PITFALL SATIRE

A Twisted Childhood Christmas Conspiracy

Awakening to the truth about Santa and Christmas

I first became aware of the conspiracy in the early eighties.

I’d spent years in blissful ignorance, writing letters to Santa, often months in advance. Counting down the days with those stupid advent calendars your Mum puts on the wall. Each morning, eagerly opening those tiny doors smaller than a thumbnail, leading up to the big day.

Then there was all that ‘hanging out the stocking the night before’ ritual. Or, in my case, a gigantic pillowcase because my parents were filthy rich.

I’d leave a tipple for Santa and a carrot for his reindeer near the fireplace. I’m from England and we had chimneys in those days. Just like the rooftop scene in that Mary Poppins movie — it’s the preferred method of entry for the big man in red.

I don’t think we ever spared a thought for what the poor kids living in council flats did. It was all “Chim-chiminey, Chim-chim-cher-ee” for this spoilt and snotty bad-boy.

The Great Awakening

I can’t pinpoint exactly when, where, or even how, but something happened. It was like a kind of junior ‘kundalini Christmas awakening’ — a veil had been lifted.

Could it really be that Santa and Christmas was some grand conspiracy, a sick joke played on the kids of the world? Except those kids in Ethiopia we sent presents to by donating to Band Aid.

Was Santa really just some overweight, drunken Viking who kids secretly wrote to so he could get their address and break into their houses? How did he get away with it — how come nobody could catch or at least interview him? Was he even real at all?

And, what was the deal with that Jesus fella?

How did he fit into the picture? I mean, what’s the connection there? Didn’t he ride a donkey through a desert into Jerusalem? So not a reindeer or snowflake in sight, FFS. Was it actually even his birthday? How come he looked like one of those dudes from that 90s boy band Hanson, when he was in fact from the Middle East?

Something wasn’t right and the questions kept coming.

Were Mary and Joseph the first-ever IVF parents? Was that some secret alien technology they were given by the three wise men, but sworn to silence — is that the real secret in the DaVinci code? And who the fuck were those men anyway? And what’s with that Frankincense and Myrrh, what’s that all about — and why is Myrrh spelt like that?

Then we’ve got all that Carol singing malarkey with lyrics that make zero sense? What does ‘Away in a Manger’ actually mean — does anyone even know? Why is the partridge in a pear tree, and why is that song more exhausting than running a marathon with a hangover?

They say you can’t reverse the awakening process. Once the truth of life is revealed you can’t go back.

It’s true, and for me, life would never be the same. The trauma lingered like a bad smell in a department store.

Born Again Christmas

My first post-awakening Christmas was so painful. I tried the Santa letter thing again, because I still demanded presents, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

My Mum still got me an advent calendar, but it wasn’t the same, and I opened all the doors on the first day. The excitement had gone and I felt a void of emptiness within — it was the dark night of my childhood soul.

The once joyful carol singing on the doorstep now sounded tuneless — I couldn’t even be bothered to open the door. I just let them freeze in the snow, chirping away in the silent night. Why do they even call them ‘carols’ in the first place and not just Christmas songs? Was every one of those singers named Carol?

“Try as I might, my childhood wonder had simply vanished”

Then, on that fateful Christmas Eve, when my Dad said, “no need to leave the carrots out son, I never ate them anyway, but I’ll have that glass of Sherry though,” ( So who took the bite out of the carrot then, I wondered? ) it dawned on me.

Was this my rite of passage to adulthood? A boozy parental confession and shattered Christmas dreams.

Even Christmas television had soured.

I started hating that whiny little blonde kid in ‘Oliver Twist.’ Holding out his grubby hands for a bowl of gruel, “Please Sir, I want some more!” Fuck off, you annoying little git. We all know you never sung in that movie and you’re the secret father of Paris Jackson — ‘consider yourself’ one of the family?

I’d glimpsed the real world now.

A Fagin on every street corner looking to pick your pocket, or two. Scrooge became super cool, and even Spartacus’s game was up. It was obvious, really, because he stood up first and was by far the most handsome one there— Kirk Douglas, we know who you are, mate! RIP.

I swore that day, never to subject my kids to this madness.

We all want to spare them the ancestral PTSD, but when the time comes, you become helpless and join the herd anyway. It’s like some spooky kind of witchcraft where even years of saying, “Santa is a con” doesn’t shake their innocent belief.

It’s the grandest conspiracy of all. Bigger than the faked moon landings and the flat Earth theory combined. Worst of all, everything just continues exactly the same way as it always has.

Only now, I can't help but wonder — what are the AI kids gonna do?

This story is loosely based on a discussion with TzeLin Sam who, I strongly suspect, is really a Jedi Knight in disguise. Ho, Ho, Ho.

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