There can be no doubt about it, Father Christmas was drunk. As much as it pains me to relate this fact, there is no escaping it. The elves knew it, the reindeer knew it, the polar bears knew it. Why does this matter? Well, Father Christmas was drunk on the day before Christmas.
The day before Christmas! The busiest day in the diary! The day when the lists of toys for all the children in the world were checked, cross checked, checked against available stores, checked against the ability of the elves to load the sleigh, checked against the loading of the sleigh, and finally checked against the readiness of the reindeer to pull the massive sleigh through the night sky. A day at the North Pole Toy Emporium when no elf slept until the sleigh was loaded and stood bulging with packets and parcels in bright wrapping paper, glinting bows and colourful streamers. Then, and only then, did everyone rest.
The great tradition at the Emporium, once the sleigh had been prepared and as the first streetlamps were lit in the streets of the cities far away on Christmas Eve, was the departure of Father Christmas. Everyone gathered outside, drawn up in two expectant and chattering rows: the elves having pride of place, then the polar bears, in order of height. At the appointed time Father Christmas and Mother Christmas emerged from the Emporium to wild applause or, in the case of the polar bears, throaty rumblings. Father Christmas would then ascend to his seat, switch on the taillights of the sleigh, test the reins, and then after a smile and cheery wave, call to the reindeer. The sleigh would then slip forward, gathering pace, to finally clear the snowy runway that had been prepared by teams of the polar bears.
But not this year. How drunk? Father Christmas was as drunk as a lord, although the simile owed its origin to wealth and not the cold weather. Father Christmas kept a small supply of cherry brandy, which he was fond of imbibing after supper when he had returned from his happy journey each year. The bottle of cherry brandy stood on a shelf in the kitchen, where it jostled other small bottles of various colours that had been left as gifts when Father Christmas visited the homes of the slumbering children and gathered dust from year’s end to year’s end. This year however, as Father Christmas sat down in the kitchen at the end of a long day, his tired eyes wandered to the shelf. He licked his lips and stroked his beard with one hand. “Would it really matter,” he thought, “to have a little sip of the brandy now, instead of tomorrow night, when we are celebrating Christmas Day?” He stood and reached up, took down the little bottle, and uncorked it. Ah! The sweet aroma filled his nostrils. He sat down, raised the bottle to his lips, and drank. The cherry brandy coursed through his body; he felt warm, for it had been a cold day at the North Pole, and his body relaxed. He listened to the elves in the toy hall, who were singing as they wrapped toys for the children; he tapped his booted foot against the leg of the kitchen table, and hummed the song; his spirits lifted, and he contemplated the little bottle with a smile. He had another sip, he felt warmer, and more relaxed.
An hour later, the Chief Elf, alerted by loud and persistent snoring, came to the kitchen door. There, now slumped in the armchair in the corner, and surrounded by empty bottles of blue, green, amber and scarlet coloured glass, was Father Christmas. His head was on his chest, his arms lay across his stomach, which rose and fell in the red folds of his tunic as he breathed deeply. The elf slowly approached. “Father Christmas,” he said in an urgent whisper, “Father Christmas! You are snoring Father Christmas!” There was no response to the entreaty, the elf came nearer, his eyes took in the empty bottles. “Oh my!” he cried and fled.
A procession led by Mother Christmas, the Chief Elf, the Assistant Under Elf, and the Chief Polar Bear, gathered around the slumbering form of Father Christmas. “Arthur!” cried Mother Christmas, as that was his name, but Father Christmas did not stir. “Wake up!” In reply, Father Christmas gave a contented snore, and rolled into a more comfortable position in the armchair, which was snug and cozy and warm. Mother Christmas and Father Christmas had been married for many years, she had known him since he was a beardless boy, who rode reindeer around the pasture of her own father’s farm. She was a capable woman, by name Esmeralda; she busied herself with the care of the young polar bears at the North Pole, feeding the whelps from large bottles of milk when their mothers needed to rest. She had accepted her husband’s position, which she knew meant so much to the children of the world, but it kept him so busy, he hardly had a day of rest.
Copyright © David Alexander 2023
All images generated by AI.