“What’s wrong?” Santa asked, stepping out of his house and seeing a herd of disgruntled-looking reindeer at his doorstep.

“We’re going on strike,” said the leader.

“Yeah, you tell him, Stomper,” said one of his companions.

Santa scratched his beard in confusion. “Why, what’s wrong?”

Stomper dug his two front hooves into the snow and dragged them back angrily. “We’re annoyed that Rudolph and the others are getting to pull the sleigh again. Why do they get special treatment? How come we never get a shot?”

“Well,” Santa said, looking awkwardly into the house, hoping Mrs Claus might come and defuse the situation. “Rudolph and the others are in all the songs. People know them. You can’t go changing tradition at the last minute. How about next year? We can do some press, get your names out.”

“It’s not fair,” Stomper protested. “How about we get some recognition for a change?”

“Well, you need to speak to your agent,” Santa said – “otherwise, you’re never going to be recognised by anyone.”

“I’ve made a real effort this year,” Stomper continued. “I’ve been pulling you around on your short-range sleigh all year, taking you to the workshop and back. I’ve let you pat my head. I was even nice about your figure the other day. Didn’t I ask if you’d lost weight?”

“Sorry, gentlemen,” Santa said, raising his hands. “If it were up to me…”

“It is up to you, fatty,” Stomper said, bolting forward, knocking Santa back indoors. He turned to the others. “Right, one of you guard the entrance. The rest of us, let’s go. It’s time to take Christmas into our own hooves. To the sleigh!”

They sped down the slope to the landing area, where the sleigh was ready to launch. Stomper jumped into Santa’s chair and tried his hat on for size. “Okay, fellas,” he said. “Time to lift off. This year, we’re in charge!”