Yuletiddlewinks.

True, he is radiation rather than a reality, a pervasion rather than a person, but when the year, grown fired, staggers to the tape, it is old Whiskers Christmas who heartens it with that clarion cry “Here's pudding in your eye!”

He is everywhere from Timbuctoo to Tampico, from Choctaw to Lockjaw, from Beyrut to Bayrhum, from Shanghai to Yoho.

From the wastes of Alaska to the stretches of Elastic, something swells and palpitates like Murphy's eye after the wake. From Leghorn, Tinhorn, Shoehorn and the land of Poll Angus (the Fair Maid of Haggis) comes a stirring in the hotpot of Humanity, in the soup of civilisation. It is Father O'Christmas coming up for his annual breather.