, he!" He announced proudly. I'd always thought of him as some sort of tank, but millions of sherries, brandies, whiskies and absinthe (my mother insisted he liked it) must have taken their toll on the jolly bastard. Taking another swig of vodka - I hadn't left that out for him - he tried to stuff a bicycle into the microwave. I had tried to take it off him, but he had announced I was a bad little girl and rubbed coal on my face.
As he threw up into the fridge, I headed to bed. I could tidy up in the morning, then phone the council about getting a new lock fitted on the front door.
When I got up in the morning, I discovered that it hadn't been Santa at all, just John Prescott, getting into the Christmas Spirit.
He'd stolen my TV as well.