Cans of lager and packets of lard - four people's memories of Santa

You're standing in the queue, about to pee yourself with excitement. Just three more kids and then it's your turn! At that point you cannot think of anything greater than the honour of being able to sit on an old man's knee and convince him you've done absolutely nothing wrong this year. No, make that ever, just to be on the safe side. After all, you absolutely have to be sure of getting that A La Carte Kitchen or that Barbie Dream House, otherwise you will actually die.

Two more kids before you. You start to panic – maybe Santa will run out of time or run out of presents before he sees you? Quietly you start to think about ways you could get the other kids out of the way. Maybe shout really loudly to Santa that the two kids in front of you robbed a bank this Spring, so they definitely shouldn't get anything.

Luckily, by the time your stupid four year old brain has hatched this plan, the two kids in front have been and gone, and there you are, standing in front of a wonderland that contains all your hopes and dreams -

Now it's time for you to meet the big man -

Holy hell, could this get any more exciting? Now's not the time to get stagefright and be a wuss. Mentally you go over your Christmas list one more time, just to make sure there's nothing you've forgotten. Then you're ushered in by an elf, and the greatest meeting since the Frost/Nixon interview can begin.

Now, because my coffee and beer fuddled mind cannot come up with more than one memory of going to see Santa, I've invited some of my esteemed colleagues to write about their memories of the big guy.

Firstly, the mister's memories of Santa -

"All kids know that dodgy garden centre Santa isn't really Santa but one of his “helpers” (editor's note – I thought it was really Santa, but I was an idiot). When I was a child I wondered about the inner workings of this arrangement. Did these toys come from the North Pole, or were they actually the ones next to the weird green stuff you put dried flowers in? Did Santa have a standardised training policy to maintain his brand image? Did they have a union? Did they report back to Santa daily with gift givings to make sure that if someone was actually a dick they could have the present forcibly removed? And if so, how did the elves sort through all those letters AND the ones sent by kids? Did their pay come through the same distribution channel? Where does Postman Pat get off having a van if Santa can use magic? Stupid Pat.

All of this was moot though, because I never received presents from Santa when I was a kid.

This wasn't because I was some sort of social leper (I was but that's not the point), but for two other, more boring reasons. One - you would never hear the “S” word uttered in my house unless it was coming from Dudley Moore or bellowed over the top of a Coca-Cola advert, he was definitely Father Christmas in my day. Two - present giving in my family was apparently non-standard. You see I never actually received presents from the bearded one, all my presents were from actually real life people. People like my sister, and odd family members who weren't actually related but were suspiciously close to my mother that we called Uncle Steve. And of course from my parents. But never Father Christmas.

They explained this by saying that Father Christmas didn't know how to make things like Gameboys and graphics calculators because he only did woodwork at school. So, they bought the presents, and then sent them to Father Christmas for later delivery. Being a moron (and 7) I never questioned that my parents had reduced Father Christmas down to some sort of 80s Ebay, and instead held my head high, since I had been trusted with knowledge of the inner workings of the North Pole's empire. Later I realised it was all a sham, but carried on pretending, because it got me more presents.

Things nowadays are completely different. Instead of the 80s Ebay where my dad bought everything, I now have the actual Ebay. Which I use to buy what I actually want, and not a sodding graphics calculator."

Alex is 30 and a half.

Now some thoughts from my alcoholic friend Ginny – his blog can be found HERE

"My dad used to run a working men’s club, a British Legion to be precise. Every year on Christmas Eve he’d organise a big party for all the local kids, get the big function room all decorated with tinsel and stuff and a huge tree (well I was only a little kid, it looked bloody gigantic to me).

When the music was blaring out and all the games were in full flow, we’d turn around and there would be Santa. He’d be stood at the bar, pint glass in hand and now that I look back on it, he never looked that impressed to be there.

He’d be all jolly to us all, say “ho, ho, ho” and everything that you’d expect him to say, sit us all on his lap (not all at the same time obviously), give us some cheap tat for a present and promise to bring the rest later.

The party would end quite a bit before midnight; the parents would take all the kids home. I’d stay on a bit, waiting for my mother to finish cleaning up behind the bar so she could run me and my siblings home. When we got home we’d leave the usual carrot and saucer of milk for Rudolph and for the main man himself there would be a couple of cans of lager (Editor's note – in the North of England you were supposed to leave a packet of lard out for Santa.) and some chocolate bars.

I did used to wonder though; if Santa drank at every house and party he was at, how did he manage to deliver presents all over the world?"

I also phoned my dad up and asked him for his memories of the big red dude. He got sidetracked and started talking about firemen wearing bras, but in the middle of that we have some fine 1950s Santa memories -

“We went every year to see Santa at the local fire brigade Christmas party, held at the fire station (I should explain that my dad's dad was a fireman). The firemen who were not currently putting out fires put on various bits of entertainment for the kids. This involved firemen dressed in fairy wings and bras, singing well known easy listening standards. One fireman's bra fell up and somehow ended up in the audience. A little girl brought it back, holding it over her own non-existent boobs on the way to the stage.

When Santa (one of the firemen) finally made his appearance, wouldn't you know it – I was the last in line. I was so worried he'd run out of presents, I didn't know what to do. I didn't realise that “Santa's” presents had been supplied by our own parents. I became more and more anxious, cursing myself for not fighting my way to the front. However, this story has a happy ending – I got a cowboy fort! Made by my Dad, who made a lot of toys for me.

That reminds me Jenny, did I tell you about the last episode of Homes Under The Hammer I saw?...”

This was my cue to politely make my excuses and disconnect the call.

Personally, my best memory of Santa is getting some pots and pans. I was so overjoyed with this; I probably had the A La Carte kitchen to use them in by this time. This year I am expecting the following things from Santa -

A bottle of alcoholic booze

A copy of Viz

20 things from the pound shop

A hangover

Fewer pots n pans than I have had in previous years

Finally, just a reminder – don't forget to leave a can of lager and a packet of lard out for the big guy.