When Santa Claus comes to town
I met Santa Claus the other night, in Kilmurry of all places. Christmas lights were being switched on, and the old boy came along for the craic.
“What do you think of the lights?” I asked Saint Nick, for they are truly spectacular this year.
“Why, they are marvellous altogether!” says he before breaking into a song that
involved himself.
Then, suddenly, in mid verse, he broke away, and pulling me aside, for the place was thronged with people, he asked was there any truth to the rumour that there wasn’t a sop of straw to be had in rural Ireland.
“Straw, is it?!” I laughed, “you must be joking. The only straw around these parts is under the baby Jesus across the road in the crib.”
“Oh dear me!” he
exclaimed, for he can be a sensitive soul. “I’d better pack a few bales of straw onto the sleigh this Christmas for the poor farmers.”
“Don’t be packing anything of the kind,” I retorted. “If they can’t pay for it, they can do without it! If you have any brain at all up there under that red hat of yours, you’ll put a smart ad in the
Irish Examiner
next Thursday, and sell the lot before Christmas. Don’t be a fool
entirely for the farmers,” I cautioned Santa.
“Well, Ho, Ho, Ho,” says he, for he was all the better after hearing about my grand scheme to sell straw.
“But tell me,” says he, still with the look of a concerned individual about him, “do you know of anyone who might be able to hoist up a few sheets of galvanised onto a broken down shed? Storm Ophelia did terrible damage back home,” he explained.
Santa went on to tell me that Rudolph’s stable is in a terrible state right now, with more leaks than the Paradise Papers. “Well,” says I, “tis pneumonia he’ll pick up so, if his quarters aren’t comfortable.” But Santa assured me that he hasn’t been afflicted.
“Great,” says I. “You’ve come to the right man so.”
And within a short while, I had given him the names of a few good men I felt might tackle Rudolf’s collapsed roof.
“Tis cash only for them boys, Santa,” I warned. “That’s the way it works.”
“Oh, of course,” says he, stirring up his jingly pockets. “Sure ’tis how I operate
myself.”
And Santa went on to tell me that his grotto was the greatest cash cow since the one armed bandit.
“Money for old rope,” he laughed.
“Quieten down there, Santa,” I cautioned, “don’t you have the taxman pinning you to a tax defaulters list.”
“Not at all,” old saint Nick retorted. “Sure I don’t live here in Ireland, I’m living up in the North Pole or someplace, which makes me
immune from prosecution. I’m the very same as them high flying pop stars you read about in the papers.”
“Well, you beat Banagher, Santa,” I laughed “with the height of trickery.”
“But come here boy,” says he, pulling me by the collar one last time, for the children were starting to gather, “Do you think farmers in general have been good this year?”
“Good, Santa?!” I replied with incredulity.
“Of course they have been good! If they were any better, ’tis canonisations you’d have to be performing.”
“Splendid!” roared the big fellow.
“I’ll make sure that there are big surprises for all farmers under the Christmas tree this year.”
And in fairness to the cheery chap, you couldn’t ask for more than that.
