Yes, a bad Santa comes to some of us

Irish Examiner - Farming - - NEWS - De­nis Le­hane den­nyle­[email protected]­

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.

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