I think telling kids that Father Christmas exists is child abuse. Period.
I believe it is cruel. I believe it should be outlawed and any offenders brought through the courts and made to pay for the mental cruelty that it inflects upon the poor child.
A child is born naturally trusting and looking for guidance in trying to make sense of this existence. So, one of the first things a lot of people do is fill their enquiring minds with mumbo jumbo about gods and religion. Next they think it’s hilarious to convince them that a fat stranger who looks weird in a red suit with a huge unkempt beard is some kind of magic man who can climb down a chimney in order to leave a child presents.
Yeah, right.
After the first six or seven years of this abuse, it apparently becomes hilarious watching the crestfallen child cry itself to sleep having just discovered that Santa is a fake and the laugh’s all on them.
Aren’t parents wonderful.
Anyway. That’s the backdrop and my thinking with regard to the whole Father Christmas thing.
And that’s why fate was cruel to me when I lost a bet over something unrelated. My forfeit was to be Father Christmas. And to work in a Grotto.
England's England 