You have probably heard people talk about their worst ever Christmas. The day the oven broke, or the car blew up, or someone broke their leg, or a massive argument took place.

I can confidently say that my ‘worst Christmas ever’ story beats them all. My worst Christmas was also my first. And I have my father to thank. If it weren’t for my dad, I wouldn’t have been celebrating Christmas at all. And if it weren’t for him, there would have been nothing bad about that Christmas, either.

Let me explain.

Not everyone celebrates Christmas. Not even all humans celebrate Christmas. And humans are the only creatures who do. So that means that Earth is the only planet in the universe that celebrates Christmas. It’s the only planet in its solar system that has any life at all – the only planet in its whole galaxy that has any life.

And that means that my family and I had to travel a very, very long way to find it.

We come from the planet Amzabar-Kaywar, in the galaxy Blostrub. At least, that’s how you would say it. You wouldn’t be able to say it the way we say it.

I know now that humans have spent thousands of years wondering if there is any intelligent life out there in the universe. Well, there is, and we are it. At least, we’re intelligent in some ways, and not so intelligent in others. A little like humans in that respect.

You would call us aliens (which is exactly what I would call you). We call ourselves the Baver.

Some Baver never leave Amzabar-Kaywar. They have very limited horizons. My family was different. My dad, in fact, was an expert in the aliens known as human beings. He knew everything there was to know about humans. Our house (I’m calling it a house to make things easier) was full of books (I’m calling them books) on the subject of humankind. Titles included Understanding Humans, The Mind of the Human, Walking with Humans and Among Humans. My dad was such an expert on humans that he had written his own book about humans. It was called Humans: A Study of a Primitive Culture.

I was only seven at the time all this happened, so I hadn’t read Dad’s book. I’ve read it now, though, and I wonder if things would have happened differently if I had read it. The thing is… There’s no denying that Dad was very clever, and he undoubtedly knew an awful lot about human beings – more than anyone else I’ve ever met, to be sure. But reading his book, you get the impression that he didn’t really like humans very much. In fact, he seemed to think they were rather silly.

He laughed when he talked about humans, and would often recite lists of all the things that proved how stupid humans were:

• clothes
• money
• love
• The X Factor
• umbrellas
• cigarettes
• Frozen
• high-heeled shoes
• computer games
• … and lots more.

But the silliest thing of all, he always said, the thing that proved above all else how truly stupid human beings were, was Christmas.

‘It’s ridiculous!’ he would rant. ‘Every year, in the middle of winter, when everyone’s already cold and miserable and running out of money, they go to enormous amounts of trouble to buy things they can’t afford, cook food that most of them don’t really like and play the most ridiculous music. They slaughter perfectly healthy trees and drag them into their homes, then cover them with the most bizarre assortment of ornaments you’ve ever seen: angels, reindeer, stars, robins, stockings, hats, men made from snow [and then he told us what snow was], dogs made from snow [and he told us what dogs were], holly, elves, penguins, and all sorts of other things. It’s ridiculous!’ He always finished by repeating that it was ridiculous.

And yet, however silly he thought humans were, he remained extremely interested in them, and always enjoyed telling us about them. And we loved to hear about them. The way Dad talked about humans, it was hard to believe that such a species existed. They were like a strange, unbelievable story.

But when, one day, Dad offered to take us to Earth, to show us what humans were like, we jumped at the chance. We would have to go in disguise, he told us: if humans saw what we really looked like, most of them would run away screaming and then send for people with guns to come and kill us. He said this in a very matter-of-fact way. It was all rather thrilling. Yes, we would disguise ourselves as humans and visit this ridiculous species. And we would go at the most ridiculous time of year: Christmas.

Dad researched it all. He found a human family that was visiting relatives for Christmas and he kidnapped them (yes, it’s true: alien abductions do happen). The plan was to make ourselves look like them so that we could visit their relatives and experience a real human family Christmas. Dad explained how it would work.

‘I’ve told you already how stupid humans are,’ he sniggered. ‘Their powers of perception are virtually non-existent. We will use a simple illusion to make ourselves look like these human beings. It’ll be us all along, but the humans will think it’s their relatives.’

He gave us each a hat to wear. My mum’s hat looked like a pair of reindeer antlers (I’d seen these in a book). My sister’s was green and pointy. Dad called it an ‘elf hat’. Dad himself wore one that was brown around the edges and white on top, with a tiny red bobble on top (he called it a ‘Christmas pudding hat’), and he gave me a bright red hat with white lining. I would never have admitted this to Dad, but as I put it on I got a tingle of excitement.

Dad explained that, as long as we were each wearing our hats, any humans who saw us would think we were one of them. ‘Don’t let the hat come off!’ he warned. ‘If you do, they’ll see us for the Baver we are. And then things will get complicated.’

And that was that. One cold, bright morning we arrived at the door of 12 Hawthorne Road. I was nervous, waiting for someone to come to the door. You see, the illusion didn’t work on us (as Dad explained, Baver have much better powers of perception) so to me, we all still looked like Baver. What if they opened the door and saw us for the aliens we were? I imagined them screaming and slamming the door in our faces.

But that didn’t happen. The door opened and we saw three smiley, red human faces and one serious, staring face (this was the baby). They all said ‘Merry Christmas’ and came to give us hugs. I’d never had a hug before, and it was scary to see these humans leaning in to give me one. But the actual hugs were surprisingly nice. And above all, I noticed the smells. At the time I didn’t know what they were, but now I know it was probably a mixture of perfume, chocolate, roast dinner and mulled wine. Sounds disgusting, but it was lovely at the time.

The boy, Harry, immediately took charge of me and Ekki-ekki-ekki-ekki-ekku-ekku-ekki (that’s my sister) and whisked us off to play with his new toys with him. He seemed so pleased to see us that I felt almost guilty for deceiving him. I knew that if my Christmas hat came off, he would see me for the Baver I was, and one thing was certain – if that happened, I wouldn’t be getting my turn with his new toy.

As we played, I could hear the adults talking in the background. Their conversation moved from the weather to Christmas songs to directions. I vaguely heard my dad describing which motorways you needed to go on to get to Scunthorpe, and was very impressed at his attention to detail: he really had researched humans well.

My mum was doing well too. She asked our hostess where she had bought her turkey, made an appropriate comment about how the dining table had been laid out and even held the baby for a brief time. This, I thought, was a dangerous move. Human babies are renowned for their tendency to grab things. If the baby took a shine to Mum’s hat, there would be screams all round. Thankfully, it didn’t happen.

At one point, while Harry was going to the toilet, Dad came in to check on us.

‘Isn’t it all so ridiculous,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘You’ll never believe what just happened. Brian just showed me the door wreath he made at an evening class! I mean, it’s a bunch of twigs stuck together in a circle! These humans really are stupid creatures!’

We smiled, but I felt bad. Just as Dad finished, Brian came in with a bowl full of small brown things. He popped one in his mouth, then held out the bowl to us. Uncertainly, I looked at Dad and then took one. I now know what it was: chocolate. At the time, I’d never tasted anything so delicious. Brian was smiling. He did seem a bit stupid, but all the same he was a nice person. I felt bad for laughing at him.

After a bit more playing, we were called to the table for Christmas lunch. It looked amazing. The table was covered in a bright red table cloth. Around the edge, places were laid for all of us. Beside each plate was a Christmas cracker. Climbing up beside me, Harry asked if I wanted to pull one. Dad had warned me about this. I knew that it was traditional to pull a Christmas cracker. I was expecting a small explosion, so I braced myself and was relieved when the cracker fell apart with barely a sound. Out of the cracker tumbled a paper hat, a small plastic toy and a bit of paper. Harry read out what it said:

‘Who delivers presents to cats? Santa paws!’

Everyone around the table made a groaning sound, but they all seemed happy enough. Soon, everyone had pulled their crackers and even more jokes were being read out.

‘What do you get if you cross Santa with a duck? A Christmas quacker!’

‘What is the best Christmas present in the world? A broken drum – you just can’t beat it!’

‘What do Santa’s little helpers learn at school? The elf-abet!’

I didn’t really understand any of the jokes, but it didn’t matter. It was nice to be sitting at the table, laughing with everybody else. And soon my plate was piled high with food. Harry’s mum, Sandra, helped me out by pouring gravy on my food. Brian passed me the sausages in bacon. It was all delicous, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.

In fact, the only thing that spoiled things a bit was the way Dad was behaving. At one point Brian held up his wine glass and said, ‘Merry Christmas everyone.’ Dad replied, ‘Yes, Merry Christmas everyone!’ but as he did so he looked over at me, and it was hard to believe that anyone could miss the enormous sneer on his face. As the meal went on, Dad’s taunting continued. Harry had just given a slightly out-of-tune rendition of a song about somebody who got sent lots of birds, jewellery and people for Christmas: I counted 364 gifts in total. I quite enjoyed the song, and when he finished we all clapped. But Dad took it one step further and started calling out, ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ and, again, looking over at us with a sneer on his face. This time, I saw Brian and Sandra looking at each other awkwardly. It seemed they’d noticed that Dad was being less than sincere in his applause. I didn’t like it. Harry had been nice to me: I didn’t want to laugh at him.

Mum was looking a bit worried too, and so was Ekki-ekki-ekki-ekki-ekku-ekku-ekki. A couple of times, Mum leaned over and pulled Dad’s hat more firmly onto his head, as he was moving around so much that it kept starting to slip off. One thing was clear: he wasn’t being careful enough. Soon enough I saw the reason. All the adults had been given glasses of wine. Mum had sipped at hers, but the glass was still pretty much full, whereas Dad’s was nearly empty. When Brian came around with another bottle, Mum said quietly, ‘Haven’t you had enough, dear?’ But Dad held out his glass for Brian to fill up. ‘Why not? ‘Tis the season to be jolly, after all. The most wonderful time of the year. A cause for celebration.’

It sounded like he was reciting something. Brian poured him another glass, and Dad quickly drank it, then belched loudly.

This was not going well.

After dinner we went into the living room to open presents. It did seem a bit silly to sit around a dead tree adorned with lights and plastic, passing around the gifts. But as my pile of presents grew bigger, I couldn’t help but get excited to find out what was in them. And all the time, Harry, Sandra and Brian kept smiling at me, and it felt nice. Even the baby laughed at one point, and I couldn’t help but laugh too.

We started to unwrap our presents, and I quickly got the hang of what was expected of me. Some of the presents were good ones: toys that seemed interesting, or nice things to eat. Others were less appealing: socks, or books that didn’t look very interesting. I learned that whatever I opened, I was to look surprised, then pleased, then say, ‘Thank you very much.’ Mum was doing it too, and so was Ekki-ekki-ekki-ekki-ekku-ekku-ekki.

But yet again, Dad was going over the top. ‘A scarf!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thank you. It’s perfect! You know me so well, Brian and Sandra! What care you must have taken when choosing this for me. It must have taken hours to work out the perfect gift for me.’

I glanced at Mum nervously. She had a look of enormous fear on her face.

‘Darling,’ she said, ‘why don’t you sit —’

But Dad wasn’t listening. He was wrapping his new scarf round and round his neck, still talking loudly about what a perfect present it was. Everyone was watching. It was excruciating.

Mum stood up and touched Dad’s elbow. He turned suddenly, and then something awful happened. He didn’t mean to do it, I know, but somehow he knocked Mum over, and she fell into the Christmas tree, which came crashing down. I heard a scream, and at first I thought Mum was hurt. But then I realised what had happened. Her hat had come off! Harry and his family were seeing her for what she really was: a big, ugly, scary alien.

Seeing what had happened, Dad swiftly pulled off his hat too. Now there were two ugly aliens in Brian and Sandra’s living room, and the screams were even louder.

Dad looked at me and Ekki-ekki-ekki-ekki-ekku-ekku-ekki. ‘I think this is our cue to leave, kids,’ he laughed. He held out his hand for me to take.

For a brief moment, I didn’t move. I looked around me at the living room, at the Christmas tree on the floor, at the screwed-up wrapping paper everywhere, the Christmas cards, the toys, the games, the chocolates. I didn’t want to go.

But a second later, I realised I had no choice. I allowed myself to be whisked out into the street and we made our getaway.

I have no idea what happened to that family. I can’t imagine that anybody would have believed them if they tried to explain what had happened. Perhaps they just blocked the whole thing from their minds, as humans are prone to do. Maybe they forgot the whole thing.

But I didn’t. I didn’t forget a thing. It had been my first Christmas – and, as I told you right at the beginning, my worst Christmas. I never forgot the sneering way my Dad mocked everybody at the table, or the looks of terror on the faces of Harry and his family when they saw my mum and dad for what they really were. I never forgot, and I never really forgave my dad either. He was the cleverest person I knew, but I realised that day that he was also the meanest.

So I remembered all the horrible things that happened that day. But I also remembered all the nice things: all the food, and singing, and playing, and laughing. I remembered all of it, and I took those memories back home with me. And now I’m an adult, I can proudly say that I know a thing or two about humans, too. I still live on Amzabar-Kaywar, but I make occasional visits to Earth with my own family, and I’m pleased to say that I have never once been detected for the Baver I really am. We’ve experienced many of the silly things humans do: from weddings to barbecues to country dancing to paintballing to rollercoasters to waterskiing. They’re all silly, and all fun. But the silliest of all – and, for me, the most fun of all – is Christmas.

Once upon a time, the animals of the jungle were having an argument. It was about the true meaning of Christmas.

If you’d been passing by in the jungle that day, you would have been forgiven for thinking that you were just hearing the normal call of the jungle animals, as the dense woodland resounded with whistles, shrieks, growls and howls. But in fact, each animal was expressing very clearly his or her understanding of the true meaning of Christmas.

The problem was, every animal thought that he or she knew the correct way to celebrate Christmas, and that all the other animals were wrong. However articulately they expressed themselves, they continued to disagree, and not one of them would concede that there was any truth at all in the others’ opinions.

The argument continued until it was interrupted by a deafening growl, and the animals turned to see the Lion, the king of the jungle, standing nearby.

“Hello everyone,” beamed the Lion. “What’s going on here?”

It was interesting to see the change that the Lion’s arrival had on the animals. Rather than talking over each other, interrupting and shouting as they had before, the animals were now very reluctant to speak at all. The Lion was the king of the jungle, and a very powerful beast. Aware of his might, most of the animals were understandably reluctant to draw undue attention to themselves.

Timidly, the Mandrill explained to the Lion what their argument was about. 

The Lion pondered the matter for a few moments, then announced: “I think I have a solution to this problem. I am the king of the jungle, but I think it is important to consider the views of my subjects. So, on Christmas Day, I will come to visit each of you in turn and see how you celebrate Christmas. Then, in the evening, you will all assemble again right here, and I will announce which of you has understood the true meaning of Christmas.

The animals were delighted – each thinking he was right, every animal was convinced that, when the Lion saw how he celebrated Christmas, the king of the jungle would be sure to announce him the winner. They all scurried off to spend the rest of Christmas Eve preparing.

The Capybaras’ Christmas

The Lion’s first stop on Christmas morning was the home of the Capybaras, who lived in a marshy area surrounded by dense woodland.

When he arrived, he was delighted to see about thirty of these barrel-shaped creatures relaxing by the water, laughing together and chewing casually on the grass that grew in that area. “What sociable creatures the capybaras are!” the Lion said to himself.

Seeing the Lion arrive, Mr Capybara separated himself from the group and came over to greet him.

“Merry Christmas, Lion,” said the Capybara.

“Merry Christmas, Capybara,” said the Lion. “You all seem to be enjoying yourselves! Is this your family?”

“That’s right,” said the Capybara. “Christmas is a family occasion for us Capybaras. Hang on a minute – I’ll get the rest of them to say hello.”

The Capybara gave a shrill little whistle, and the other grazing capybaras turned around. Still more emerged from the water, where they had been swimming together. Then, the marshland was filled with a cacophony of purrs, barks, whistles and clicks.

“What a big family you have!” said the Lion. “And they all seem so friendly!”

“Yes,” said the Capybara. “We certainly are sociable creatures.”

“So what’s on your Christmas menu?” asked the Lion, warming to his friendly host.

“Well,” said the Capybara. “To start with, we’ve got a lovely selection of grass to choose from. Will you have some?”

The Lion shook his head awkwardly, not wanting to appear rude. “I’m not feeling that hungry, actually. Thank you for offering, though.”

The Capybara did not seem to mind. He continued:

“Then, later, we’ll have some fruit, and my wife’s got some lovely tree bark especially for today. It is Christmas, after all. Then, for dessert, we’ll finish off with a real Capybara speciality – our own faeces. You must stay and try some! It’s a wonderful source of bacterial gut flora.”

But the Lion did not seem to share the Capybara’s enthusiasm for his Christmas menu. “I’d love to, but I’d better be going,” he said hastily. “I have a lot of animals to visit today if I’m to make my decision about the true meaning of Christmas. But thank you very much for showing me how the Capybaras celebrate Christmas!”

“It was no trouble at all, Lion,” said the Capybara. “Merry Christmas!” 

As the Lion left, the Capybara turned back to his family and threw himself into the marshy water, where his young children greeted him merrily.

The Python’s Christmas

Next, the Lion went to spend a bit of time with the Python. He was a little dubious about doing so, as the Python was a strange, long, sinister-looking creature. Being a mammal himself, the Lion wasn’t sure that he could trust this cold-blooded reptile.

He found the Python lying quietly in the undergrowth. 

“Hello, Python,” he said, trying to be friendly in spite of his nervousness.

“Shhhhhhhh!” said the Python angrily.

“Sorry,” said the Lion. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m lying in wait for my prey,” said the Python. “There’s no chance anything will come this way with you sitting there growling like that!”

The Lion felt very awkward indeed. He had tried to be friendly, but the Python was simply not interested.  Nevertheless, he felt that for the purpose of accuracy, he should at least try to get an idea of how the Python spent his Christmas. So, he lay down, trying as hard as possible to make himself appear long, thin and inconspicuous, and doing his best to be quiet.

The Python stayed still for what seemed like an age. The Lion was just about to doze off when, suddenly, the Python pounced. The Lion looked up, startled, to see the Python slowly wrapping himself around what appeared to be a baby deer.

“That’s amazing,” said the Lion. “Is this what you do with all your prey?”

“Absssssolutely,” said the Python, seeming a lot more content and approachable now that he had caught his Christmas meal.

“So what will you do next?” asked the Lion.

“Well,” said the Python, “It’ll take me a while to eat my Christmas lunch. I usually only eat creatures about the size of a small cat, but I do occasionally eat bigger prey, and it is Christmas, after all. It’ll take at least the next few days to digest, so I suppose that’ll be my Christmas over again for another year.”

“That’s fascinating,” said the Lion, who personally preferred to eat a little and often. “Thank you for letting me spend some time with you, Python. It’s been interesting to see how you spend your Christmas.”

He waited briefly for a response, but the Python was now busy trying to fit his jaws around the dead deer, and was not paying the Lion the slightest bit of attention. So, the Lion left, remarking to himself what a funny world it was.

The Tapir’s Christmas

The next stop for the Lion was the home of the Tapir. He found her resting by a stream.  When he arrived, she started a little, but then quickly apologised.

“Sorry, Lion,” she said. “I didn’t mean to appear rude. It’s just that I have been having some trouble with my neighbours recently, and the noise startled me. How are you today?”

The Lion was surprised to be asked how he was – neither the sociable Capybara nor the unfriendly Python had shown an interest in him. The Capybara had been keen to show off his friendly family, and the Python had been much more interested in his Christmas meal.  The Tapir seemed different. She was a nervous creature, but polite, and anxious to make sure that the Lion was comfortable during his visit. 

“Do step this way, Lion, and make yourself at home,” she said, smiling.

The Lion was delighted, and did not hesitate to sit down in the clearing the Tapir had clearly spent some time arranging. 

“Now, Lion, I know you’re a carnivore,” said the Tapir. The Lion nodded.  “I’m afraid I’m a herbivore, and normally only eat vegetables.  But, as I knew you were visiting, I have prepared a selection of meat for you to eat.”

The Lion was astonished. He knew that the Tapir did not eat any meat at all, and he was amazed that she had gone to all this trouble. Wondering what animal she had caught for him, the Lion began to drool slightly as the Tapir led him to the eating area.

“Do tuck in,” said the Tapir, revealing an array of slugs, beetles and spiders. “I’m not used to meat and didn’t know what you would like, so I went for something quite simple. I do hope you like it.”

The dismayed Lion was not sure what to say, so he merely nodded, trying to look enthusiastic, and warily pawed the medley – which he would hardly have called meat at all.

To change the subject, he said, “Thank you for going to so much trouble. Is this how you usually spend Christmas?”

The Tapir shook her head. “To be honest with you, Lion, I’m a nocturnal creature, and would normally be asleep right now. But it is Christmas, and as I knew I had a guest coming, I thought there wouldn’t be any harm in changing my routine just the once.”

“Thank you very much, Tapir,” he said. “I’ve had a lovely time, but I need to move on.  I haven’t seen the Mandrill yet.”

“Well, it was a pleasure seeing you,” said the Tapir. “Won’t you take the rest of those slugs with you for the journey?” 

The Lion shook his head. “It was lovely,” he said, “But I’m now feeling a bit full. Thank you for going to so much trouble for me. You’re very kind.”

The Mandrill’s Christmas

The Lion had heard that mandrills were very sociable, so he was expecting to see them celebrating Christmas in a similar way to the capybaras. When he got to their settlement, he was a little surprised to see not thirty or forty mandrills, but hundreds or perhaps even a thousand of them enjoying the plentiful plants and insects that were to be found in that part of the jungle.

At first, the Lion found it hard to get the attention of the mandrills. Most of them were mothers with young children, but the Lion could not make out any distinct families, as all of the creatures were playing, fighting and chattering together. Some were hopping about, clawing playfully at each other and tumbling around. Others were on their hind legs, almost running, and hooting with glee.

Eventually, the Lion spied the male Mandrill, who was busy with one of the females. When he saw the Lion, he stopped what he was doing to come and greet him.

“Welcome to our Christmas party, Lion,” said the Mandrill. “We’re having a crazy time today – there are so many of us! I bet the other Christmas parties you’ve been to today haven’t been as wild as this one – and look at the beautiful females!”

The Lion, who lived in quite a small pride with just a few females, was a little shy, but he nodded and smiled at the Mandrill, thinking to himself that it would be wrong to let his own preferences get in the way of the Christmas judgment he was expected to make.

Urging the Lion to go and enjoy himself, the Mandrill disappeared into the crowd. The Lion padded through the settlement, trying to relax and appear informal. As he passed groups of the chattering creatures, he nodded and smiled nervously. 

Feeling a little out of place at this big party, the Lion did not stay long. But he did remark to himself that the mandrills were having a lovely Christmas, and that it was interesting to see how different animals enjoyed such very different things.

The Lion’s decision

In the evening, the animals assembled in the jungle to hear the Lion’s decision. Everyone was there – except for the Python, who was still digesting his Christmas lunch, and wasn’t particularly bothered about the result of the competition. As they waited for their king to appear, the animals were polite but reserved, and it was clear that they did not hold each other in particularly high esteem.

When the Lion appeared, they fell silent.

“Animals of the jungle,” said the Lion. “I have had a lovely day, spending time with you and your families, and seeing how you all choose to spend Christmas.” At this point the animals looked at one another, and I dare say some of them rolled their eyes impatiently, as they waited for the Lion’s decision.

The Lion continued: “It was amazing to see how differently each of you chose to celebrate Christmas. For the Capybaras, Christmas is obviously a family occasion, and I saw that they were all having a lot of fun playing and eating together. For the Python, the important thing about Christmas is the food – Christmas is a time to eat a little bit too much then relax as you digest your meal. The Tapir, on the other hand, clearly wants to be a good host and look after her guests – at her home, I really felt taken care of. Then, for the Mandrills, Christmas is one big party – a chance to eat, socialise, and – for Mr Mandrill – flirt with a large number of females. 

“Each of you celebrates Christmas in a different way, and I know that each of you thinks you understand the true meaning of Christmas. But I’ve made a decision.”

The Lion paused, and the silence intensified as the animals realised that the Lion had reached the point they were waiting for.

He cleared his throat uneasily. “And my decision is, that you are all winners. If I’ve learned anything today, it’s that perhaps there isn’t always one true answer to a question. Maybe, in this situation, everyone’s opinion is valid. After all, all of you are doing something that’s meaningful for you, and that should count for something.”

As the Lion finished his speech, the animals were silent, and he looked at his subjects eagerly, excited and happy to have made his decision.

It was the Capybara who spoke first.

“Nonsense!” he spat. “I welcomed you into my home only for you to come up with a pathetic non-decision like that? What a waste of everybody’s time!”

“It’s true!” said the Mandrill. “That’s the last time I’m inviting you round for Christmas. Who made you the king of the jungle anyway?”

“Absolutely!” exclaimed the Tapir. “I thought lions normally lived in savanna grassland, not in the jungle at all. I’m not so sure we should trust a word you say!”

At this, the Lion got very upset. “Just you watch what you say, Tapir. If we’re talking about what Lions normally do, you might very well find yourself becoming my evening meal!”

The animals then became very nervous indeed.  In the heat of their Christmas debate, they had all forgotten their place in the food chain. They looked at each other anxiously. How was it that a Capybara, a Tapir, a Python, a Mandril and a Lion had come together to have this conversation in the first place, without at least one of them gobbling another up?

Fortunately for all of them, this moment of unease was interrupted by another deep growl.  They turned to see another creature, the Lioness, standing tall behind them, looking proud, feisty and powerful.

“Come on, you lot!” she exclaimed.  “Stop all this chit-chat and come and celebrate Christmas with me and the other lions! I’ve just killed a massive zebra. Normally we’d keep it to ourselves, but today I’d like to invite you all to come and feast with us. Come on! It is Christmas, after all!”

Relieved, the animals followed the Lioness to a spot nearby, by the river, where several other lionesses (and a few lions) were already tucking into the zebra. As they arrived, the saw another lioness appear with a buffalo.

“Tuck in!” said the Lioness. “There’s plenty for everyone, so help yourselves!” 

The Mandrill, who was an omnivore, was the first to join in the feast. Then the Tapir approached cautiously. “I don’t normally eat meat,” she said, “But as it’s Christmas, why not? I wouldn’t want to be a bore,” she said, looking sternly at the Lion. The Capybara trotted over to the feast. “I’m going to stay veggie,” he said. “But I must confess that my bacterial gut flora didn’t really do it for me, so I’m going to have a nibble at that long grass over there.”

One by one, the animals went to join the feast. Even animals who hadn’t been part of the original debate now appeared and went to the water’s edge. Those who wanted a bit of the zebra had their fill, and the others just milled around by the river, chattering, whistling and playing together. The Lion, watching the scene, was relieved to see that everything had turned out all right in the end.

The Lioness came to join him. “You didn’t mind me inviting everyone, did you?” she asked. “I just came to see how you were getting on with your Christmas debate, and things didn’t seem to be going too well. You do need to assert yourself a bit more sometimes, you know.”

The Lion looked back at her, lovingly. Normally, he might have responded angrily to such criticism. He might have told her that he was the king of the jungle, not her, and that she should show him a bit more respect. But, as it was Christmas, he just smiled and said, “Yes, dear.” Then the pair of them strolled, side by side, towards the party, their tails swishing against each other.

“Merry Christmas, dear,” said the Lioness, before tearing off a piece of the zebra.

“Yes, Merry Christmas,” said the Lion, finally feeling that he understood the true meaning of Christmas.

Once upon a time there was an old man. You might have heard of him. His name was Father Christmas.

Every year, on Christmas Eve, he packed up his sleigh, said ‘tally-ho’ to his eight reindeer, and set off on a trip around the world. He visited every child’s home in the world, popped down the chimney (if there was one) or squeezed through the letterbox (if there wasn’t) – with the help of a bit of magic, of course. He quickly filled the children’s stockings with presents, sprinkled a bit of magic stuff called ‘Christmas cheer’ in the air, to help things go well on Christmas day, and then went on with his journey.

But before he shot back up the chimney (if there was one) or squeezed back out through the letterbox (if there wasn’t), there was one more tradition that Father Christmas always kept. Many boys and girls around the world, encouraged by their parents to be grateful to Father Christmas for his extreme act of generosity, got into the habit of leaving out a plate. On the plate was a mince pie for Father Christmas and, often, a carrot for his reindeer. They would sometimes also leave a small glass of something nice to drink. Sometimes they left milk, sometimes sherry. But it was the whisky that Father Christmas liked best. Anyway, whatever they had left, he would eat and drink before getting on his way.

This all sounds very merry, doesn’t it? But there was one problem, which I will now explain to you. Do you know how many children there are in the world? Do you think it is hundreds, or thousands, or millions? Well, it is a lot more than that. There are, in fact, almost two billion children in the world. I’d like to let you think about that for a while. With the help of a bit of Christmas magic, it is just about possible to visit two billion homes in one night. However, eating two billion mince pies in one evening is bound to have some consequences. The reindeer were fine – their two billion carrots were shared amongst the eight of them, meaning only 250 million carrots per reindeer. And carrots are very good for you: amongst other things, they help you see in the dark – which helps, when you are pulling a sleigh around the world on Christmas Eve. They also help prevent heart attacks and reduce the signs of premature ageing – again, a good thing for reindeer with a stressful job to do.

But two billion mince pies? All that mincemeat, sugar and pastry is bound to have an effect on a man. Over the years Father Christmas became – to put it nicely – plump. At first he didn’t really mind, but then he heard the songs people were singing about him, and the poems they were saying. One poem presented him as ‘a round chubby man’. Another described his ‘little round belly’, and likened it to a ‘bowl full of jelly.’ And Father Christmas counted at least three songs that depicted him getting stuck in the chimney. ‘I’d understand if they were talking about the letterbox,’ he complained. ‘That really is a squeeze. But I’ve never had problems with chimneys!’

Because of these hurtful songs and poems, and because he did wonder if, perhaps, he was getting a little unhealthy, Father Christmas decided to go on a diet and get fit. Throughout the year, he went off sugary foods altogether. Mrs Christmas, his wife, was banned from making him any nice treats, and he ate mainly carrot soup, which he made from the leftover carrots from Christmas Eve. He also did a daily star-jump routine out in the snow.

As the year went by, there was a marked change in Father Christmas, and, by the time he came to load his sleigh on Christmas Eve, nobody in the world would have described him as chubby.

As the reindeer soared through the sky, pulling their slightly lighter load, Father Christmas had never felt better. He felt as though he had more energy than ever before. ‘I could do this two nights in a row,’ he thought to himself. ‘I could give presents to ten billion children!’

But there was one thing he hadn’t counted on. Arriving at the first home on his itinerary, he slid gracefully down the chimney (‘No chance of getting stuck this year!’). There, by the fireplace, was a glass of sherry, a carrot, and a delicious-looking mince pie. ‘I think it might be home-made,’ he thought, breathing in and smelling baking in the air. He diligently filled the stockings and sprinkled his Christmas cheer, but he could not stop thinking about that mince pie. ‘It would be wrong to leave it here,’ he thought. ‘The children might think I’m ungrateful.’ He found the sherry easy to resist, so he carefully tipped it down the kitchen sink before returning the glass to the fireplace. Then, taking the carrot in one hand and the mince pie in the other, he swiftly scaled the chimney again and was on his way.

At each home he visited, Father Christmas found a delicious-looking mince pie. ‘Is it me or are mince pies getting nicer-looking?’ he said to himself. At each home he visited, he resisted the milk, or sherry, or whatever drink it was that had been left for him, but took the carrot and the mince pie, until eventually his sleigh was piled up on one side with presents, and on the other with enticing treats.

Father Christmas was starting to feel uneasy about all the mince pies he had collected. Also, the sleigh wasn’t getting much lighter as the reindeer pulled it around the world and Father Christmas dropped off the presents. Surely the extra weight was slowing them down!

Eventually, arriving at a house in Scotland, Father Christmas saw a drink that he found  hard to resist – whisky. Scotland is the home of whisky, and Father Christmas had no doubt that the small glass that had been left out for him would contain the finest variety of whisky you could imagine. ‘What’s the harm in one glass?’ he asked himself, and downed it in one. It gave him fire in his belly, and he went on his way.

But, in Scotland, there were many glasses of whisky waiting for him. Having had one, Father Christmas now found it hard to resist, so he swiftly filled his empty stomach with the delicious drink. As he had not eaten as much as he was used to, the whisky went to his head, and Father Christmas started to feel more than a little tipsy. His ‘tally-hos’ were a bit louder than normal, and he began sliding a little less gracefully down each chimney he came to.

Finally, about halfway through his journey around the world, Father Christmas stopped his sleigh on a rooftop and looked back at all the mince pies piled up behind him. The drink had made him feel light-headed, and he was starving hungry.

‘That’s enough,’ he said finally. ‘I’m going to eat them.’ So he sat on that rooftop and ate every single mince pie – around one billion of them. He started slowly, but gradually sped up so that the crumbs were flying from his mouth as he gobbled up the pies. The first few were delicious, but they soon lost their appeal. However, once he had started, Father Christmas found that he couldn’t stop. He was starting to feel sick, and the mince pies no longer tasted delicious, yet he carried on until there was not a single crumb left.

He looked down at the street below him. The family whose roof he was sitting on had made a lovely Christmas display in their front garden. There were twinkling stars, colourful Christmas trees and glowing figures in his likeness. The effect of all the whisky and all the mince pies was such that Father Christmas found the scene before him very garish. Suddenly, the whole idea of Christmas made him feel utterly sick – and, before he knew it, he was actually being sick over the edge of the roof and onto the display below.

Father Christmas felt ashamed of himself. ‘I am never doing this again,’ he said to himself. He felt as though he had let down every child in the world.

He finished his rounds, less merrily than ever before. His head throbbed and his stomach ached, and he could not stop thinking of the family whose Christmas display he had ruined.

When he got home, he went to bed, but he slept fitfully – his stomach was groaning and he kept getting cramp and having to get up to walk around the room. When he woke up, he felt as though he had hardly slept.

When the New Year arrived, and all the children in the world were beginning to forget about Christmas for another year, Father Christmas made himself a very important New Year’s resolution. He resolved that he would never again try to resist the mince pies that the children had lovingly, and gratefully, left out for him. He would spend all year trying to get fit, then at Christmas he would eat as much as necessary. But he would do it gradually, throughout the night, instead of doing it in one big whisky-fuelled binge. And he would never, ever again be sick on somebody’s Christmas display.

And that is exactly what Father Christmas does to this day. He spends the year exercising and eating healthily so that he is ready for Christmas. Then, on Christmas Eve, he packs up his sleigh, says ‘tally-ho’ to his eight reindeer, and sets off on his trip around the world, eating mince pies and drinking milk, sherry, whisky and mulled wine as he goes. He is never able to retain his thin, healthy physique beyond Christmas – but, despite what the songs say, he has never been stuck in a chimney, and he has never failed to disappoint any of the two billion children in the world, who wake up on Christmas morning to see what he has left behind in their stockings. Their happy smiles and laughs are what keep him going. The fact that he returns home every year feeling a little sick, and the fact that he will always, until the end of time, be described in songs and poems as ‘chubby’ and ‘plump’, are a small price to pay for that happiness.

There is a symmetry to the whole book. It begins and ends in Max’s bedroom. Indeed, the adventure takes place in his room, where “the walls became the world all around”. Banished from the rest of the house, Max is able to conjure up an entire world inside his room. Time is also stretched here, for Max gets in a boat and sails “off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year” – then, at the end, sails “back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day and into the night of his very own room”.

This apparent symmetry emphasises what has changed. When he is sent to bed without any supper, it is still daylight outside and the moon is only faint. In the final picture, the moon glows in a dark night sky, and Max’s supper is on the table. The food is still hot, which suggests not much time can have passed, but the subtle changes are important.

The wild things seem to be Max’s way of externalising his own wildness. Unlike the film, where we understand Max’s motivations and feel sorry for him, the book offers no explanation – parading around with weapons and tormenting the dog, Max in his wolf suit really is wild. When he meets the wild things, we see that he is like them. In fact, he’s “the most wild thing of all” and becomes their king. Max joins the wild things in a “wild rumpus”.

Eventually Max becomes lonely and wants “to be where someone loved him best of all.” He smells “good things to eat” and returns home, leaving the wild things behind. Max chooses domesticity, with its nurturing love and hot suppers, over dancing with the wild things – even though they love him, too. At the beginning of the book he is an outcast, denied his supper. But he returns accepted, his food waiting for him in his room. By externalising his wildness, Max has been able to leave it behind.

But it is a resolution that does not ring true – at least, not for me. The film ends with Max reunited with his mother, and shows us a close-up of her nurturing face in what seems to be an echo of an earlier scene with K.W., the most maternal wild thing. That the film ends with the mother’s face is significant, for in the book we see no adults at all. His mother speaks once, but she is off stage – we only see Max alone in the house. At the end of the book, nothing has changed – his supper is there, but still we see no mother.

At the end of the book, just like the beginning, Max is alone.