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By Dennis Rookard As it's our Christmas edition of Brentwood Style, we thought it would be a nice gesture to invite Santa Claus to Contribute a few words on his experiences acting a confident to our children in his many grottos in countless stores and shopping precincts in our part of South Essex. You think it's easy don't you. The fruit of your loins fresh faced and excited at the prospect of telling me want they want for Christmas. Oh if only it was. There you are sitting in your tiny grotto, and it happens. The young ten year old, seen it all before, done it all and mummies brought him the t-shirt, stares you in the eye and yells. "Your not Santa Claus." Resisting the thought that the little thug wants a good slap. You merely lean forward to ask, "and who do you think comes down your chimney with your goodies come Christmas morning." Now if luck is on your side. The little thug, will wise up, take the present and high tail it out of your grotto dragging his mother, a tight smile on her face, with him. More often or not your luck has vanished and this mothers little helper will tell you that he knows that come Christmas eve, that figure creeping into his bedroom. Slightly drunk and off balance, a heavy pillow case over his shoulder lumbering around the house at 3am in the morning, acting as Santa's stand in, is his father. And you, sitting there, are just a great big fat fake. I ask you, me –Santa Claus - a fake. Me who each year, has to spend six or so weeks, nine till five, in some cases seven days a week sitting in grottos in countless stores and shopping arcades noting down what your youngsters really want for Christmas a fake. It's enough to make me want to jack it all in, and head back home to the North Pole, Mrs Claus, the Gnomes and those Reindeers. But no, being kind hearted, I always accept those invitations to park the Reindeer round the back in the loading bay, before sitting in my grotto with only a Gnome for company listening to the desires of my young visitors. The trouble is that these days, I have to be in several places at once. No easy task for someone of my age, and as Mrs Claus keeps telling me, I'm not getting any younger. But I can understand. It must be hard for some adults to understand simple time dilatation transposition techniques, allied with fundamental wormhole theory. Most Children on the other hand find no trouble with these concepts. But you do get the odd one. Like the time I tried to explain Worm Hole theory to that junior scientist - aged all of eleven years down in Basildon, who maintained I was not the real Santa but just a large man dressed in a red Santa Claus suit. "How did he work that out," I asked. "Because if I was really Santa," he told me. "Who was that man dressed in the bright red Santa outfit my mum took me to see in Southend yesterday." Both the same I told him, reminding him that he had never seen us both together at the same time had he. Here my young accuser had to agree. Well the reason I told him, was that Santa has this unique ability take on many forms, whilst being able to travel instantaneously vast distance's via a personal worm hole to seemingly appear in many places at the same time. Another young lad some years ago in Cambridge asked the same question. Only he wanted to know how come I could visit every child in the nation on the same night. Name of Stephen Hawking I think. Anyway, I gave him to understand that with the aid of time dilatation transposition techniques, I was able to twist time so that whilst it took close on a year to me to deliver all those presents, only an hour or two would pass in his time dimension. Strangely he seemed rather interested in this question of time business, and pestered me to tell him more. But I told the little chap that he would understand it more when he grew up. But I don't think my story had any lasting effect on him. It's the girls who can be a problem. I well remember one year sitting in my Grotto when a mother came in with her nine year old daughter. "So what do you want for Christmas," I asked. Her blue eyes met mine and in a very serious voice, she said "a new daddy!" And how about Mum I asked, turning to her mother and feeling slightly embarrassed. The lady in question looked me straight in the eye - almost as if she was measuring me up for the job - to say, "I'd love a husband." I tell you I had to go and feed Rudolf to recover from that confrontation. Oh and a word or two here for those of you concerned about that Red nosed animal. I don't know why but never a day goes by in my grotto with some child asking if I have brought Rudolf with me. Well the answer is yes. How else do you think I arrived in this store or shopping precinct this morning I say. "You tell me, when did you last see Santa standing at a bus stop or trudging up the hill from Brentwood station" I say. No I just throw a saddle over Rudolf and off we fly. Oh yes, it's true you know. The beast can fly. Well sort off. Ok on take offs, but very dodgy on landings. And no, I'm sorry you can't see him. For some unknown reason managements take a dim view of Rudolf wandering around their nice clean stores. Mind you I suspect this is because of a rather nasty rumour relating to incontinence in reindeer, put around I suspect by some of my Gnomes back at the North Pole. I remember, I told them at the time, watch what your saying when we had that party of Journalists pay us a visit. But would they listen. Anyway take my word for it, Rudolf is always with me, and spends his days out back in the stores loading bay. And I would like to state here and now, that there is no truth in that other rumour that feeding Rudolf is just an excuse for Santa to get some fresh air and a crafty fag. Now back in the grotto, I normally keep my great book of words. Its contents generally come as a great surprise to my young visitors. Once they've settled down before me, and have told me their name. My first question is always to ask if they have been good. Always the answer is the same. So wiping the dust from the heavy tome I open the page to their name, and say something along the lines of, "Ah Angela, now you tell me you have been very very good, but according to my great book of words, I can see you had an argument with you mum the other day about going to bed." This usually has the effect of little Angela hanging her head in shame, with her mother nodding in agreement. But as I'm basically a nice person, I close the book, telling her that if she promises to be good until Christmas we can forget about past misdemeanours, and get down to the task of finding out what she really wants for Christmas. Another little girl wanted to know if Santa had time for a holiday. Oh Yes indeed, Mrs Claus and yours truly look forward to our annual Holiday. Last year we went of safari in South Africa and this year took the Gnomes with us for a cruise around the Caribbean after visiting Disney world in Florida. Not my cup of tea, but the Gnomes and Mrs Claus loved it. Finally. A few words about the great night itself. As you know tradition holds that letters to Santa with present requests should be placed to the left had side of the fireplace along with three mince pies a large carrot and a glass of 12-year malt Whisky. But as most homes these days seem to have dispensed with fireplaces, the use of a small table in front of the television will do. And please Mums and Dads a plea. Don't just leave a glass of fizzy drink and a stale cheese sandwich. Or even as in one case last year. A tin of carrots left for Rudolf. That's not fair. I mean it's hard on his teeth trying to open them. And you should hear what the other reindeer have to say. No, It's a long way to come from the North Pole with these presents. It can get darned cold over the North Sea I can tell you, Not to mention trying to control a pack of excitable flying reindeer from crashing into any passing Jumbo Jets. So please remember, after I have delivered your presents, there's nothing I like better then a nice mice pie, washed down with a glass of the hard stuff. And shame on those of you who tell me they don't believe in me, and that I'm just a figment of their imagination. Anymore of that talk, and you'll be off my visiting list this Christmas eve. Ends.. |
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