Dear Santa,

Well, another year has nearly come and gone since you last heard from me, and as you know, I am not usually one to complain about what you send down my chimney, but, I was hoping that this year we could perhaps re-look at my list a little closer.

I know that you, the missus, the dwarf and the alcoholic with the red nose do the best that you can, but honestly, last year, I think you really scraped the barrel and trawled the plastic Taiwanese section for the pre-Christmas specials. I am also aware that there is a recession on and it hits you guys up at the North Pole as well, but Peter De Villiers in my stocking, what were you thinking?

Let me go through the things you gave me from my list, as I think it’s important for the future. At my age, when I ask for a viagra, you can’t fob me off with a blue smartie. I really will see the difference pretty quickly.

Let me start with my main present as I have already mentioned Peter De Villiers. What happened? It was my son, JFK junior (admittedly letters were sent at the same time, so perhaps that confused you), who asked for a clown for his toy circus, not me. I asked for a coach. By the way, JFK junior got a toy bus, what was that about? To be honest, I would have rather had the proverbial ‘socks’ than what I got. Santa, the reason I wanted a coach was so that my old ‘ticker’ would not be sent into overdrive during the WC – my quack said that this was not a good thing at my age. The upshot is that I have aged by 10 years, my quack has told me he can no longer help, and my wife is rubbing her hands together with glee, as she clutches my life insurance forms to her chest with a very happy ‘shopping-like’ look that I haven’t seen before.

But being one for not dwelling to long on one thing, let me move on. When I asked you to send that hooker, the young blonde one with a big chest I picked up outside Stade de France in 1997 with that necklace made of gold, drinking out of that goldy coloured goblet, I didn’t mean send me John Smit. Marie Antoinette sounds nothing like John Smit! And anyway, even if I was that interested in him, the first thing he did was jump into bed with Peter De Villiers.

Lastly, Santa, when I asked you to bring the Biffer and the Proteas home with the One Day World Cup, I didn’t expect to see a bunch of old flowers in a coffee mug and a copy of the latest Beano Annual on the mantle piece.

Well it’s over now Santa, and whilst I can’t cry over spilt milk, I can’t go through this again. So please, Santa, listen this time.

All I want this year is a coach who knows what he is doing, a Captain who can lead from the front and deserves his position, rugby bosses that can spell the word rugby, and a return to winning ways.

That, Santa, is all I ask. I have been a good lad, I think. I have given up smoking, I have only got drunk every other weekend and I have stopped having dirty thoughts about that blonde slapper in Paris.

Thank you, Santa, in advance. Just For Kicks.

P.S. Oh yes I forgot, one last thing, I have a skip outside the house with some rubbish for the dump, please can you throw Bryce Lawrence and the Stormers in on your way past.