14 Dec

Santa Claus had always had a dark side. He told himself that he couldn’t help it. He even explained, to himself, that it wasn’t really his fault. Mother Claus was to blame. She was a large woman who always struggled to find foundation garments to fit her frame with the result that when she tried to look alluring in a snug mini-frock she looked like a freshly-trussed chicken, bulging in all the wrong places.

When asked about her huge body she said it was all on account of her husband’s job. He went out delivering gifts to all the children in the world, and while he was away she had little else to do but fill her time with baking.

And eating.

She loved baking and even more she loved eating what she had baked. And it was perfectly understandable because she was a first class baker with a huge talent for producing large and delicious chocolate cakes. She produced many varieties, but they all had a crusty chocolate finish and when they were sliced a gorgeous gloop of liquid chocolate oozed out

For that part of the year when Santa was at home it was all right. He helped her eat the things that came out of her oven. He even ate more than his fair share because, as he explained, he was a busy man and busy men always eat more than lonely ladies.

Then winter came around and, well, he had learned, since Victorian times, to stretch time a little.

There was no way he could do his rounds in a single night. In fact, he couldn’t even do the Central African Republic in a single night let alone humongous countries like China. So he stretched time so that nobody else noticed and took around three months to complete his round. Next time somebody asks you how come he manages to visit all the children in the world in one night you know what to say now, don’t you? He stretches time and that is that.

Which brings me back to his dark side.

When he’s been away from the humongously huge Mother Christmas for a week or two he gets a twitching in his nether regions. He can’t help it and truth to tell he regrets it. But it happens, and in order to alleviate the worst symptoms he needs to find a distraction.

He usually finds solace in “The Crook and Shepherd”, a pub somewhere near the equator where he can enjoy a pint or several of his favourite tipple. Men there talk to him in manly voices about manly things, like David Beckham and spark plugs, and he enjoys the repartee of manly conversation.

But one particular year, when the snow lay particularly deep on the ground and Rudolf was protesting about the cold round his nadgers, he decided go seek solace in an establishment that was unfamiliar to him. Called “The Ladies and the Knight”, it looked very much like the “Crook and the Shepherd except that the welcoming twinkling lights were a misty shade of red rather the yellow ones he was used to, and a kind of aroma hung around the entrance that he found both irresistible and subtly fish-like.

But he went in despite some reservations.

The barmaid was odd. She had cardboard and furry ears rather like Rudolf’s when he pricked them up, and when he glanced at her chest he was shocked to find that she’d forgotten to get dressed.

“Yes sir?” she purred.

“A pint of wallop!” he almost yelped in reply. “A lovely foaming pint,” he added. “Tell me, my dear, why can I see your boobies, all naked and … er … luscious?”

“Why sir” she responded, blushing fetchingly. “I am wearing the uniform of the establishment! And if you were to take a seat over there…” she pointed into the shadows, “my colleagues will entertain you with erotic dances after they’ve removed their clothing because, well, it does get warm in here and there’s nothing so unbecoming as perspiration…”

In a state of bemusement Santa took a seat deep in the shadows where she indicated, and after half an hour his whole body started wibbling and wobbling with emotion as half a dozen fetchingly beautiful young dancers appeared on a shadowy stage and removed layer after layer of unnecessary clothing before energetically removing their essentials and commencing to gyrate in such a way that beads of sweat formed on Santa’s brow and proceeded to run down his face in rivulets, splashing on the floor and forming salty puddles.

“You’re overdressed, honey,” said a voice at his elbow.

It was one of the dancers, and she pushed a firm and innocently naked part of her bosom into his face and wiggled it about.

Santa could feel his pulse starting to race. He became aware that he was wasting valuable present-delivering time in what seemed to him to be the most extraordinary of pubs, so he stood up, glared into the shadows at everyone near him – and “The Ladies and the Knight” had become almost crowded since he had sat down – and fled.

“Home, Rudolf, and don’t spare the whatever it is you’re not supposed to spare when you’re in a hurry!” he commanded.

Rudolf cast a shocked eye in his direction, noted the puce colour of Santa’s nose and the bits of flesh he could make out between the man’s whiskers and decided that now was not the time to argue. With a magnificence that only an air-born sleigh could generate, Rudolf and his team flowed into the air with a semi-protesting snort and a wave of a light brown tail.

The vast Mother Christmas was more than surprised to see him when he still had a good half-load of gifts, undelivered, on the sleigh and her confusion was further confounded when he rushed up to her and buried his beard into her adequate and very maternal bosom.

“Thank Heavens for normal boobs,” he sobbed, and dragged her up to their boudoir where he intended to explain some of the more obscure ways of the world.

© Peter Rogerson 14.12.15


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