THE SAINT CLUB Christmas letter

My indispensable little wimps, wallies, and failed hooligans:

If you think that this annual insult from your Vice President is more than somewhat overdue, you are perfectly right. If you thought that for once you were going to get away without one, you couldn't have been more wrong, as this demonstrates.

In fact, this is deliberate exercise in low cunning. Since the seasonal avalanche of catalogs, special offers and appeals seems to pour through our letter boxes a bit earlier every year, I thought I would wait until the worst of the flood should have subsided, and catch you off guard and optimistically relaxing in the belief that it was all over, and you were beginning to think about how to enjoy all the money which you had craftily refrained from wasting or giving away. And so, we would sneak in and put the bite on you when we didn't have to compete with all the other voices clamoring for your patronage or generosity.

Therefore we are not offering you such venal inducements as the chance to participate in a free draw for such prizes as a month's holiday in a genuine Persian harem, or a pair of solid gold roller skates; nor do we appeal to you to help to avert the extinction of the Arizona rattlesnake, or to bring desperately needed air conditioning to the villages of Outer Mongolia.

We are simply writing to remind you that the subscriptions which you rashly undertook to pay are now due, together with more orders for whatever articles of our over-priced branded merchandise you are foolish enough to fancy, and that with absolutely no charge for our trouble we undertake that every penny of profit we extort will be passed on to a really worth-while charity, thus saving you all the tedious trouble of writing cheques, buying money orders, or gift-wrapping packages of gold bullion.

If you don't appreciate the value of such a service you must be even more hopeless twits than I took you for. And therefore, trusting that you will not disappoint me, I wish you all a deliciously debauched Noel, and the happiest hangovers of the New Year.

Leslie Charteris