Santa's dead. His reindeer are dead. And the elves, well they bit the dust long ago.
His sledge had been wheeled out on the snow last Christmases. Designed before flight was officially sanctioned. It looked decrepit, the one modern convenience was the gaffer tape that held much of it together.
Santa had finished the gifts for most of Europe and was just starting out for the States. Having shed much of his load he cracked the reindeer hard. High over a bleak rainy London he whipped the reindeer again. If the sledge was light then Santa was not. With all the mince pies he was feeling bloated. And this feeling was nothing to do with the vast amounts of sherry he'd consumed: no he was not drunk in charge of a sledge.
The Boeing pilot had no chance. In the dark he could not see Santa: no lights. And smack; the plane barely felt a ripple; a surprised Santa plummeted; the reindeer following.