Ping. I’ve got an e-mail from my brother. “What do you want for Christmas?”

Hmm. I’d quite like a new sound system. My daughters have taken the ghetto blaster to their room. They take a moronic pleasure in playing three CDs over and over again: Horrid Henry, Christmas carols and a compilation of high-energy gay pop. But our house is cluttered enough as it is. So if I want music, I don’t mind going up and fetching the machine.

I’ve recently been loaned a sat-nav, but I don’t want to buy it. If I’m driving, the last thing I want is someone giving me directions. I already have a wife. And I don’t need to be told I’m arriving at my destination. I’ve got a dog, who starts whining.

I’m determined to find something I want. I’m feeling like an old man who needs Viagra. I head into town. I hit Boots and buy four boxes of Nicorette. That stuff is addictive. I can’t wait for it for Christmas: I need it now. I buy Quies foam earplugs, my favourite product, and condoms. The shop offers me a free lubricant. That’s wrong. Boots should sell verruca pads, not sex aids.

Then I hit Neck Line, which sells colourful designer clothes. If you can’t feel desire in Neck Line, you’re probably dead. It’s run by Ronnie, who’s easily the coolest man around. He’s the only black man in a suburb where the men wear comfortable shoes, anoraks and fleece. When you start wearing fleece, it’s all over. Fleece is the Birmingham of materials. It’s functional. You wouldn’t want to look at it.

Ronnie lets me smell the new Paul Smith scent. Then he gets out a Sonia Rykiel coat with bold blue checks. I like it a lot, but I don’t need it. “But Andrew,” says Ronnie, “what do you want?”

“I want a three-piece suit in red check. I want to look like a cross between Rupert the Bear and Jiminy Cricket. And I want an 18th-century swordstick. Next time that youth hassles me outside M&S, I’ll run him through.

What would you give for Christmas?”

“Baptism. I did it three years ago and I’ve felt great ever since. If I was Santa, I’d go around baptising everyone.”

“Ronnie, Muswell Hill isn’t ready for a black man coming down the chimney. If you start sprinkling holy water, you’re going to get sued. People will fear for their oak flooring.

Come to think of it, I don’t want Santa to visit at all. Not unless he tidies up. Then redecorates. Then smashes the Christmas carols CD. I’ve got nothing against Jesus, but his music sucks. And his birthday is responsible for filling my house with pink plastic toys.”

I go home. I find my daughter’s made me a biscuit at school. It’s half an inch thick and hard as a brick. It’s the perfect gift. It cost nothing. It required effort. It’ll be gone in two minutes.

By Andrew Clover, Sunday Times

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