Wish-list/hit list:Dear Santa, I hope you and yours are keeping well and you've both had a good year. To be honest, mine's been only average.
My cunning plan to trundle out your old pal Gaybo to act as my flak jacket has failed pitifully.
I was really hoping that would buck up my defences, but I'm still pulling pellets out of my backside on a daily basis. Then we gave the proles Tranport 21. They would have bought it too, if those pesky journalists hadn't pointed out it had more holes in it than a machine-gunned Aran jumper.
And finally, there was Aer Lingus. I nearly had to come looking for a job making toys after that one. That O'Leary pest had us all going there for a while.
Between you and me, I reckon he'd make a great taoiseach. At least you know where you stand with him. Shame it's usually out on the tarmac in the rain forty miles from your hire car.
Still, he'd never go for it, even if Mickey McD offered him the job. Too low a profile, I reckon.
So if we can't join him we'll have to beat him. Will you do me a favour and take him back to the North Pole with you? Try and sell him a lottery ticket on the journey, for the laugh. You can do as you will with the Mullingar menace when you get home. In fact, you can dip him in sausage meat and throw him to the reindeer for all I care. Or maybe you could get him overseeing your elves. I take it they're unionised? That'll really drive him nuts. He, like Aer Lingus' share price when he disappears, will go through the roof.
As for the Port Tunnel and Westlink, don't get me started. I've already gone into hiding over those two. Keep the head down and nobody can shoot it off, that's my motto. Speaking of which, whatever my troubles, at least I'm not Minister for Justice. Thank God for small mercies. Anyway, to the matter at hand, namely my real Christmas present.
I take it you remember my request last year for you to drop off a few extra lanes for the M50 as a goodwill gesture? I don't see any extra lanes. And, consequently, I'm not feeling any goodwill. So this year you'll have to make it up to me. Or there will be consequences.
Here's what I want - I need you to drop into a decommissioned nuclear reactor on your way over Siberia and pick up some of that Polonium stuff for me. As you can imagine, there are a few journalists here whom I'd like to see enjoying a warm Christmas glow.
Of course, the above is in strictest confidence. I can make things very messy for you if this letter leaks. I hear you are fond of the odd tincture of sherry during your Christmas Eve jaunt. Did you ever wonder what the Gardai would have to say about a man driving an articulated sled whilst under the influence of the grape?
I can make sure random breath testing isn't random at all, if you get my drift. I can't imagine news you've been spending your Christmas Eve in a cell in Shannon airport would endear you to too many present-less children.
I assume you are also aware of my boss Bertie's close relationship - the one built entirely on mutual respect - with the Great President Bush?
If you don't want us to have Osama bin Laden extraordinarily renditioned and waiting for you in that self-same cell, you'll keep schtum about my plan.
I'm told Osama's none-too-enamoured with the whole Christmas thing. The sight of you will drive him mad as McDowell at a Shinners' ard fheis.
I can't imagine you'll be able to placate him with handy tips on beard-trimming techniques or the offer of a slug from your hipflask.
I trust we understand each other.
Yours sincerely,
Martin Cullen
