[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.]