Hero Worship: Santa Claus

Having spent the best part of ten years behind the beard it would be a natural assumption that I’m sick to death of Santa. But the truth is: I’m still fond of the scarlet old sod.

As an avid fan of all things Christmas I had no qualms over manning my post on the festive front line. For ten years I made a fat living out of being the main event, so for that reason alone I suppose I should still be in the grip of The Claus. But there’s more to it than that.

You see life in the raw in a grotto. Of course there’s the excitement, fun, laughter, singing, dancing, proud new parents, newborn babies (current record: 3 days old) and doting grandparents. But in amongst the warm comfy glow of twinkling lights and tinsel, you see lots of other things too. A year didn’t go by when I didn’t have to explain to at least one child that a missing parent wouldn’t be back for Christmas. Or talk with another who wouldn’t see another Christmas. Some were so disabled or ill you could only judge from their eyes, sparkling in the fairy lights, that they knew where they were.

My job – Santa’s job – was to make sure that from the moment they came into my magic kingdom they were happy, giggly… and safe.

So I don’t have much time for miserable gits who huff about commercialism or greed – or spout the lazy (and untrue) cliché about Coca Cola inventing him. I will keep saying: Santa, you’re my hero.