Andrew Hoyle: ‘I guess even the man in the red and white suit has to tighten his silver-buckled belt in these straitened times’

IT IS often said that the best things in life are free, and I shall be reminding our three children of this maxim exactly two weeks from today, should they come downstairs to find their Christmas stockings lolling listlessly from the fireplace, void save for a walnut, tangerine and 50p piece.

Thanks to the dire global economy, their politely written glorified begging letters to Santa may have been in vain.

Yes, a little elf has informed me that even Father Christmas has not escaped the ravages of the recession. And my spies close to the North Pole boardroom tell me that management there has decreed the traditional reindeer-driven-sleigh, fat-man-down-the-chimney, naughty/nice checklist business model is unable to compete with online gift delivery – even if it results in excited kiddies waking on Christmas Day to find a card on the doormat saying some half-cut postie made a botched attempt to deliver a parcel but couldn’t be bothered to wait four seconds for someone to answer the door, and it can now be collected from a distant sorting office between the hours of 4am and 5am, Monday to Tuesday, every other leap year.

My elfin insider is also saddened to report that following an overview of core areas of the toy-making and despatch business by some Lapland-based bean-counter, and after a cursory one-month consultation process, several of Santa’s little helpers have been made redundant. Oh and the flying reindeer have been sold to a venison producer. It’s called progress, didn’t you know?

I guess even the man in the red and white suit has to tighten his silver-buckled belt in these straitened times. And besides, what pleasure do children really derive from receiving expensive toys that are invariably broken before Boxing Day or superseded by another garish trinket given saturation advertising on some satellite TV channel?

Was it any different when I was a child? Sadly I have no idea – years of helping to finish any whisky that Father Christmas may have left untouched by the fireplace in his haste to complete his hectic schedule has left yawning chasms in my memory. But I have a suspicion that Santa always came good in the end – and I reckon against all the odds he may just do so again this time. Happy Christmas when it comes. n