The big man you’ve been waiting to see…’

I had tried a million times and I had failed just as many. No. It was not my fault. I had not failed; I had been failed. Failed by a thousand swindling Santas.

For years, at my tyrannical instruction, my parents tripped me around the country in search of the big boy in red – that man of magic and mystery.

From the cold hall of the CKS, to the blinding lights that bathed the leisure centre and turned its floors fluorescent; when word got out that Santa Claus was coming to town, we never missed a chance to try catch a glimpse of the big, burly, full-figured fellow.

But, no matter how hard we tried, irrespective of how far we journeyed, I never got to see the falling snowflake in his eye – the tinsel twinkle that, without a word, would whisper in a voice so earnest: ‘Yes, Emmet, it’s me. I am Him’.

No. It never came. It just never came.

Instead, what fate had in store for me was a never-ending procession of good-for-nothing charlatans, con-artists and crooks. Punks. Fakers. Frauds.

Dirty capitalists, driven by greed and avarice, willing to exploit and subvert the whole idea of Christmas spirit.

However, though I was child – let it be clear – I was no fool. Those of you who thought I bought your bogus beards and tacky suits were only conning yourselves.

I knew the truth.

You may not have knew I knew, but I knew.

I knew by the feel of your polyester trousers.

I knew by the strimmer in the corner of your grimy grotto.

And I knew by the smell of stale beer and tobacco on your lying breath. Every seven-year-old knows the sweet scent of cookies and milk, but some of us could identify more sophisticated scents when they crossed our nostrils, too.

Who did you think you were kidding, Mr ‘Santa’; you yellow-moustached freak-show?

Anyway, it got to the point that I resigned myself to this simple fact: If the big man was indeed out there, it, simply was not written in our destinies that we should meet.

Our lives were set upon different paths; like ships in the night, like slays across the starry sky.

Each time I listened out for his bellowing, ‘ho ho ho’ on the breeze, all I heard was was a sick subversion of his festive exclamation.

‘No no no’… cried the wind.

It followed that, for years, I would not allow talk of these traveling festive fools in my company. There is only so much heartache one heart can take. Only so much soul-destroying pain one soul can endure. And this little heart of mine could endure no more.

So, the other day, when I was told that I was being sent to interview Santa, my stomach turned, and I sighed the sigh of one whose dreams have been dashed too many times.

“That’s alright,” I said without enthusiasm. “When and where?”

The venue was to be Sean Og’s pub on Main Street – that thatched cottage in the heart of the town which is so quintessentially festive in its nature, that even at the height of summer, it still crackles with the fires of Christmas.

When me and the crew arrived (I refused to go without back up), the overtures of real snow were floating in the air. The conditions were undeniably Christmasy.

Inside, a small fire danced in a stone hearth, and the laughs and complaints of workmen at tea emanated from the far corner of the cottage.

“What time did we go for tea?” asked one to another.

“I’d say we still have a bit left yet,” came the response, as a crisp packet was expertly folded to create a flume that funneled the remaining crumbs into a wide-open mouth.

In anticipation of the fraud’s arrival, we politely asked the last remaining boys to bail.

Quiet fell upon the cottage.

Then we heard something. The dead thud of heavy boots. The crack of a staff falling upon a hard floor. The jingle of a Christmas bell.

“Ho ho ho,” said the man dressed as Santa.

We took him in, as he gracefully moved through the room, shaking each of our hands in turn.

His suit was impressive.

Far better than any I ever recall seeing in my childhood.

His beard shone with the vibrancy of Davina McCall’s locks after the first rinse of a fresh colour.

And behind his wee gold specs sat the gentle, benevolent eyes that I had waited all these years to see.

“Santa,” I said.

And, with a mere twinkling of his eye he whispered, “Yes, Emmet, it’s me.

“I am Him.

“The big man you’ve been waiting to see.”

We sat down and commenced the interview.

“The roads did not cause me any trouble on my journey here today,” began the big fellow. “As, I am sure you guessed, I travelled here by Reindeer Express. However, it is a bit like the North Pole up in the sky today. It’s very cold indeed.”

This checked out.

Santa is a sleigh man.

But in spite of having won the trust of my heart with his twinkling eye, my brain resisted his enchanting charm.

“What age are you anyway?” I asked the big man. This, by the way, being one of the litmus tests for a liar.

“I am the same age as my tongue, and a little younger than my teeth,” he said evasively.

I paused. This is exactly the kind of slippery answer one would expect from somebody with something to hide. We meandered through the usual Santa chat, sizing each other up… And then, I turned things in a more serious direction.

“Santa,” I levelled with a cold, hard look. “There have been rumours over the last number of years that, due to insufficient tea breaks and worsening working conditions, the elves have unionised, and are speaking of a strike in the next week.

“Has your neglectful employment conditions jeopardised Christmas, or are the elves treated with the dignity they deserve?”

Santa responded, “Those rumours have been circulated in newspapers that I would not place much faith in. I prefer to get my news for more trustworthy places, such as the UH and We Are Tyrone.”

I felt like I was being buttered up. And I liked it.

“But seriously, we look after our elves in the North Pole, unlike the bosses of some of the health workers here.

“I believe that you look after the people who work for you, and they will look after you.”

The conversation eased up, with Santa taking the reigns, and guiding us on a merry journey.

Totally won over, convinced that I was staring in the eyes of greatness, I asked Santa the most important Christmas question I could think of.

“Santa, what is the true meaning of Christmas?”

His response…

“The true meaning of Christmas is family, togetherness, compassion, and understanding. We should always remember those who are less fortunate than ourselves, and be good to one and other. Enjoy it.”

And with a final twinkle of his eye, he said, “Merry Christmas!”