AJAX, ON—You don't need a GPS to find Noel Shepherd's house in Ajax, Ontario​. Just follow the nuclear glow. Or close your eyes and listen to a buzz of electricity so loud it's more of a roar. ​Y​ou'll find yourself at 32 Santa Claus Way, where it's not just Christmas all year 'round: it's Double Christmas.

"I figured, if there's a war on Christmas, which there is," explains Shepherd, "that the world needed a general to lead it into battle. I am that colonel."

At this point, Noel Shepherd lapses into a long silence, as he stares into a steaming mug of "cider-nog" – his own invention. He's dressed in a stained Santa suit, and his soiled fake beard is askew. He looks haggard, admitting, "I don't get much sleep nowadays, what with the lights, and the buzz, and the noise of the animatronic reindeer that land on my roof every hour on the hour, accompanied by the loud 'Ho ho ho'-ing of the two robot Santas I built. And the lights."

​Shepherd says he's at war. He says it a lot. And war, as​ he's learning​, is hell.

"To me," he says, before his eyes close and he falls asleep. For about three minutes, he looks peaceful – before his sleep apnea brings him abruptly awake with a choked snore the volume of a malfunctioning bulldozer.

"I'm just tired of all this political correctness. First the government makes it illegal to say 'Christmas.' Then the 'PC police' order you to stop sending your kid to school dressed as an elf. What's next? Oh yeah: your wife leaves you. Point is: if you tell me I'll get arrested for wishing everyone 'Merry Christmas' out of a loudspeaker installed on my Dodge Caravan, I'll double down. I'll double Christmas. That's how I came up with 'Double Christmas'!"

He's shouting now — but then, he has to, in order to be heard over the six generators that power his seasonal display: four tonnes' worth of lights; an army of brightly lit snowmen; the two sleighs with eight ​reindeer ​each, ​and ​two ​Santas​,​ that repeatedly land and take off from his roof; and the snow machine that spews potato flakes into the air spring, summer, fall, and winter. Plus the sound system with the blown woofer that plays "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" on a loop at ear-splitting volume.

"I'm at this twenty-f​ive​-seven, three-seventy… eight?" Shepherd says. He is grey with exhaustion as he pours himself a cup of melted candy canes. "Ah, here's my favourite elf!"

Shepherd's son has appeared at the top of the stairs. This is Kris Kringle Shepherd, who was recently asked to stop attending school in an elf costume.

"God bless us, every one!" his father shouts. Kris Kringle attempts a smile. He is wearing the elf costume – which appears to have shrunk, as the sleeves end mid-forearm, and the threadbare pants are stretched to near the breaking point.

"I'm majoring in astrophysics at Harvard," Kris Kringle​ explains. "The dean says the suit's a distraction. It's just – it's so important to Dad. I mean, Santa," he quickly adds. Then he heads out to his car. Through the window, I watch him put on a pair of Dockers and a turtleneck before driving off.

"He's a good elf," Shepherd says, pouring an entire twenty-sixer into a punch bowl full of visibly curdled cider-nog.

I ask him what the neighbours think of his all-year holiday spirit. "Typical political correctness," he says. "They were into it at first, when it was so-called 'tasteful' and ​so-called ​less 'in​-your​-so-called-face.' But when I kicked off Double Christmas, they were all like, 'Ooh, I'm scared of your courage,' and 'Ooh, I like 'For Sale' signs.'" Suddenly, I understand why there are no cars in any of the driveways in the neighbourhood.​ There are no neighbours left. ​

"Double Christmas is for society!" Noel Shepherd roars, standing in the middle of the street, bathed in the blinding glow of his display as his Santa pants fall down.

Hours later, lightning will strike one of his Santas, destroying it​,​ and badly damaging robot Dancer, robot Comet, and robot Blitzen. "Typical political correctness," he'll tell me. In defiance, he will roast chestnuts on the open fire. "Most people do things half-assed," he'll say, soothing the tooth he broke on a chestnut with an ice pack. "I do things double-assed."

As I pull away, and take out my earplugs, I'll hear him exclaim ere I drive out of sight, "Merry Double Christmas to all – and to all…"

And when I look in the rearview, I'll see he's fallen asleep on a slowly deflating snowman.​