I hate Santa. I despise the whole old man in a red suit. I’m not against old men, per se. I quite like them. I just think that someone dressed in a weather-inappropriate suit, wearing a fake beard and going “Ho, ho, ho!” is spooky. You see them sitting behind fences in shopping centres, being mobbed by overzealous mums and screaming children. Little kids don’t actually like Santa. It’s Mum’s trip. She’s the one staple- gunning the terrified bawling infant to some old bloke’s leg so she can have a Santa photo. What’s with the Santa photo?

There is no such thing as the magic of Christmas. It’s a PR campaign. I am sure when Mary and Joseph first conceptualized Christmas with their off the- wall plan to give birth in a barn, they had no intention of it becoming a retail bonanza. Who would have thought that some pregnant teenager with a thing for authority figures, who ended up settling for a tradesman with no more than a donkey to his name, would have spawned not only the son of God, but also the biggest day on the retail calendar?

We’re all so over-indulged. When I was a kid, getting a present used to mean something. Christmas meant two gifts under the tree. Not 200. For me it was usually something like a Bible and a Barbie. It was my mother’s plan for religious and gender indoctrination. Except for my birthday, these were the only gifts I received all year. I made Barbie act out the Bible stories. She made a startling Virgin Mary, riding in to Bethelem on Brian, my fox terrier, wearing only a tutu. She gave birth to baby Jesus in the stereo cabinet that housed my mum’s Barry Manilow collection.

Hang on, think about it: Santa is an anagram of Satan. Satan Claus. HO HO HO. The dark capitalist prince of overspending and maxed-out credit cards. So I’ve decided that I’m not going to perpetuate this ridiculous commercial myth. And no, I’m not wrecking the magic of my daughter’s childhood. If the only magic that our children ever have is a belief in imaginary figures like Santa, marketing gimmicks designed to increase retail profits, then I’d rather she grow up a sad old cynic like me.

I don’t think believing in Santa is healthy. It teaches us to distrust the adult world and proves outright that our parents lie to us. I was five when I found out that Santa wasn’t real. I’d left my teddy out to greet him and a neighbourhood dog had torn him to shreds. When I woke up to the polyester-and-flocking carnage all over the front lawn, I knew that Santa had anger management issues.

I think it’s time we had a Santa-free Christmas and boycotted his politically incorrect abuse of dwarves as slave labour. Santa is not the jolly, gift-giving, red-suited fatty who lives in the North Pole with his equally over-the-top wife. Santa is the hard working mother, or father, who’s had to work extra long hours to buy their darling little ungrateful treasures such as iPads and mobile phones. And some of us have even had to do the odd shift as a HO

HO HO. Ah, the magic.