‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
“Do I really have to do this?”
“Yes,” Nicole Di Cuza whispers back digging me in the ribs.
I look down at the group of infant school kids at my feet. I can’t remember the exact point in between a glass of Stella in the kitchen and Nicole’s bedroom where I had agreed to take part in this Christmas show. The only bit I can confidently remember was Nicole telling me that she was doing a show. The mayor’s annual Christmas show has been running for about ten years with money going to the Rock n’ Rolla Children’s Charity Appeal. Nicole, always willing to give herself up for charity, had agreed to do a psychic reading but I’m quietly confident the words, and Detective Inspector Jack Daniels will dress up like Father Christmas and surround himself with snotty brats for the show, never materialised.
“I’m missing Batman Returns you know,” I whisper.
“That’s not all you’ll be missing if you ruin the show,” Nicole hisses back.
Gazing around the concert hall I pray to God that nobody I knew was watching.
When from outside my window there arose such a clatter. I sprung from my chair to see what’s the matter.
At least I can console myself with the knowledge that even though I sit here in a fluffy white beard with several pillows strapped to my waist, I don’t have to stand there in a short green dress and a pair of old Vulcan ears pretending to be an Elf, but to be fair to her though she does have the figure, and the height. I bet she never thought that she’d be dressed up like a hooker from the North Pole when she used to celebrate ‘Craciun’ with her family back in Romania.
Away to the window I flew like a flash. Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. When, what to my wandering eyes should appear. But a big red sleigh and eight panting reindeer.
I was dying for a fag. I promised Nicole I’d try and quit. Maybe I’ll have two beers to compensate. At least with being the second act on I’m not hanging around. The crowd were at least vaguely interested, even if these kids weren’t, I recognise one of them, his Dad Albert Harris was nicked on a drunk and disorderly charge after relieving himself on a statue of Medusa in the town centre.
The little old driver, so lively and quick. I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick.
It doesn’t even make any sense. Why would Santa be reading a story about finding Santa on his roof? I tell myself time and time again never to agree to anything ever again. I feel like grabbing the small redhead kid in front of me and shouting for God’s sake kid stop picking your nose, you’re meant to be enthralled with wonder and surprise.
Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!
In the faintest of distances I can hear Stella calling out to me from the bar area. Chief Inspector Farrell would call this inter-community police relations. I call this looking like a Div.
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof. The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my hand and was turning around, down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
I think about my flat, the scraggy Christmas tree that looks out of place underneath my new gothic angel, after a while her blank expression has begun to freak me out, especially as she bears a startling resemblance to Jennifer Tilly. I’ve never really wanted to celebrate Christmas, but it appears every woman I date thinks I need a little Christmas spirit, personally the only spirit I’m interested in can be found mixed in Eggnog.
His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The beard on my chin appears to be made of some kind of beige goat hair. When there’s a slight draft of air I can be forgiven for thinking that it was gleamed from the goat’s rear end and the goat was still attached. I really want to scratch my chin, but the students from Vernwood Institute have attached it with what appears to be superglue, I’m sure there was a tube of No Nails on the desk in front of me, damn students, should be behind the counter at Burger King where they belong.
The stump of his pipe he held in his teeth, and the smoke encircled his head like a holly wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
Nearly there now, only another six lines and I can slink off to the bar. There’s meant to be a revolving circle in the middle of this stage so that when I’ve finished and have milked the applause the next act will be revolved onto the stage. The whole programme is a little bit weird as the show opened with ‘Cheap Day Return’ a Jethro Tull tribute act singing ‘A Christmas Song’ then it’s me, being sodding jolly St Nick after which ‘Cheap Day Return’ will regale us with ‘Another Christmas Song’. With the greatest will in the world I want to be reaching tipsy by the time Nicole starts to talk to the dead and completely sloshed by the time ‘Cheap Day Return’ end the show with ‘Ring Out Solstice Bells’. I contemplate for a few seconds whether I would truly want to miss the awesome power of The Tumbling Thompsons and their mind reading Terrier, Mysterium, then quickly fall on the side of Stella and her Nectar of All Consuming Power.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk. Laying a finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; he sprang to his sleigh, to his team agave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
There’s a guy down there on the front row, a right twitchy sort. I can never be accused of snobbery, hell I’ll nick anybody that’s done wrong, but he looks rather underdressed to be at a function like this. His eyes betraying a comedown, or maybe just a natural dopiness. I think I know his face from somewhere, but I just can’t place it, there’s so much scum goes past my eyes in a day that they all begin to look the same.
But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.
It ends, with a sigh of relief I stand up from my semi-circle of snotty kids and step forward for the applause. I think that the majority of the audience are just being polite and some of the teenagers are applauding for Nicole’s long legs. The rotund figure of Mayor Harlington bounds on to stage waving his arms and cheering in an attempt to disguise the fact that the rotating platform still isn’t working. From out of the corner of my I see the dopey greasy haired guy from the front row reach inside his coat, something metallic glitters and without thinking I push the mayor out of the way. As the mayor falls to the ground the serrated edge of a knife flies between us and lands with a dull thud at the back of the stage. I turn around and leap from the edge of the stage landing swiftly on the assailant, I’m sure that the sight of Detective Inspector Santa Claus will linger long in the memory of the on-looking children.
“You were lucky this time, don’t think there won’t be more to come,” Greasy shouts as security surrounds us.
“We’ll take it from here,” one of the guys said taking over from my grip on Greasy’s arms.
“Sure, no problem, just be sure to put him on the naughty list, ok,” I reply.
Nicole pounces at me with a mixture of fear, relief and pride wrapping her arms and legs around my pillow enhanced frame and planting a few kisses on my goat hair face. I turn around and give a quick wave to the crowd following it with a rather hearty…
“Merry Christmas To all and a welcome good night.”
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