Please note: Santa is anything but sexy

Ho, ho, ho, turned into oh, oh, oh when shopping at Tigné Point the other day.

Christmas is about music but not the raunchy type. It’s about lots of hugging and kissing but not of the French sort- Kristina Chetcuti

As we were sprinting from one shop to the next, my daughter kept giving me a detailed running commentary on the shopping mall’s Christmas decorations: the enormous tree, the fairy lights, the baubles, the sleigh prop, the chubby Santa posing for photos and so on.

I’m sure that if a spider in the corner of the roof had done up her web for the occasion she would have noticed too, such is her fascination with anything Christmassy.

But then, as we were going down the escalator, something else caught her eye: two tall girls dressed up as Father Christmas – only not quite. They had all the right colours and the right bits of fur but that was as far as it went. As we got closer, she noticed that the (size 6, 6ft) models were wearing a ten-inch heel and that their costume trousers were of the fishnet tights sort.

Their Santa Claus jacket allowed for a generous cleavage and reached all the way down to, erm, the very edge of their bum. Yes, two Miss Decembers straight out of Playboy magazine were parading nonchalantly around the mall, as if the whole shopping floor was their catwalk.

My daughter burst into a giggle: “Why are they dressed like that mama?” Why indeed? To bait male customers, make their eyes glaze over and distract them so much that they spend all their year’s earnings at the shops?

To reward husbands with a free strip-o-gram for tagging along? Why, oh why, I kept asking myself do we need to sex up what is essentially a children’s holiday?

I’m not being a prude. Actually, I am very much a fan of Samuel Johnson’s 17th century philosophy. Johnson was the most famous lexicographer of the English language, who when once was asked what was the greatest pleasure in life, replied – well I can’t write down what he answered, this being a family paper and all that – but do Google it, it’s good fun.

I’m all for everyone dressing up in whatever it is that they want to dress up in their own boudoir. But outside of it? How can girls dressed up in skimpy Santa costumes add to anyone’s festive spirit, unless that anyone is, say, Hugh Hefner?

This is an American notion which we need to nip in the bud as soon as possible: marketing is all about sexing up things. The advertising mantra seems to be that if it ain’t sexy it won’t sell.

Proof of this is the latest video remake of Mariah Carey’s hit All I Want For Christmas is You. The 41-year-old prances about and poses seductively with 17-year-old Justin Bieber, scantily clad in a Santa outfit. Please pass me the puke bag.

Nothing will convince me that sexy Santas notch up sales. I would be happier if, when shopping, I’m greeted by a group of children Christmas carolling, or if someone hands me a glass of wine or some good chocolates. That would have made me linger more, and ergo, spend more.

And while we are on the topic, will men stop thinking that what women want for Christmas is red lingerie? Red lingerie is a pure marketing ploy targeted at men. All those sections with red bras and crimson thongs are rarely given a glance by the ladies.

The men, on the other hand, make a straight bee-line there not because they particularly like it, but because they think that this is what will make their girlfriends happy. (It’s a profit-making brainwave: the wives and girlfriends never exchange the hideous goods because they don’t want to be rude).

The moral of this Christmas Day column is that, please, let’s not sex up Christmas. This feast is supposed to be about warm and fuzzy hues, and home-made cooking and laughter and good wine. It’s about wearing comfortable panties and not thongs which make you twitch.

It’s about music but not the raunchy type. It’s about lots of hugging and kissing but not of the French sort. So if there’s going to be any Santa costume, it has to be of the chubby sort, like the traditional Chetcuti one.

Every year, on Christmas Day, the family gathers at my auntie’s house and one of us dons the Santa costume to hand out the presents. There’s nothing fish-netty about this outfit: it is as old as my eldest cousin (my lips are sealed) and consists of obligatory stuffed pillows, and an itchy thick beard. It also doubles as an initiation rite into the family: new boyfriends and girlfriends have to do the honours.

Thankfully, whoever will be putting on the costume today, will, look anything but sexy.

Merry Christmas.