The year is 2026, and The Cheeky Charmer gets a lot more than what they asked Santa for


Christmas 2026: By Christmas Eve everyone is sick of me singing It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas in my best Bing Crosby voice. The kids cover their ears, and my wife rolls her eyes, secretly digging my inner Christmas nerd.

I’ve been upstairs 17 times and threatened to phone Santa if the little fuckers don’t go to sleep. My Dad smirks about it being payback for the Christmas they had to drug me with Calpol at 5am. I would like to address this memory. The thing everyone forgets is I was dressed in furry pink PJs, with a small teddy stuck down my pants*. The reasons mini Cheeky Charmer could not sleep were as follows:

  • I was dressed in FUR and sweating like a turkey on its way to Tesco
  • You try sleeping with a soft toy shoved down your front!
  • I was in PINK! Pink! A colour mini Cheeky Charmer would not be seen dead in.
  • Imagine an angry Care Bear – that was me Christmas 1986.

*It was in a pouch.

We wake up Christmas morning, having had approximately 90 minutes sleep, to the joyful sounds of, “He’s been!” Oh, he’s been alright (“he”, being me in full Santa Suit stuck under the kids’ beds for 45 minutes because they woke up. It took a further 45 minutes to crawl out because I put my back out. Which ruins the game of hide the mistletoe I had planned with Mrs. Cheeky Charmer.

As the kids bounce up and down on our bed, I regret self-medicating with tequila. I look like The Grinch on a bad comedown, while Mrs. Cheeky Charmer looks effortlessly amazing as usual.

We stumble downstairs to see what Santa’s left, at which point I realise its 4:30 am. 4:30 am!! My dad’s chortling in his dressing gown about payback again and I consider skewering him with a turkey twizzler.

The rest of the day is spent with me laying prostrate on the carpet, putting Lego together and reading instructions for board games no one understands. It’s all fun and games until Dad kneels on a Lego brick, shouts “Santa you bastard” and I inwardly gloat that this is “payback for payback”.

By mid-afternoon, there’s been a fight, someone’s been sick, one of the kids smacked the other over the head with a chocolate Santa, I have a black eye from an action man rocket misfire and my gran is having a nap in the corner, having overexerted herself at Twister. Which is fair enough when you’re 102. Although this is less eventful than the Christmas my mum cooked the turkey in a plastic bag (true story). We spent the afternoon picking bits of burnt plastic out like there had been an apocalypse at the turkey farm.

By 4pm, we’re all in matching reindeer onesies and snuggled on the couch watching The Christmas Chronicles part seven – yes, Goldie Hawn still looks amazing.

In this scenario “snuggled” = me being squashed by my wife and kids who are laying on me. I’m starting to think about tequila for back pain again.

By 10pm everyone’s in bed apart from me and Mrs. Cheeky Charmer, who is cosying up to me on the sofa, whispering about playing with her naughty elf. Only her naughty elf has passed out due to over excitement, lack of sleep and an ill-advised Sherry/Tramadol combo. But the smile on the Cheeky Charmer’s face says they couldn’t be happier that all the Christmas wishes they ever made have finally come true.

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