I’m 21 and I still believe in Father Christmas

While skinny Santas in Poundland costumes are ruining Christmas for the children of Milton Keynes, there’s something much worse looming over my festive season this year.

It’s impossible to open a newspaper or slump in front of the TV without the eyes of a homeless Syrian child cutting through your soul and destroying whatever Christmas spirit you’d been able to muster in this harsh, hateful world.

Most youngsters have an older sibling to tell them that Jolly Old Nick is just a myth, or they realise the harsh truth themselves as their minds grow.

For me, that bombshell never went off.

Throughout my childhood, the idea of Father Christmas as a real person magically flying to our houses on Christmas Eve was never there in the first place. So now, with my mature mind I have decided to believe in Santa Claus.

There’s much more to it than basic Christmas spirit – this choice to believe in a supernatural being to whom you write letters and hope to receive something is a lot more logical than it sounds.

From an early age, my Christian school had me praying to a deity to ask for things, hoping to magically receive them, while teaching me about the Crusades and holy war in history lessons.

It was clear to my little fresh-faced self that this didn’t make sense – especially since Father Christmas had been something of a joke in my household and the concept was very similar. A bearded chap who lives somewhere you can’t see, but he can see you all the time, and if you ask for something he might provide it if you do good things unto others.

The stories about Saint Nick are MUCH better than the boring old Bible. Would you rather sit around and hear about a bloke being burned alive for all eternity, or a story about a bumbling fat bloke who spreads joy and happiness? Would you rather watch Passion of the Christ, or Elf? It makes for a much cheerier life if you denounce religion in favour of belief in the true higher being – the one with the red suit and a horde of reindeer.

Santa won’t stop you from speaking in a lecture or make you sit apart from other people because of your gender either. He’s generally just a really nice chap who’s partial to a cookie or two.

One of the most wonderful things about the festive season is the fuzzy glow you feel inside when you think about Santa’s sleigh soaring high in the sky, towed by magical reindeer. That’s the magic. It makes you forget about the sad advert with the slow ballad and the crying child. It helps you to ignore the violence caused by religions, safe in the knowledge that nobody is dying horribly over the way they believe in Saint Nick.

Father Christmas doesn’t divide nations, or commit you to infinite fire and brimstone if you don’t believe in him. He just eats your biscuits, drinks your milk, and fills you with an immense feeling of warmth and joy.

It’s a more fulfilling feeling than singing hymns in a stuffy chapel, and you don’t have to feel bad about not writing him a letter if you’re too busy. All things considered, I’m much happier since I chose to believe in Santa Claus.