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the Boldmere Oak. They were all going off to the Moo Moo Club, whatever that was. He’d laughed and cavorted so energetically that he’d somehow spun away from the others and formed a conga line of one, high-kicking and butt-waggling for goodness knows how long before he had realised he was alone.
    He’d wandered on, very drunk and slightly unsure of his bearings. He headed through Sutton town centre, wondering if he could find his way back to Dan and Quentin and their warm fire when he saw a large tree artificially tethered on the paved floor.
    It stood next to a little wooden shack with a sign on the top. His vision was swimming in and out, but he was impressed to see that it said “Satan’s Grotto”.
    Maybe Michael had arranged this. It was very basic accommodation, but it clearly demonstrated that he was to be accorded some respect. There was even a roped-off section, patently for queues of humans to come and bow down before him. That was a nice touch.
    “Well, goodnight world,” he declared loudly. “I’ve been wonderful.”
    As he turned to address the dark street, his wobbly gaze moved up the tree.
    “No!” he yelled, shaking his fist at the image on the top. “You little prick! You couldn’t resist, could you? It’s my place, and you just had to spoil it with a stupid angel!”
    He shook the tree, hoping to dislodge it, but the angel held fast.
    “I thought that you didn’t wear your wings anymore? Haven’t styles changed since your last apparition, huh?”
    He stamped around and bellowed and swore. As he took another swipe at the tree a thought crossed his mind, and he began to giggle.
    “Gonna help you out, Mikey,” he said as he started to shin up the tree. “Gonna pull your wings off. Gonna tidy you up. Haven’t got an Armani suit for you, but I can help you with those messy wings.”
    The tree swayed violently as Clovenhoof clambered upwards and the needles dug into his legs and arms, but he was focussed on the angel. Its serene and benevolent face made him more and more furious as he drew closer, swinging from side to side as the tree grew thinner towards the top.
    “Hell, you’re a smug one,” he sneered. “Look at you. Well I think we’ll see how well you fly down from there without your wings, shall we?”
    He looked down at the ground as he reached for the angel and saw how far away it was.
    His stomach lurched and he tried to grab back hold of the tree, but missed, and clawed into space.
    “Ohh!”
     
    Yes, thought Clovenhoof, reacquainting himself with the bruising pain in his back that had troubled him throughout his sleep.
    “It’s not funny,” said his assailant. “We open in five minutes.”
    “It’s my grotto!” said Clovenhoof, scrambling unsteadily to his feet. “I can smash the roof if I want to!”
    The white-bearded man in red spluttered.
    “Your grotto? This is Santa’s grotto, and I’m Santa.”
    “Santa? Don’t make me laugh. This is mine.”
    “It’s for kids you know, not disgusting dossers.”
    Clovenhoof let the red buffoon manhandle him out of the door. It was easier than trying to do it under his own steam.
    “Santa’s not even real,” said Clovenhoof. “Satan’s grotto makes so much more sense.”
    “Look, pal. I don’t want to hear you talking like that round little kiddies. You’ll frighten them with talk like that.”
    “I mean look at these,” said Clovenhoof and waved a hand at the cavorting fibreglass models on the fake lawn around the grotto. “My little devils.”
    “Elves.”
    “Same difference.”
    “Look. There’s no such thing as Satan and you need to shut your filthy mouth.”
    “No such thing! Are you serious?”
    “Are you some religious nut?”
    Clovenhoof gave the nonsensical question some thought.
    “Possibly. I’ll prove it. Look at what’s written on the top of this place, just read the sign.”
    They both stepped away from the shack to read the lettering above.
    “Santa’s Grotto. There.” Santa