Santa Claus is coming to town!
*SPOILER ALERT* Do NOT read this blog if you still believe in Santa. (If you do still believe in Santa you are clearly under 12 years of age in which case you must immediately fuck off. There is nothing suitable for you in these filthy-sweary blogs. Please go and get addicted to Call of Duty or score some weed like a normal child).
Right now, somewhere in a semi-detatched house on the outskirts of our city, an adult male is preparing for that most revered role: being Santa at the school Christmas Fair.
He’s gathering his costume of cheap red nylon and white/yellowish artificial hair, bought by a hard-working and dedicated member of our PTA back in 1978.
In the mirror he is practising his ‘ho ho ho’, careful to conceal any trace of his Greek/Asian/Mancunian accent (depending on the heritage of this year’s Santa).
He’s making a list of the imaginary punishments he would dole out to the stream of appallingly behaved children who are never nice and always turn up reeking of farts and biscuits and ingratitude.
In his pockets he carries a silver hip flask containing whiskey, a packet of mints to conceal the whiff of whiskey and a tube of hand sanitiser to minimise the passing of germs and therefore the chances of spending the next 24hrs evacuating his jolly, chubby belly.
Ah, the secrets of the children’s entertainer!
Last year, youngest and I ended up helping to dismantle Santa’s grotto at the end of the fair. At five years old, his belief that he had earlier been in the company of St Nicholas himself was unshakeable and adorable. As we gathered up the sparkly gauze that had adorned the magical grotto, he stumbled upon a bag containing cheap red nylon and artificial white hair…
“Mummy?” he called, bottom lip already quivering, brow furrowed with confusion, “it’s Santa’s stuff…why is it…still here…?”
At which point all the adults sprung into action, steering the tiny believer away from the bag of evidence which threatened to steal his childhood in front of our very guilty eyes, and furnished him with a series of increasingly elaborate explanations for why Santa would leave his clothes behind in a Morrison’s bag.
In the end, we settled on the completely logical explanation that Santa has LOADS of identical outfits and each time he visits a school, he leaves one behind for us to wash and look after until next year.
Sold, to the boy who then received an entire bag of fun-sized Milky Bars.
This year, youngest and I have already had a lengthy discussion about how come the Elves who attend the grotto are adult-sized and not the miniature creatures of his imagination and every fictional account known to Disney.
He came to the conclusion that clearly, there are adult-sized elves who live in Manchester and whose job is to attend the school grottos. They are not the same species of elf as those living in Lapland.
Our Chief Elf is always played by a mummy he knows very well, yet he has never recognised her. Such is the power of a costume for a child, and for the daddy’s who always cheerfully volunteer for the job of escorting their sprogs to the grotto in order to enjoy the view that is this very hot mummy in her sexy elf tights…
My role at the fair is to ensure a maximum level of hellish cheer by cavorting around the school grounds, screeching into a loud-speaker dressed as a Christmas Tree and pouring with sweat.
The daddy’s do NOT flock around this mummy…
See you Monday!