November 2012
The speaker finally mumbled himself into silence and then sat down, eyes downcast, wringing his hands with embarrassment. Everyone in the group, however, leaned sympathetically forward, effusive in their praise for his courage in laying bare his soul and exposing his affliction to them all. But the warmth they shared together was a marked contrast to the grim starkness of the dingy room in which they met. While it must be said that most of the members of the group who were gathered on their hard wooden chairs in a rough horseshoe around the diminutive Reverend Roderick, had definitely seen better days; so was it also true of St Barnaby's Church's Small Hall; the pale green paint was flaking away in large ugly patches and the ancient radiators gurgled and banged impressively without imparting the slightest warmth to melt the ice creeping over the grubby windows.
Outside the hall the snow fell in a solid curtain of heavy flakes, obliterating the contours of the church, the sombre graveyard and the trees that flanked its ancient stone walls. Inside, all eyes now turned to the next speaker who had sat in quiet contemplation throughout the session, taking no active part, and who did not seem to be in the slightest way anxious to add his own sad tale to the list.
With his immense bulk sat hunched in his chair he appeared extraordinary, but when he unfolded himself to stand fully six feet six tall before his peers, and his stained brown trench coat fell open exposing his substantial waist held back into a distended hour glass shape by a thick black belt, it was quite apparent that he truly was an imposing figure. The lank and unkempt grey/white hair cascading down around his shoulders merged with the snow/white of his full moustache and the bush that was his beard to frame his rotund face. Thick black eyebrows loomed ominously over rheumy eyes, but of all his impressive features, his nose was the true marvel: heavily veined, bulbous and an almost luminous red, it wallowed like a decaying beach ball on the pallid sea of his face.
Folding his arms behind his back he hesitated and then said, 'My name is Santa Claus and I'm an alcoholic.'
The deathly hush which greeted this revelation was soon drowned out by gasps of surprise and whispered comments between neighbours until the Reverend Roderick raised his hand in an appeal for silence, 'We hear you brother Santa.'
Earlier, while he had been listening to the other speakers struggling through their exposés he had tried to formulate in his own mind exactly what he should say to these special people, but now that he had the floor himself his brain had shut down; but on leaving, it passed him the message that, 'You are all on your own now – I'm off!'
'I . . . don't know where to begin . . .' he mumbled.
Reverend Roderick leaned forward and patted his hand gently, 'I find the beginning is always a good place to start, my son.'
Santa drew a deep breath and began, 'I have listened to you all recounting your humble tales to me, but it humbles me to admit to you the silver spoon which accompanied me into this world.
'I was born near the end of the third century Nicholas of Myra, this small village was hidden deep within Byzantine Anatolia, which to you is modern day Turkey. As the only son of wealthy parents, I wanted for nothing and life was sweet, but this idyllic life was shattered at a very early age when an epidemic struck the village and my parents were both taken.' he paused to regain his composure and continued, 'I was brought up by my Uncle Nicholas, who was the Bishop of Patara; he tonsured me as a reader and I grew up within the solid walls of the church which insulated me from the harsh realities of the world outside. I could so easily have enjoyed the security of this comfortable life eternally, but one day, during a period of quiet contemplation at the altar, I heard the voice of Christ berating me for my indolence and from that moment on my life was changed forever; He said to me, 'Nicholas – sell what you own and give the money to the poor.'
Believe me, with my privileged upbringing I had no idea whatsoever how to carry out this divine instruction, but on my way back home I spied some soiled clogs which had been left beside a peasant's doorstep, rather than muddy the flags of their floor. I took this to be a sign from above and that night I crept out, concealed by a large black hooded cape, and tossed a few meagre coins into the clogs.
'It all started out as a simple gesture; each night thereafter I prowled the quiet streets distributing a little comfort here and there, but I suppose it was inevitable that the word would quickly spread and each night I found that there were more clogs left out than there were the night before. Soon after I got to hear of the desperate plea of an impoverished farmer who had no money to use as a dowry for his three young daughters and who was afraid they would have no option but a life of prostitution. The story touched my heart and in the dead of night I crept to the cottage and tossed a purse through the window. Two more nights and two more purses and the girls' future was secured . . . but on the last night I was spotted and identified.
'It is true that celebrity comes easily in a small community and, though it was many years yet before my death, I was known by the townsfolk as Saint Nicholas. By now my nocturnal donations were spreading to the surrounding villages and it soon became apparent that, despite my money being wisely invested, this rate of attrition could not be sustained. I finally decided to limit my charitable activities to one day in each year and settled upon the 25th day of December; Saturnalia, the day the Romans feasted to honour their God of Agriculture seemed quite appropriate as the day when the peasants should harvest my riches.
'They say that death is the great leveller and ender of all things, but upon my death I was canonised and that which I had begun was not to be allowed to end. I was given special dispensation to return to continue the good work.
'Year after year the news spread along the caravan trails and trade routes until even the dedicated team of helpers I had been granted were struggling to keep up with the workload. But then, after nearly two millennia had passed, came the hammer blow; a great force had arisen in the West and its influence transformed my role beyond recognition – the Coca Cola Company. The power of their advertising spread the word to every home in every country across every continent of the globe and soon we had to move to a new distribution centre at the North Pole to manage the exponential increase in business.
'For some years we struggled on quite successfully, but our own success, together with the plethora of films which sprang up, perpetuating the legend, inevitably changed everything. My poor old horse, Neddy, was put out to pasture, superseded by a full team of reindeer and a sleigh which could only carry the massive payload by simultaneously existing in an infinite number of parallel dimensions and in an infinitely flexible space time continuum.
'There has always been a little water left out for my reindeer to drink and sometimes a little hay or a few carrots; but the beginning of the end was when the rumour spread world-wide of the mince pies and the sherry. All too soon, every mantelpiece bore the glass and the little tin foil tray, both overflowing with goodies for me to consume. At first it was all a bit of fun; it was only once a year and it just seemed to be a bit of a challenge, I suppose. But as the round got larger and larger each year, to the near three billion homes I visit today, so my large grew rounder and rounder – there are only so many mince pies and tots of sherry a body can handle.
'It couldn't go on, so I started to carry a bucket and a basket with me; the sherry was poured into the bucket and the mince pies tipped into the basket. But, while this kept my own consumption to a more reasonable level and less of a target for the Christmas breathalyser campaigns, the reindeer quickly cottoned on to an appetizing way to lessen their load. Well, I'm certain that inebriate, Rudolf's nose will never be the same again and the mince pies passed through them at such a phenomenal rate that my traditional shovel and sack could no longer cope with the sheer volume.
'But, despite my machinations, my habit slowly but surely expanded, soon spreading from Christmas into the New Year – just a little something before bed-time, eh? – and then insidiously it crept on through the months until it was every night that I was reaching for the Mr Kipling box and the bottle of Bristol Cream. You would never believe that I used to be so skinny that you could play tunes on my ribs, but now, the geography of my skeleton is hidden permanently behind this, and he cupped his overflowing belly in two plump hands.
'I have tried, how hard I have tried, but I have been on the wagon more times than I've been on my sleigh and I can see no end to it; the children rely on me to bring their presents, even though in my stupor I often get them mixed up – Tommy gets a Barbie Fashion Fairytale Palace and Sarah gets the Darth Maul Double Sided Light Saber – and there are their offerings on the mantelpiece every time; temptation I cannot refuse if I am to keep the little darlings happy and believing . . . my friends, there is no hope, no future for me anymore.'
He sighed and bent his head in defeat as he sank back down, the small wooden chair creaking in protest at the re-imposition of his immense bulk.
The stunned silence of a room-full of fathers, who had each spent their entire lives either believing or perpetuating the myth of belief, was broken by a lone voice, weak and tremulous, 'I don't know whether it would work or not, but . . .' and he held up a crumpled envelope which was covered on both sides with scribbled pencil drawings and calculations. 'Er . . . if your sleigh really can exist in an infinite number of dimensions, and in an infinitely flexible space time continuum, then maybe you could sacrifice just a small percentage of those sleighs to mulch down the hay and carrots and mince pies together with the sherry in a continuous temporal loop and produce sufficient bio-fuel to drive the sleigh and leave the reindeer purely as a decorative embellishment to preserve the image . . .' he glanced nervously at the open mouthed group around him, but Santa Claus grinned ecstatically and thrust out his hand, 'And a very merry temperance to us all!'