The cold crisp air synonymous with a December morning covered the town of Crimsby (no that is not Grimsby spelt wrong, it is ‘Crims’by to blend with the other outstanding Crim puns).

The dullness of the stereotypically grey winter’s morn’ was sporadically brightened by Christmas lights, creating an ever-increasing festive atmosphere as the baby Jesus’ birthday edged closer. The weather was as crisp as a bag of crisps.

Crimbsy was a town filled to the brim with wannabe ‘rad lads’ who attempt to act bare cool but are wholeheartedly cringeworthy in reality. One such ‘rad lad’, a lad more mad than rad, a lad who firmly ticks two of the three boxes in the phrase ‘the good, the bad and the ugly’, is the constantly chaotic and cantankerous Jim the Crim.

Jim the Crim sticks to trouble like flies stick to piles of animal excrement. He is a man with more records than a music shop. But the infectious brightness of Christmas cheer threatened to even infiltrate this phenomenally insufferable reprobate.

In fact the whole town of Crimsby was gradually ascending into buoyant festive cheer; understandably many of the pedantic traditionalists among the older demographic seethed with anger at the abhorrent display of Christmas decorations that a few remorseless residents decided to erect as early as November… totally unacceptable by the way.

By far the greatest Christmas miracle of all time, Jim the Crim saw Christmas as an opportunity to right some wrongs and procure some positive karma. Finding the slightest drop of moral fibre within the heart of Jim the Crim is as frustrating and futile as trying to find a snowflake in the Sahara

Jim’s recent history meant that making amends would be an arduous task. This year alone, for example, Jim the Crim had a prison sentence extended for insulting one of the local law enforcement officers. He had criticised the rozzer’s trousers, which quite literally, was below the belt. He was busted by the bobby immediately and escorted to Crimsby Court (or Cece for short).

Learning lessons at his usual non-existent rate, Jiminal the Criminal dug his hole even deeper by then insulting the judge in the courtroom. A fanatical football fan, the judge was distinctly unimpressed by insults hurled at his beloved Hemel Hempstead Town by a truly clueless Jim the Crim and at this point Mr Sawyer the Lawyer justifiably saw this buffoon as a lost cause. Jim claimed that he would not trust Hemel Hempstead Town’s players with his dog, because they cannot hold on to a lead.

Inevitably the judge was wholly unamused; slander against the mighty Hemel Hempstead Town was beyond contempt. Consequently, Lord Fudge the Judge took enormous satisfaction in extending Jim the Crim’s sentence.

Jim’s bitterness about this sentence extension still rankles to this day, not least because it denied him the opportunity to watch the impending new series of The Great British Bake Off. Sadly the location of his confinement did not contain the privilege of Channel 4 or its catch up and streaming services. He was bereft of Bake Off along with the other members of the criminal classes.

Missing out on show stopping biscuit structures and the beautiful shine of Paul Hollywood’s silver hair provided much-needed motivation to stay away from the slammer. The prospect of pristine pastries encouraged Jim to finally become a wholesome member of society.

A light bulb flashed over his head! Then once he had replaced the flickering light bulb with a new one, he hatched a genius plan. He wanted to deliver presents to all the families in Crimsby.

How would he go about performing this heartwarming deed? Well Jim decided that Plan A would be to pay Santa Claus a visit and steal his sleigh and his reindeer transportation system (also known as the reindeer). Jim was the only living creature unable to see the irony of using literal burglary to do a good deed but we can gloss over that for the moment.

Once Jim had decided that Plan A was genius, mostly because he couldn’t be bothered to think of a Plan B, he went off for a stroll to the Pole to meet good old White Beard himself.

As this story is fiction, Jim’s journey to the North Pole was unrealistically quick; it had only just reached evening time when Jim crept towards Santa’s doorstep. The atmosphere was quiet. Jim peered into the window and noticed Santa having a nap in his armchair. The chair was incredibly soft and in optimal napping condition, with the green being more of a British Racing Green rather than a Lime Green or a Camouflage Army sort of Green.

Jim thought he was being clever by saying, “Wow! That armchair is as green as grass,” blissfully unaware that there was no green grass in the North Pole, just bare white snow.

Being a fantastic driver with no suggestion of any parking or speeding fines, Santa had ensured the reindeer were parked neatly between the bay lines outside his living quarters. Santa’s driving examiner had described his performance in the test as ‘slay’, knowing that Santa loved his banter, earning him the nickname Banta Claus amongst those on his list of phone contacts.

Jim’s pursuit of Santa’s sleigh required access to his garage, where said sleigh was slumped in its slumber. However, his attempts to open the garage were thwarted by a pesky padlock, staring and gloating at Jim as it swayed in the wintry wind.

Phenomenally hacked off by this setback, Jim trudged across the ever-deepening sea of snow towards Santa’s gaff, knowing he would need to break in and source the keys of t’ garage. Using his emergency miniature swiss army knife that he had purchased with the £50 B&Q voucher his grandmother Fran the Nan gifted him for his birthday, Jim successfully defeated the front door.

Jim minced into Santa’s living room with a swagger, but his plans threatened to disintegrate as Santa’s seamlessly silent sleep was interrupted by slight movement and a quiet yet deafening cough.

Jim knew that it was vital to keep Santa asleep throughout the entire night, so hatched a plan. Jim needed Santa’s television to be permanently infiltrated by programming so boring and tediously long that it would subconsciously persuade Santa to, for the love of God, avoid waking up.

Frantically flicking through Santa’s abundant DVD collection, Jim found his Eureka moment, a DVD so perfect that Jim could see a golden glow surrounding it. What Jim found was a DVD so dull that it made Theresa May look like Lady Gaga. It was a long-winded documentary, estimated running time of 15 hours (not including deleted scenes and extras), of an elderly gentleman exploring the Egyptian pyramids, called “A Geezer in Giza!”

Jim’s 200 IQ plan (bearing in mind Jim’s actual IQ of course is at least 201 points lower than that) was to deploy his emergency bottle of super icky super sticky PVA glue. Once he had inserted the aforementioned DVD into the designated DVD slot of the DVD player, Jim mercilessly covered the remote control in PVA glue, ensuring no opportunity for good old sleepy Santa to engage either the pause, stop or crucially the eject buttons, thus permanently subjecting himself to the torture of the pensioner and his pyramids. It was a plan that intended to leave Santa in a ‘sticky’ situation.

A jovial Jim was confident this plan would not fail, especially given that he had used his mother Kim the Crim to test the assuredness of the adhesive. To do this, he sneakily replaced his mum’s lipstick with his powerful PVA. Thankfully for Jim, she never told anyone about this… because her lips were sealed.

With the bombastically boring marathon of misery bleating on his box, Santa’s sleep became deeper and deeper, opening Jim’s window of opportunity to pinch the garage key and rev up the sleigh. Jim rounded up the reindeer like an overstimulated sheepdog and set off to deliver gifts like a flying Amazon Prime van.

Feeling overwhelmed by emotion caused by his generosity, Jim shed a tear, which rapidly turned into ice due to the horrifically cold temperatures, effectively leaving a tear-shaped tattoo under his eye that was not his right eye, which is more commonly known as the left eye.

From his incredibly picturesque vantage point high in the sky, Jim could see thousands upon thousands of families sharing wholesome Christmas joy when presented with their surprises from what they assumed was good old Santa Claus. Each smile was like a candle offering a pinch of warmth and light, which combined to brighten up the otherwise pitch black December sky and heat up the heart of a crim who knew he had completed an astronomically generous deed.

The town of Crimsby would never know that Jim the Crim was responsible for their Christmas joy, but the man himself felt reassured and comforted by the knowledge that he had been a Christmas hero, even though he had combined the crimes of breaking and entering, theft and damaging property to reach that point.

Everyone lived happily ever after, apart from Santa of course, who was fuming at the theft of his sleigh. The bearded lad was proper mad and set about firing his fury at anyone and anything within his vision. He was forced to call his insurance company and the local Lapland rozzers to track down his errant vehicle.

Swearing revenge against the one responsible for that night of naughtiness, Santa sulked and stomped back to his gaff in a huff, while the mood of Crimsby’s townspeople was the direct antithesis, buoyed by the gallons of gifts deluged upon them. Unbeknownst to them, their festive feelings of fun and folly were entirely the responsibility of the mammothly moronic, drastically dimwitted, bombastically braindead, fantastically foolish Jim the Crim.

Jim had learned a lot from his high-octane and morally rewarding night’s work. Whether he will apply these learnings across his future endeavours is anyone’s guess, most probably not in all honesty due to the fact that he is a bumbling buffoon and his brain has more holes than a hedgehog’s pillow.

Nonetheless, whatever he does, wherever he goes, whoever he annoys, Jim the Crim’s catalogue of carnage will most probably continue at a concerning rate.