[Audio begins] Dear Santa. For Christmas, I wish for a pruning shears, tree fertiliser some more leaves to grow out of my- [There is a cough, followed by a female voice muttering unintelligibly] What? Oh, come on, Theresa. It’s not tasteless when I say it! You’re taking the fun out of it! Alright, fine. [Audible cough] Dear Santy, for Christmas, I wish for industrial grade therapy for my daughter- [More unintelligible muttering, this time with an angry twinge] Oh for fuck’s sake, Terry, calm down. I was jokin’! Look, I’ll be serious this time. Dear Santy, for Christmas, I would like two hundred pints of Murphys and a weekend in the Bahamas. Failing that, I would like not to have to record audio letters to a non-existent icon of modern commercial culture derived from a Christian saint who wasn’t actually all that great. Much love and ganja fumes, Black Tom. Is that acceptable, darling? Good. Now fuck off, I’m trying to sleep. [Audio ends.]
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