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The more I have learned about Yuletide, the more I realize what a controversial holiday it actually is. So take a deep breath, sit down under the nearest mistletoe, and prepare to be shocked, particularly by my final revelation.

First, let's get the Christian aspect out of the way. The Biblical accounts of Jesus's nativity never actually mention stables or animals, which should be a blow to Christmas card manufacturers everywhere. So when you hear believers complaining that the true meaning of Christmas has been lost, you should point out to them that Christians themselves did not celebrate the birth of Christ on December 25th until the early 4th century. The first recorded use of the term Christmas (or rather, Cristes mæsse) was apparently not until 1038.

Noel really took off in the medieval period, when the whole Twelve Days of Christmas thing was invented (though it's unclear when it became fashionable to give multiple poultry, dancers, drummers and athletic members of the aristocracy to your beloved).

Of course, Christmas actually has its roots in pagan times. The ancient name of the midwinter holiday was Dies Natalis Sol Invictus, the birthday of the unconquered sun, and was the occasion for worship of Elah-Gabel, Sol or Mithras, depending on your sun god of choice. These heathen associations no doubt explain why the Puritans banned the festival in 1647. This shocking move led to the outbreak of Christmas riots, when holly (hitherto believed to protect against pagans and witches) was deployed as a political symbol of protest. For a regime that had eliminated Christmas from the calendar, executing King Charles I a few years later was a mere bagatelle.

As all readers surely know, the tradition of giving gifts and making merry dates back to the Roman Saturnalia, although the notion of Santa Claus making his deliveries on a sledge pulled by reindeer got a mighty boost from the notorious verse , penned by the American doggerel-merchant Clement Clark Moore in 1822, of which more anon. And in case you are one of those Bah Humbug types (phrase ©Charles Dickens, 1843), you should note that by 1850 a character in a novel by Harriet Beecher Stowe was complaining at the commercialisation of Christmas. They hadn't even invented video games or chocolate Advent Calendars yet, she should count herself lucky.

You can tell by the foregoing semi-digested historical nuggets that I've done my background research this year, which brings me to the point (and the disability relevance, please be patient), of this seasonal column.

It concerns Father Christmas, Sint Nicolaas, Santa Claus, call him what you will. Now, there are various myths about this legendary figure, the one I always cherished most being the claim that his red garments were invented by the manufacturers of a globally famous fizzy drink. Not true: apparently, the first illustrations of the traditional hirsute and tubby gowned gift giver (try saying that phrase when you've had one too many egg nogs) dates from got in on the act.

Anyway, back to the poem, if such it be. Our transatlantic tosh-monger Mr Moore would have it that 'the night before Christmas' he heard 'such a clatter' on his lawn that he opened his sash windows ...

"... When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St.Nick"

Now three words sprang out at me when I read the poem for the first time this week. Yup: 'miniature', 'tiny' and 'little'. Furthermore, we learn a few lines later that the fur-lined fantasy figure 'was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf'.

You see my point? Sinister conspiracies have hidden the shocking truth from generations of innocent youngsters: Father Christmas is one of the chosen , short statured, a Little Person, has restricted growth or to put it plainly, Santa is a dwarf!

Why weren't we told? For that matter, why didn't we work it out for ourselves, given that Father C's favoured method of parcel delivery consists of sliding down the chimney, something plainly impossible for the average height obese adult male?

Clearly, a heightist plot has concealed the facts, perhaps fearing that to expose the truth would not only create unprecedented seasonal employment for the restricted growth community, but would also necessitate such a widespread redesign of Christmas cards, traditional films and other festive décor that it would bring an already fragile global economy crashing down about our ears.

Well, given the high stakes involved, and in the interests of fiscal stability, I have reluctantly decided not to blow the whistle on the Claus conspiracy. And I would advise you to keep what I've told you strictly entre nous. But if you see me looking particularly smug around the third week of December, you should be in no doubt as to why. 'Ho, ho, ho' indeed.