Hello all you wee ones across the globe! You'll be pleased to know I've been a busy bee practising my rooftop wheelies for the big night ahead!
I can't wait to set off on my rollicking ride on Christmas Eve. One of the great joys of this job is that I get to see you kids tucked up in bed and have a quick snifter of your poppa's tipple before moving on to the next home. E... is that why folk sometimes point at my crimson cheeks and giggle?
Oh all right, the sleigh does get a bit wobbly when I hit the last stretch of my long journey, but Rudolph is a good sport. He's always very happy to take over the reins and then I get to have a nap on the back seat.
The elves say I snore, but they are just being mischievous. Even though he has a red nose, Rudolph prefers rain water to whisky. Odd, hey?
But it means if a nasty cop locks me up in the small room with the big padlock, Rudolph will always be there to deliver your presents!
Good old reliable Rudolph. He is what grown-ups would call my chargé d'affaires. He makes sure the paperwork is all in order for customs and that the elves keep their passports up to date.
I'm proud to say I hold the record as the most well-travelled grandpa on the planet. I've got so many Voyager miles I can take Mrs Claus to her favourite holiday spot each year. She really loves showing off her bikini in the Bahamas!
But don't think being Santa Claus is as easy as munching mince pies. I know your older brothers and sisters tell you Santa has a cushy job and that I spend all day drinking gluhwein by the jugful and dipping my fingers in Mrs Claus's gingerbread jar. They are telling porkies!
There are lots and lots of chores to do before I can pack those mountains of prezzies on the back of the sleigh. (Remember to do your chores as well, children, or your poppa and momma won't let me visit you!)
Rudolph and I get the sleigh spick and span for the long ride. I promised the folks who hired me that we'd never burst a tyre and that the satnav would always be in working order. We can't disappoint our little ones!
THE BEST ANTIDOTE TO THE HATERS AND FAT-SHAMERS
If you are thinking you'd make a good Santa when I finally retire to a golf estate in Florida, I'll tell you a little secret... shhhhhhhh, don't let anyone else know... you have to be able to laugh and laugh and laugh.
It's not always so easy to have a good chuckle. You wouldn't believe it, dear ones, but a lot of folks love to make jokes about my... er... generous waistline. They call me jumbo, porky, the red-cheeked dumpling and other funny names. They ask rude questions, like how can I possibly squeeze down so many chimneys with my impressive girth?
What my critics don't know is that the ladies love me.
I often get letters from fair ones begging me to pose with them for selfies in nothing but my jockstrap! No doubt they'd like to get their claus into me. Ho, ho, ho. I have to say no, of course, as for some reason the very thought sends Mrs Claus into spasms of giggles. I have to monitor her heart condition. I write back gently telling my female admirers that only polar bears dance around butt naked in the snow.
So I always have a good laugh despite those who keep prodding me in the tummy. Have any of them appeared on countless magazine covers and Christmas cards? Do any of them have a bearded old man at every shopping mall across the globe trying to look like them? I've even heard that they call me a social media influencer. (I'm not exactly sure what it means, but it sounds grand.)
Even Gwyneth Paltrow relaxes her corset on Christmas Day. She puts away the broccoli and bean sprouts she usually feeds her kiddies and piles plates with delicious cranberry sauce and gammon. Nobody, but nobody, is like that old crosspatch Oliver Cromwell, who banned Christmas feasting as "lewd behaviour" in 1647. (He never got a prezzie under his Christmas tree!)
Even my neighbour Mr Ebenezer Scrooge, who was once a crabby old miser, does his best to make sure orphans get lots of goodies on Christmas Day.
Let me tell you another secret . don't chortle now . I'm also a stylista! Think about it, not even those poor peasants who suffered bunions on their feet when Mr Mao Zedong dragged them on safari across China did as much to promote the colour red as yours truly.
But alas, despite being a ladies' man and a stylista, it's getting harder and harder to munch platefuls of mince pies without somebody bringing out their tape measure. Diet fanatics hide behind every holly bush, ready to jump out and shout "Gotcha!" when I so much as take a bite of anything sweet and sugary. I sometimes think they're a bit up the pole, but maybe that's just me. Imagine Mrs Claus's reaction if I sent dinner back to the kitchen. She'd make me feel a right turkey.
Being famous does have its drawbacks. There are also folks who frown every time I take a swig of sherry. They have given themselves a big name, the Temperance Society, and are ready to pounce every time I so much as sniff a brandy pudding. If they had their way I'd be carted off to rehab and forced to chomp carrots and drink nothing but green tea for a whole week! Thank goodness there's no space for them to ride on the sleigh on Christmas Eve.
Other folk want to confiscate my pipe! They walk around with Health & Safety badges on their boiler suits and are always trying to hide away my tobacco pouch. If I was a grumpy guy they would drive me crackers!
NO BEARS WERE HARMED IN CREATING MY WARDROBE
Sweet children, do try and do a good deed every day; it would really please your Santa, but promise me you won't become one of those crosspatch do-gooders. They don't know what it means to have a good laugh.
You'll all be pleased to know that on one point I'm happy to be politically correct. I'm about to put out a media release telling people that for years I've been wearing fake fur to help highlight the plight of the polar bears up here at the North Pole.
I know I was built for comfort not speed, but you'd be impressed if you saw how fast I can bolt across the ice to my hidey-hole when I need to. This happens when I spy officials from the department of labour sneaking up to my workshop.
They peep through the windows, to see what my little army of elves are up to. Luckily, Mrs Claus frightens off these grumpy-pants with her rolling pin. (She really is good at being scary. You should see her when she comes storming down the passage swinging her rolling pin and shouting "Stop singing Christmas carols in the bath!")
Ho! Slave labour! My little elves have the time of their lives making choo-choo trains and dolls for you wee ones. These labour people are forever muttering about the Child Labour Act as if I'm like Fagin. Do you remember Fagin? He was a nasty gentleman who forced Oliver and his gang of orphans to separate wealthy people from the contents of their pockets.
Up here at the North Pole the elves don't need to recite their times tables for teacher and are allowed to take home as many toys as they like. They can munch Mrs Claus's gingerbread men and Rudolph takes them for spins in his sleigh every day.
So, little ones, spare a thought for old Santa when you tear the wrapping paper off all your lovely presents on Christmas Day. I'll be riding back to home and Mrs Claus with aching bones and wobbly legs, but, rest assured, all your presents will be tucked safely under the Christmas tree...