Christ woke up in a blind fury. He’d been sick in the night, and someone had taken all his presents from under the tree and put them into the log-burning stove. They were still smouldering.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this maggoty business, if it’s the last thing I do.”

He doused the remaining presents in water. The red and green snowflake-themed wrapping paper disintegrated into soggy charred ash which slopped and leaked onto the floor. Christ left the room, kicking.

He showered and shaved angrily. There was no hot water, and it was obvious that someone had been using his razor to shave their balls.

Christ relit an old stick of incense that was lying on the mantle-piece. The room began to fill with pungent blue smoke that made him slightly nauseous. In an irritated attempt to stub out the ember, he tripped and fell headlong into the loving arms of the Lord.

“Who burnt all my fucking presents?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said God, patting his way out of the uncomfortable hug.

They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell chiming out an electronic Christmas theme. Christ hurried downstairs pulling on an old blue dressing gown which was covered in dog hair. He saw a large shape behind the frosted glass of the door.

He opened the door cautiously, attempting a hospitable expression of friendly surprise, which vanished instantly as the rats flooded in.