To our friend in the North

YES, it’s that time of year again. The time of year when hard-pressed hacks traditionally begin their labours with the phrase, ‘it’s that time of year again’ while the really desperate ones – the ones who find themselves with a whole column to write for publication on Christmas Eve and nothing but a measly book token yet to show for their pitiful attempts at present-buying — resort to the old trick of filling up the blank space with a ‘Dear Santa’ letter.

I suppose you could even think of it as the inky trade’s get-out Claus, ho, ho, ho.

(“Ho, ho, ho,” is good too, Santa, because, as a smart man like yourself will have observed, you get three there for the price of one and, as any self-respecting hack will tell you, every little word helps when your ultimate goal is to get to somewhere around the far-off 900-words mark. In fact, I’ve just checked and I only appear to be on 149, a frankly crushing realisation which reminds of that sensation you get on a long-haul flight when, after what seems like a couple of hours in the air, you make the mistake of looking at those little route maps they put up on the screen and discover that the tail of the plane still appears to be hovering over Swords. Yes, I know that was a bit of a digression, Santa, but it’s taken me to 234 words, so don’t knock it, fat man).

Ah, sorry about that Santa: that’s just the stress talking. Did I mention that it’s that time of year again?

Apologies too for the late dispatch of this missive. I’m well aware that Christmas Eve is the busiest night of the year for your good self but, honestly, it’s not my fault, Santa. It’s just that, in common with many of my tribe, I suffer from a terrible thing called deadlinitis, a chronic and apparently incurable condition which means that, even if we were given all the time in the world to write, say, a photo caption, we’d still be making preparatory cups of coffee and doodling in the margins as the clock struck midnight on the final day. The great Douglas Adams diagnosed this ailment pretty neatly when he said: “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by.’’

A bit like your old sleigh, what Santa? Which reminds me, of course, that this is supposed to be a letter to your good self and I haven’t even begun to tell you what I want yet. But, soft, there’s method to my madness, Santa, and not only because I see we’re now at around 450 words, which is cruising altitude in anyone’s book.

And here’s the thing which makes this unlike any of the ‘Dear Santa’ shocking fillers that the other deeply unoriginal hacks are penning as we speak. See, I don’t actually want anything from you, Santa. Not for me, personally, at any rate, and certainly nothing that you will have to haul down my chimney and place under my tree.

Nope, all I want you to do is to wrap something. Or, to be more precise, some people.

I don’t know if you’re much of a football man, Santa, though to judge by your colour scheme I’d hazard a guess that you’ll be following the old Europa League next year, eh? But the fact is, Santa, that down here in the Republic we’re concerned with much bigger fare – namely, the European Championship finals in Poland and Ukraine next summer. We had a few scrapes getting through, if truth be told, but we’re there now for the first time in 24 years, and what with the poor old country knee-deep in gloom, we really need things to go as well as possible next summer. The only problem, Santa, is that we’re up against Italy, Croatia and world and European champions Spain, and we simply can’t afford to be going up against those lads without our top men in top condition.

Which is why I want you to wrap a few people, Santa, fellas with names like Duffer, Keano, Shay and Big Dunney. In football, they like to talk about “wrapping a player in cotton wool” but I think that should only be a starting point for you, Santa. By all means, use the cotton wool and plenty of it, but please don’t hesitate to add layers of bubble-wrap, blankets, sponge, lagging jackets or whatever the hell it takes to ensure they’re kept safe and sound through the winter and spring.

As I say, Santa, I’m not looking for you to deliver them to my house. Once the wrapping is done, all you need to do is tuck them away in one of your high-security storerooms up there at the North Pole – Duffer’ll go straight into hibernation mode, anyway — and then, around about late May, pop their batteries back in and sleigh them safely to a Mr Giovanni Trapattoni Esquire in time for kick off against Croatia in June.

Not much to ask for Santa, is it? Even if it did take me over 900 words to finally get to the point. But now, thankfully, the deed is done and we can turn our full attention to a certain little girl who will be scanning the sky before bed time tonight and hoping Barbie and Ken show up under the tree in the morning.

So you and I still have important work to do this night, Santa.

Meantime, thanks for the word count, old sport – and a very Happy Christmas to one and all.

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