by 
Father Christmas is feeling extremely depressed as he goes back to work after a nice long holiday.
Christmas comes but once a year. “And thank fuck for that,” said Santa.
“It’s by far my least favourite day of the year – my year-long sabbatical is over, I have to get up in the freezing cold and work a lengthy night shift.
“I’ve been having such a great time not thinking about reindeer or spoilt brats.
“I spent the first three months of 2018 travelling around South East Asia where I had a spiritual awakening and found myself.
“I’m so much more than a fat, jolly man in a red suit!
“Newly liberated from this awful persona, I then went to the States for a West Coast road trip. Ah, those beautiful Californian reds – infinitely better than all that cheap sherry people leave me at Christmas.
“I’ve spent the last six weeks working behind a bar in Australia, doing some surfing and writing in my spare time.
“I’m hoping to become a novelist and to be able to give up this Santa shit. However, my book’s not really going anywhere and here I am again having to load up this fucking sleigh. It’s depressing.
“So be warned – I can’t really be arsed this year and will be doing the bare minimum. One present each and I’ll be using the front door, not the bloody chimney.
“And if little Johnny didn’t post his Christmas list in time… well, then I guess Mum and Dad are in for a difficult day.
“Don’t judge me – you might think that being Santa is a cushy little number but thanks to magical time dilation my single night at the office feels more like 173 years. It’s soul-crushingly tedious.
“Only chartered accountants perceive working days to be longer.”
