So – yeah, no – it’s that magical night of the year again when we all sit down as a family and write our letter to Santa Claus. We’ve the Bublé CD on and we’re all wearing our Christmas jumpers. Mine has a picture of Tadhg Furlong, Dan Sheehan and Andrew Porter wearing Santa hats and the words “O Scrum All Ye Faithful” on it. Sorcha has made hot chocolate for everyone and I’m sitting there with my pen poised.
Johnny’s like, “A focking bike!”
Leo’s there, “An electric guitor!”
Brian goes, “A mini Ferrari!”
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
And I’m like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Go slower, goys,” because I’m struggling to get it all down on paper.
But that’s when Sorcha decides to put an end to the fun.
She goes, “We’re not just going to throw everything down on paper as it occurs to us. We’re going to write a more considered letter to Santa this year?”
The boys look at me as if to say, “Talk to your wife, will you? It sounds like she’s having another one of her wobbles.”
Honor goes, “Oh my God, does this have anything to do with the letter that JP and Chloe wrote last year?”
Yeah, no, long story short, JP and Chloe posted little Isa’s Santa letter on Instagram – it was very cute, in fairness to it – and it ended up going viral. And I remember Sorcha complaining at the time that our Santa letters had all the chorm of a ransom note, containing, as they did, nothing more than a list of demands and instructions.
Why don’t we – just for one year – ask for gifts that are slightly more, I don’t know, ethereal?
— Sorcha
Sorcha produces a small box, which it turns out contains writing paper – and not just ordinary writing paper either.
“It’s from a fully sustainable source!” Sorcha goes. “Meaning it was produced using virgin fibres from a Forest Stewardship Council-certified wood, adhering to the strictest environmental, social and economic standards! It’s also corbon-neutral in the sense that any CO2 emissions caused by its production were offset by methods to remove it from the atmosphere!”
You can almost hear the Christmas joy being sucked out of the room.
Honor’s like, “I’m sure you’ll make sure to mention that in your Instagram post.”
“Also,” Sorcha goes, producing a pen, “we’re going to write it using a soy-based ink, which has a far less hormful environmental impact than petroleum-based inks.”
“People are just going to think you’re a knob,” Honor goes.
Sorcha just ignores her. She takes a page from the box and goes, “Okay, we’ll stort with the address. Obviously, it’s different from last year. We won’t go into details about the fire. We’ll just say that we’re living with Grandma and Grandpa Lalor for now. Okay, here we go. I’ll put ‘Dear Santa’. Then I’ll stort off by saying that we hope he and Mrs Claus are keeping well, despite the fact that the North Pole is, like, 20 degrees warmer than it was a century ago. And I’ll say that you’ve been very, very good boys this year.”
I’m there, “Again, we won’t mention the fire.”
She goes, “Right, what we do want for Christmas – as in, what do we, like, really want?”
I’m there, “Johnny mentioned a bike.”
“A focking bike,” Johnny goes.
I’m like, “A focking bike. I stand corrected.”
Sorcha goes, “Why don’t we – just for one year – ask for gifts that are slightly more, I don’t know, ethereal?”
The three boys look at me for an explanation.
I’m there, “I haven’t a clue, goys. I was on the senior cup team, bear in mind?”
Honor goes, “It means things that don’t cost any money.”
Sorcha’s there, “It means spiritual things.”
“Oh my God,” Honor goes, “this is totally for Instagram. People will say that your children are going to grow up to hate you.”
This is going to be the shittest Christmas ever
— Honor
Sorcha’s there, “Why don’t we ask for – just as an example – peace on Earth.”
I’m like, “Is that not–?”
Sorcha’s there, “What?”
“Well, God’s deportment?” I go. “I mean, Santa is just a dude who runs a workshop where he makes toys all year round?”
“I’m putting down peace on Earth,” Sorcha goes, then she writes the words. “Okay, what else? What about climate justice?”
“The fock is that?” Leo goes – and he’s well within his rights.
I’m there, “Again, Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?”
She’s there, “I’m going to ask him for a stabilisation in our emission of greenhouse gases in the short term to at least put off the global catastrophe that’s coming our way. And also more windmills and solar panels for the world. Okay, what else?”
“A mini Ferrrari,” Brian goes.
And Sorcha’s like, “Again, Brian, we’re trying to think of less tangible things?”
He looks at me.
I’m there, “Jesus Christ, Brian, you’d a bigger vocabulary than me when you were five.”
“Come on, what else?” Sorcha goes. “What if we just ask Santa to keep us all safe and healthy during the coming year?”
I’m there, “Again, I see Santa as the boss of a humungous Amazon-type warehouse in the snowy wilds of wherever. I think we’re asking a bit much from him. He might think we’re ripping the piss.”
But Sorcha goes, “Ross, he and Mrs Claus live on a sheet of ice that has thinned by almost 50 per cent in the last 50 years. Actually, I’ll mention that in the letter. Then I’ll sign off by saying that this is your wish for Christmas and you don’t want any material gifts this year.”
Johnny’s like, “What the fock?”
“This is going to be the shittest Christmas ever,” Honor goes.
I’m there, “It’s definitely shaping up that way.”
Sorcha’s there, “Lots of love, Honor, Brian, Johnny and Leo.”
I’m like, “Sorcha, just to repeat what Johnny said, what the fock?”
She goes, “Right, I’m going to go and make some more hot chocolate,” and she takes the letter and heads for the kitchen.
Leo’s like, “Are we getting no presents from Santa?”
Honor’s there, “Don’t worry – it’s just our mother looking for likes from strangers again.”
I go, “Has she posted it yet?”
Honor checks her phone.
She’s there, “Yeah – 30 seconds ago.”
I’m like, “Any responses yet?”
“One,” Honor goes. “Someone called her a knob. Oh, and someone else just said that her kids would grow up to hate her.”
“Right,” I go, “let’s write your real list before she comes back. Who said they wanted an electric guitor?”
