Can Santa Claus pull it out of the bag this year?

“I know it’s Christmas week, Emmet, but there is more to this season than family time and mulled wine,” said the editor, when I landed into the office on Monday morning.

“We’ve the tickets booked, we’ve made contact with their people, and they have agreed to give you 20 minutes, and not a second longer. Quite the diva, I know.”

“Dominic Kirwan?,” I stabbed.

“Incorrect. Think bigger.”

“Hmmm… Daniel O’Donnell?”

“Think Christmasier.”

“Philomena Begley… wearing her Christmas jumper?”

“Yes Emmet, Philomena Begley. We have booked you a return ticket to Pomeroy…”

“Funny. Who then?!”

At that precise moment, just as he was about to spill the sprouts, I heard the clatter of hooves on John Street.

“Surely it’s too early for the party animals to have been released from Top of the Town?” I said.

“Then that must be your lift…” said the boss.

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I don’t know if you’ve ever travelled by flying sleigh, but, for all its gravity-defying brilliance, it’s surprisingly sore on the back.

“How long do you reckon it will take ‘til we get there?,” I asked the driver, who, for an elf, was a surprisingly sullen sort.

“Depends on the traffic, lad,” he said.

“You’d get chirpier working the graveyard shift for P and L,” I muttered.

“What was that?!”

“Nothing driver,” I retreated.

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We ended up getting to the North Pole in decent enough time, just as the 24 hour darkness was starting to lift.

“That’s you there now, lad,” the driver said, halting the meter only when the sleigh had slid to a dead stop.

“Jeepers oh. It’ll be some craic when I put that on the expenses sheet!”

“Out ye get,” he scowled.

Anyway, standing there waiting for me at the front door of the icy ranch was a wee man of a more stereotypically upbeat disposition.

“Don’t mind that fella,” he said as we walked towards the grotto. “He is only like that since MacGowan died. Big fan. He’ll come around. Anyway, that’s the man you’re after down there; second door on the right.”

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Three knocks and then bate on in. That’s my rule, and I don’t care if you’re Santa or my sister. When I entered the grotto it was like landing into Tony Soprano’s office.

The place was coming down with mahogany, the only light in the room came from the fire, and the boss was sitting in a wide back, swiveling leather chair, a whisky decanter and a half smoked box of Marlboro Reds sitting beside him.

“So, this is the best the ‘Herald can do these day?,” he said dryly, without turning away from the flames.

“Well you’d better take that stupid look off your face and start asking a lock of questions son, because you only have 18 and a half minutes left.”

He spun slowly in his seat, came to a squeaky stop, and looked over his gold rims. “Wow. That is some beard,” I blushed.

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Sitting in a small seat opposite him, I tried to open my notebook, but it had frozen shut.

“Looks like you’re going to have to use a bit of imagination wee fella,” he said, putting out his cigarette and turning down the Tom Waits album he had playing.

“Right, music, sure we’ll start there,” I said. “Favourite artist of all time and best song to listen to at Christmas?”

“Easy. Best band I ever heard live was Fleetwood Mac. I mean, Stevie Nicks in her hey day, waow. They say I am magic? That woman was a sorceress.”

“And your favourite song, Santa?,” I reminded him.

“Any of the ones I am in. Next.”

“Okay… What is the best thing about Christmas?,” I asked.

“Family,” he said.

“And the worst thing about Christmas?”

“Family,” he cackled, his tarry lungs spluttering violently.

“Can you remember the first Christmas ever?,” I asked.

“Obviously. The year was about to become 0 BC, three barely wise men had tripped halfway across the Middle East, and, aye, the newborn king was about to be birthed. Surely out of all the Christmases there have ever been, this is the one your readers are bound to already know a bit about, Emmet? What a waste of a question.”

The big man was proving to be much more of a prickly interviewee than his jolly reputation had suggested.

“Tell me this, Santa, have I done something on you or are you always this hostile?”

He smiled and relaxed back into his chair, apparently relishing my discomfort.

“Eleven minutes kid.”

I knuckled down.

“Right, Santa, what really makes you tick?”

“Same thing makes everybody tick, kid. A muscle in my chest, they call it a heart. Next question.”

“What have you got Mrs Claus this year?”

“A weekend in Omagh and a copy of the UH. She’s been a bad girl in 2023. Next.”

His incandescent cheeks, said to shine with the joy of making childen’s dreams come true, were aglow with nothing but pure wickedness.

“This one is probably more of a statement than a question Santa, so forgive me, but I have to say it. You’re one of the biggest, most contemptible tubes I have ever met.”

He looked unperturbed.

“Well, Emmet, maybe you’d be as fed up with the whole thing as I am, if all people ever done was ask, ask, ask.”

“You’re literally a magic saint. You’re not seriously going to play the pity card, are you?,” I responded.

“Oh, am I not? Says who? Every year of your whole pathetic life, you’ve asked Santa for something, but did you ever think to stop for a second and ask Santa what he might want?

“All these letters and not a single person has ever said they are interested in my reply; all they ever want is to see what I leave under the tree on Christmas morning. Frankly, I’ve been sick of this job ever since the industrial revolution made every wee’un in the world too good for a rocking horse.”

A tear rolled down his big red cheek.

“Well Santa, I think this has been rather revealing,” I said. “You’ve really shown your true colours today. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a rather impatient flying taxi-man waiting on me. Oh, and we have two minutes left, in case you were interested. Maybe you can use them to get a grip of yourself; it’s Christmas week. Bye big fella.”

But just as I went to open the door, my heart aflutter with the feeling of victory, a pang of something less triumphant went through me.

Turning one last time, I could see Santa slumped in his seat, dejected, disconsolate and ready to light another Marlboro. I realised something important; far more important than winning.

“Sure you’ve lost your festive edge, big man, only a fool would deny that, but there is nothing to say that ye can’t get it back.”

He lifted his head, the faintest twinkle returning to his drink-dulled eye.

“Think of the man you were this time five centuries ago. You were right up there with Jesus himself, and you could be again.

“Comebacks happen Santa… Rocky recapturing the title… Jesus rising from the dead… My ma getting back into her wedding dress 40 years on. Anything is possible. But you’ll not find your former glory sitting by the fire smoking fags and drinking Jameson, that’s for sure.”

Staring me dead in the eye, he crushed the fag packet in his fist, tossed the remainder of his whisky in the fire, and stood up in brazen defiance; I was scared he was going to hit me a festive uppercut.

“I’ve been beating myself up for too long; looking down when I should have been looking up,” he said.

“Immortality makes for a long life, Emmet, and maybe even a saint is entitled to his downs, so long as he makes an effort to get back on the up and up,” he added, his belt tightening around his burgeoning belly.

“Run on out there and tell that grumpy sleigh jockey to get his backside off my seat. I’ve a few boys in the factory to chat to and then I’ll run ye home myself. After that, I’ve a Christmas to save.”

Cracking his knuckles and standing up tall, he whispered to himself, “Santa is back, and you better believe it.”