I thought I had exposed Father Christmas as an old fraud at the tender age of seven. And then, last year, I not only learned that he exists, I actually became the old fellow. It was quite a revelation.
Three large children were standing before me in my glittery grotto in the local school hall. They were probably all boys but it wasn’t easy to tell beneath their identical baggy-hooded anoraks. If I had come across them alone in a dark place, I would have been decidedly nervous. I was alone and it was quite dark. ”Ho, ho,” clearly would not cut the mustard, and ”What is your name, little boy?” risked frontal assault.
”Hello!” I managed. ”What do you lot want for Christmas then?”
”I’m getting an X-Box, innit?” said the big one. ”Give us a round one.”
What the bloody hell is a round one?
”I’ll bring you a round one if you’re very good!” I joked amusingly.
”I’ll get it!” said one of the others, and he started to rummage in the present sack. He pulled out two ball-shaped parcels and threw one to the biggest child.
”Ho, ho! It’s my job to …”
”Get us one, will ya?” called out the third.
”Yeah, ‘ang on. ‘Ere we are.” And he took one more of the parcels, handed it to his friend and they all left.
I did not remember it being like this. What I remember, going to see Father Christmas as a child, was wonder and a certain tingly uncertainty. Open contempt was never part of the deal.
I sat back and was trying to suck tepid mulled wine through my nylon beard when I realised a tiny child was peeping into the grotto. She was chewing her thumbnail and clutching somebody out of sight.
She stopped dead when she noticed me, and looked back at her unseen escort. A gentle shove propelled her forward and she stood in front of me, clutching herself.
”Hello,” I said, in what I believed to be a friendly voice, resonant with calm authority. ”I’m Father Christmas. Who are you?”
She answered in a barely-detectable single-note squeal. ”I’m Gavvewing.”
”Gavvewing?”
She giggled (progress!). ”Gavvewing!” She stressed each syllable in a careful squeak. ”Are you Catherine?”
She giggled again (more progress), and squeaked: ”Thatth what I thaid!”
”How old are you, Catherine?”
”I’m thikth!”
”Thickth?! When I was your age, I was only five!”
This masterly quip was greeted by a burst of giggles and a rubbing of one foot against the back of the other leg. I was pretty good at this.
”Now, what would you like for Christmas, young lady?”
”A penthiw.”
”A pencil?!”
”A penthiw, pleathe.”
”A new one?”
”Yeth, pleathe. I’ve got an old one but itth nearly gone.”
”You have to be very, very good to get a new pencil. Have you been very good?”
”I think tho. Mummy thays I have.”
”And what does Daddy say?”
”I haven’t got a daddy.”
I didn’t have a quip for that.
My eyes were prickly with tears.
I had to find her a decent present in that sack of worthless tat.
”Shall we have a little look and see if we can find a pencil?”
Her eyes lit up. I mean really. You cannot imagine a pair of happier eyes.
”Yeth, pleeeathe!”
I took her hand, and together we rummaged around in the under-sixes bag.
There were packages that felt like 20 Benson & Hedges and something sticky that suggested the sack had been mistaken for a rubbish bag. No pencils, however.
”Shall we look in the big children’s sack?” I asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
The excitement of this idea took her voice completely beyond human hearing. Again, we rummaged. Ah! Even better than pencils. I had found a set of big coloured felt pens.
”Here you are,” I said as I handed them over. ”Don’t open it yet. If you open a present in Santa’s grotto, the little elves get jealous and burst into tears.” I thought I heard a muffled snort of derision from just outside.
The little girl held the parcel as if it were the most delicate and precious thing on Earth. She edged towards me and kissed me lightly on the nose, being the only piece of my face not obscured by man-made fibres. She turned and rushed out of the grotto, desperate to show her mummy the wonderful gift from Santa.
I sat back with some satisfaction. I had brought joy to a little girl, and was feeling an internal glow myself. I took another sip of my rapidly cooling curried wine. Several more nylon hairs lodged themselves between my teeth and tickled my upper lip. I was trying to dig them out with my thumbnail when two small faces appeared. Ah, how cute. I stayed sitting back and smiled.
”Hello,” I said gently.
”Are you Father Christmas?” asked one.
”Of course!” I told her. The hairs in my teeth were rubbing my lip and nose. I was desperate to sneeze. ”Didn’t you see my reindeer outside?” I bit my lip and seized my nose in a desperate attempt at self-control.
”Where?” said the littler one. ”I didn’t see any. You’re picking your nose.”
”Ha, ha! Would you like a present?” The ”S” in ”present” resonated perfectly with the hairs, and my need to sneeze became overwhelming. I grabbed my nose more tightly.
”He is picking his nose!” yelled the older one.
”No, no. Ho, ho, ho! I’ve got frostbite! It’s very cold at the North Pole, you know.” It was the ”S” in frost, this time. My sneeze erupted through the beard, and what didn’t get trapped in the hair or the curtains landed as a fine mist on my guests.
”Ugh, gross! You’re disgusting. Mum! Dad! Santa gobbed on us!”
An angry woman, clutching a bright pink lump of a baby under one arm, burst into my grotto. ”Bloody hell! Look at you! You’re dribbling over my girls!” She grabbed them, shoving them towards the exit.
And so ended my Santa experience. It had not really finished on a White Christmas moment, but at least I had given some guests a taste of seasonal wonder. It was some time later that I discovered that the giant pens I had given little Catherine were bedroom toys of an adult nature that had been slipped into the sack as a joke.
I haven’t been asked to reappear this year. Maybe Santa is an old fraud, after all. — Â