Sorry this is so far after Christmas, my computer broke and I'm also very lazy.

Disclaimer: I'm clearly not Douglas Adams :(

*Skip the disclaimer if you couldn't give a crap =P *

Dedication: There is a reason that I only ever write fics for H2G2 when I owe my friend (and fellow hitchhiker) Phil a present. No, it's not because I'm that tight-fisted; it's because writing gets me in such a terrible mood that I will only resort to it to please this most hoopy of froods. More fun to be around than Zaphod after a few PGGBs, more amazing -and irritating- than Ford and more dedicated to tea than Arthur. If it weren't for you, I would make Marvin look like the illegitimate child of Colin and Eddie. Thanks Phil. Merry Christmas.

Just tiny dots. That's all they are from here. Mere tiny specks on an incomprehensibly infinite sea of black. And all the things that call those specks 'home' are equally meaningless in this harsh wasteland. There's no one to know, no one to care. One of the dots is slightly larger than the rest, and getting larger still. No... not larger, closer. Closer and closer until it takes up the whole sky. Burning and screaming, tearing through the ozone. No longer a star, no longer screaming, just a crater in the ground.

"Oh yeah? Well, you listen to me mate! Your mother is the Vogon Poet Laureate!" Ford climbed out of the smoking hole in the ground.

...

"Well I'm sorry if you don't know how to fly your own spaceship, but that's not my problem."

...

"Ok, well maybe I did spill Ol' Janx Spirit on the main console; but I don't see how that makes it my fault."

...

"Oh yeah? Well maybe I don't need your poxy space hopper!"

...

"Fine then, zark off."

...

Ford gazed around at his surroundings. No houses, no spaceports and (worst of all) no bars.

"Belgium."

There was nothing for him to do but collapse into the snow.

Warmth, cleanliness and comfort. These are just three of the things that a hitchhiker like Ford Prefect is unlikely to feel on a day-to-day basis, but he is nevertheless feeling them now. (Other feelings Ford isn't used to include: wealth, doubt and sobriety.) Ford snuggled further into the warm sheets; so safe, so warm, he was suddenly alert. When was the last time he felt safe and warm without there being some horrific consequence? Certainly not that time with Eccentrica Galumbitz, warm yes, safe...no. He sat up and his lip curled with disgust. Ford 'Ix' Prefect was wearing a green jacket, shoes with curled toes and...ugh, yellow tights. He drew the sheets tightly around him; if Zaphod found out about this, he'd never hear the end of it.

Something tugged at Ford's alcohol-addled brain. Something about what he was wearing, something about the snow outside and something about the decor of this strange room. They all reminded him of one winter when Arthur had tried to teach him British culture, back on Earth. Unfortunately, there had also been a lot of eggnog around at the time. He sighed, the memory would eventually come back to him, but right now he should be finding the complete utter bastards who did this to him.

The walls were like something from a bad joystick trip. They were more garish than the clothes. It had taken him a considerable amount of stumbling around before he'd found this door. Everything was so jolly; Ford didn't trust it. And now this: a map, with lists down either side indicating who was 'naughty' and who was 'nice'. It was a map of a familiar blue and greenish planet. Ford was trapped on Earth for a second time. But, this time not in England, he was somewhere called Lapland.

"And no handy Vogon ships to hitch a lift on. Zarquon…"

But, even as Ford said that, there came a tinny beeping from his battered satchel. The sub-etha sens-o-matic was flashing. There was a ship nearby.

'Ship' was being generous. For one thing, it was made of wood and looked like it was from those cards Arthur gave him every year. Ford checked the Guide. Nothing. This…thing wasn't even registered as a mode of transport. Bloody useful researcher this planet's got Ford cursed. The small part of Ford's brain capable of sober thought carefully put up its hand as if to remind the rest of Ford some of the specific details about this planet's "bloody useful" researcher. The rest of Ford glared at it. The hand went down.

The hitchhiker considered his other options. Well, he would have, if there were any. It occurred to him that he would rather die of asphyxiation in space than spend another 15 years in this hell-hole of a planet; especially if Arthur wasn't here.

Ford wandered round the...ship. Inside there was a large (but somehow also small) sack that was empty (but somehow also full). What Ford pulled out would make any hitcher sink to their knees with envy: the perfect towel.

"Dingo's kidneys, it's genuine Traalian Poly-Sheep's wool!"

(If the Vogons are the creatures that evolution gave up on, then the Traalian Poly-Sheep are the creatures that it doted on, gave the occasional sweet to and basically gave a good slot on the food chain. The Traalian Poly-Sheep used to have an unfortunate existence, as it shared the same habitat as the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal. The mindlessly stupid monster that thinks "If you can't see it, it can't see you." The Traalian Poly-Sheep got around this problem by having a single, permanently closed eye, thus eliminating them as prey. This strategy worked for millennia, until they were discovered by the wool industry as having the softest wool in the known galaxy. Within 3 months, there wasn't a single sheep left on Traal, and a Traalian Poly-Sheep towel is now considered more expensive than its weight in gold.)

As he climbed into the ship, Ford began to think that maybe this planet wasn't so bad. After five minutes of wondering how to make the thing go, he tried flicking the reins. Ford's neck snapped back with the speed of take-off. He was away…

"Mummy, will Santa come tonight?" whispered the wide-eyed girl as she helped her mother put out a glass of sherry and a carrot.

"I'm sure he will, darling. You just have to go to bed and when you wake up, he'll have left you lots of presents."

The child considered this. It sounded like a fair bargain.

"Mummy, where are my presents?"

The girl howled and the mother gaped. Under the tree was bare, not a present in sight.

Santa hadn't been.

All over the world, parents woke to the sound of their children's crying.

And, 4.4 light years away on Alpha Centauri, Ford Prefect was smiling as he drank his pan-galactic-gargle-blaster.

…Well at least Ford's happy :) Felt it got a bit rambling towards the end, but I just wanted this blasted thing finished! Hope you enjoyed it. Reviews make me and Ford happy =D