Yes, a bad Santa comes to some of us
The young children in this house still sing the praises of Father Christmas, but you won’t find me championing the clown. After last year’s fiasco, I have about as much time for Santa Claus as I do for Theresa May.
The trouble began last Christmas morning when I ran downstairs with the children in tow, all eager to see what the big fellow had left behind, and we heard some woeful snoring and snorting from the sitting room.
Fearing a burglar or a grizzly bear, it was with great fear and trepidation that I opened the door.
It turned out to be only a bear of a man, non other than the big lump himself, Santa Claus.
“It’s Santa!” the children cried “It’s Santa!”
It sure was, and he thrown on the sofa like an old sow.
I poked him on the shoulder to rouse him.
“Oh dear me,” Santa cried, realising that he had dozed off on the job. albeit worn out from a night of hard work, and drinking.
And so to the chimney he staggered. But as he was still drunk , I felt obliged to stop him. But why?” Santa protested. “Aren’t you afraid of the old bag?” I asked.
“What’s my wife got to do with it?” Santa replied, still puzzled.
“No, not Mrs Claus,” says I, “the breathalyser.”
I told him all about the bagging in the mornings, catching fellows going to mass and so on. Santa was shocked, appalled, and hungry.
So my missus fixed him a mighty fry. He gobbled it up like a man who hadn’t eaten for a month.
Then he started talking. While Santa is a most lively fellow in small doses, I found him to be a terrible bore over the long haul.
He spoke about how his reindeer were now on a diet of turnips, on account of the fodder crisis, which had caused ‘all-merciful diarrhoea’ in the herd.
Anyway, from breakfast we went to dinner, and then supper, with Santa still around and eating portions that would feed a small army.
In the finish, I could take it no longer, and demanded to know when the devil would be leaving. know ’twas Christmas Day, but man alive, Santa had overstayed his welcome.
We were running out of food and patience.
To cut a long story short, he told me his reindeers had vamoosed and he asked me to drop him to the bus station in Macroom.
I told him the bus station would be shut, but there was no talking to him.
So to Macroom we ventured, only for him to see I was right all along.
“Oh dear me, could you take me to Abbyfeale or Castleisland so, ’twould be getting me closer to the North Pole, and I have friends there who can take me the remainder of the way.”
“Is it Abbyfeale or Castleisland?” I asked in exasperation, for I was right sick of him at this stage.
“Castleisland so please, if you wouldn’t mind.” Which of course I did, but what could I say?
So there I was, on the day when a fellow should be at home with his family, and I out on the road with this yahoo.
By the time I got back home everyone had gone to bed.
The cat was feasting on the last of the turkey.
Everyone after a mighty day but for me, my Christmas spoiled by no greater a man than Santa Claus himself.
The Lehane children still love Santa... but their father doesn’t.
Beware of bad Santas making themselves too comfortable.