By Stanley Collymore
Look Santa! I know perfectly well that it’s Christmas and
what you’re up to now are the sort of things that you
obviously delight in and most evidently, as well,
thoroughly enjoy doing; but just because it’s
your specific thing and loved by some
doesn’t mean that everyone similarly
wants to be actively engaged in or is even the least
tolerant of these very much quite inescapably in
your face and rather bullish shenanigans. And
therefore, cautiously putting it politely and
diplomatically, or as I rather prefer to do
candidly; when it comes to the latter
grouping of persons, then I most
determinedly, and decidedly,
count myself among them.
So in my case please do me and yourself at the same
time one great big favour and just bugger off! And
not because I abhor or for that matter personally
have anything whatever against Christmas per
se; for truthfully I very much to the contrary
contentedly and unhesitatingly do confess
to being an enthusiastic fan of old Noel;
and while my willingly admitting this
might appear odd as Hell to you in
the circumstances of what I’ve earlier been saying,
have none the less always and distinctly for me
been religiously and socially celebratory that
way. However, I do take a not unreasonable
exception to some obese and pensionable
person, absolutely nothing at all against
ageism mind just the droll incongruity
of the entire thing I readily confess,
dressed up in a ridiculous costume
of red and white rampaging across my roof in what
at best is obviously a most old-fashioned sleigh
pulled by a herd of discernibly hyperactive
reindeer. All well and good for the lot of
you and every likeminded person who
patently thinks that it’s a barrel fun.
That said though, when I checked
my individual situation with my
established insurance company,
Direct Line, I was explicitly
informed that any damage
caused either directly by
you Mr Santa Claus or
your reindeer just was
not covered by my
home contents or
any of the other
© Stanley V. Collymore
22 December 2015.
I was seven years old when I had a falling out with Santa Claus that would become permanent. Earlier that year and having been exceedingly good throughout it, as I normally was, I wrote to Santa asking him if I could have a cricket bat engraved with the names of any of my three cricketing heroes – I’m a staunch cricket fan – the 3 Ws, Worrrell, Weekes and Walcott, or preferably all three of them if he could manage that.
I subsequently in return got a letter from Santa Claus promising me that he would fulfil my wish; and pleased as anyone could possibly be by the fact of knowing that a special wish of theirs would be forthcoming I couldn’t wait for the onset of Christmas, which was always a festive and religious season that I looked forward to and thoroughly enjoyed, to happen. Furthermore, this time I told family members and friends who asked me what I wanted them to get me for Christmas that the choice as usual was entirely theirs but they were not to get me a cricket bat as Santa Claus was already doing that.
But Christmas came and went, and while I got loads of presents from lots of people Santa Claus never delivered on his promise nor did he bother to send me an explanation for what he did, or more fittingly didn’t do. So instead I wrote him a terse letter telling him what I thought of him and calling him a miserly prat. He must have taken umbrage to that but I didn’t care and readily forgot all about him.
Fast forward to my early adulthood and Santa Clause with his reindeer recommenced driving his sleigh over the roofs of whatever home I was living in; ridiculous really as none of them ever had any chimneys, a specific thing with me. And with good reason! I’m a staunch environmentalist and eschew polluting the atmosphere with the residue from fossil fuels and instead opted for insulated lofts, solar panel roofs and state of the art central heating, so there were no chimneys attached to any of my homes for this rotund man to embarrassingly climb down, than Heavens! Nevertheless, he made up for that with his dry runs; with him accompanied by his reindeer creating an unholy din over my roof tops I must say!
Thankfully, all this happened prior to Christmas itself, which as it happens in my case I never spend in Britain; as I’d long discovered, coming not long after my initial altercation with Santa that there isn’t just the one Santa Claus but a franchise of them with their own specific jurisdiction, and judiciously I make absolutely sure each year that I’m out of the jurisdiction of that Santa Claus who cocked it up for me all those years ago.
And so this poem, drawing on my own experience as a child, is written for and dedicated to all those who’ve been similarly hard done by an unforgivable Santa Claus or who are simply agnostic about them. And remember this; I got over my disappointment and so will you! Meanwhile, have a cracking Christmas all of you.