I solemnly answered the door.

Outside, a pair of men: slightly hunched over, with nervous smiles on their faces. Of course, these smiles were obscured by huge fake beards. You see, they were both dressed as Santa. I probably should have told you that earlier. Bah, who cares?
 I scanned their hands quickly - nope, no Bibles. This wasn't going to be like last month, when two Religious callers sneaked into my house disguised as my parents, anyway.
 "Can I help you?"
 "Well, we're here with presents. We're Santa, you see." Said the first
 "Santa." Replied the second, nodding hopefully.
Deciding nothing hilarious would happen if I didn't let them into my house, I invited the two Santas inside. I made them both a cup of tea, and they drank it silently. After a few minutes, they thanked me and left.
 To this day, I have no idea why they visited. I did notice they stole a lot of coal from my fireplace though. Thieving jolly bastards.

Merry Christmas season

Merry two days after Christmas, everyone! And what a Christmas it's been. This post, of course, is for anyone who spend the season hidden in an internetless underground bunker, as is advisory during the festive season. Who, dear friends, could foresee the dangers and delights of this year's Xmas? Snow, sex and Santa, not to mention Hitler's ghost possessing the body of Simon Cowell and terrorising the population of East Anglia! Not for a long time has such community spirit been seen, as was when the troubled people rallied together to send the demonic beast back to hell.
 And get rid of Hitler while they were at it.

 And who could foresee Santa's surprise decision to retire? The nation is racked as it debates who best to take over the job. Early rumours suggest some unlikely candidates from the political arena - Troubled PM Gordon Brown looks likely to try and bolster his popularity with some festive gift-giving, while the Tories favour simply letting children buy their own presents - after all, if you need someone else to buy you something, you're not rich enough to be happy.

On a more serious Christmas note, I fear soon I shall be writing thank-you notes. I may be a grown man, but there's no arguing with my mother.
 So, to everyone out there: Thank you for my Christmas present. I am well, and hope you are too.
 Love Paul

Jolly fat men

"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.

Christmas cheer.

I saw Santa today, in the field next to my house, picking up horse shit. In his little red clothing and a big hat.
I guess the whole Christmas gig isn't paying enough. Then again, I could have told him that. Making presents for millions of children is all well and good, but obviously it's expensive. I heard the elves had organised a(n? sounds wrong) Union too, so that's another expense for him. Oh well, he seemed happy enough, and the cold weather means the shit's frozen, which must make the work easier!

It's snowing! Yay...