Johnny Moore: Leave Santa's bones alone, traitors of childhood
OPINION: I know it's a bit early in the cycle to be discussing Christmas related news but I firmly believe we need to debunk fake news.
So: a pox on the people who say they've found Santa's crypt and a pox on the failing news outlets perpetuating this lie. Fake News! Sad! What aspect of human welfare I wonder is served by insisting that we must put aside our childish belief in myth and "grow up"?
The story goes something like this: Turkish archaeologists reckon they've uncovered the burial place of Saint Nicholas who the hacks reporting on the story tell us "gave rise to the Santa Claus myth."
And just like that, the liberal media ruined Christmas.
If I am calm enough, I can still conjure childhood feelings of those days leading into Christmas – wonder, anticipation, hope, and deep, deep happiness. The twinkling tree… and that smell.
Mostly the memories are rich and dripping in nostalgia. Being tucked in and told to sleep. Boy, sleep was hard to find on those nights – but find it I eventually did. Then the leap out of bed at about 5 am, fully alert and fantastically excited.
Now they're telling me that Santa was just a rotten old pile of bones buried in a crypt in Turkey. Pah. Nonsense.
Here's the scoop on what really happened with Santa. Some real news up in your grill folks. After about 150 year of living alongside Santa, the town volk began to get suspicious of him never getting older, of how he'd spend the summer just lolling about, then disappear from autumn until spring every year.
And what kind of person keeps a parcel of reindeer in the back garden? Let alone the reindeer with what appeared to be an sexually transmissible infection of the nose. The town gossips started to talk about witchcraft and devilry.
And you know what they did to practitioners of witchcraft and devilry in those days? Well, it makes the torture of prisoners at Gitmo look like a trip to Disneyland.
So, over about 20 years, Santa developed a huge beard, gradually whitening it with sauerkraut juice, and worked on his posture when out in public to seem increasingly stooped, elderly and fragile-looking. He also started wearing very high-waisted pants – a sure-fire way to tell that someone is elderly.
He must've concocted some kind of tragedy, which meant his "corpse" was unrecognisable (left a candle burning too close to the drapes perhaps and razed the house?), so that whichever body he'd acquired as a stand-in would be accepted (don't ask how Santa got a dead body – now that's a yarn in itself).
Poof! In that place, he never was seen again. And that explains the silly bones they're calling Santa.
So, yes they may have found the burial place of Santa, but it doesn't mean it's Santa's bones there. Anyone who believes this is a traitor to childhood.
And, please Santa, I know we're 72 days out but if you're listening, I'd like a set of stick-on joke moustaches, a supercharger for a 1936 Riley and some of those sweet new water balloons where you can fill a dozen at a time and you don't even have to tie them off.
Oh, and if it's not too much to ask of you Santa – and since I'm probably the first order of the year I'm sure it'll be achievable – maybe you could stump up and get me a new pair of gummies. With all this rain we've been having I've noticed mine are letting in water.
And while you're at it, make sure those "archeologists" in Turkey get nothing this year. They've been naughty.