T'was the night after Christmas

I meant to post this straight after Xmas but I was busy at work. The NZ Herald has certainly had some good ones lately.

Jim Hopkins: Soused Santa saved from disgrace by Kiwi ingenuity

26.12.2003
COMMENT
'Twas the night after Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for the mouse. He was rushing round scoffing on nibbles and snacks - most on the carpet, a few in their packs. Plus some stuck to Hughie and a burger on Fred, who was snoozin on Susie, instead of in bed.

Not that it mattered. Well, not to us blokes. We were sprawled on the floor amid the beer and the smokes. We were blotto and zonked and out like a light.

See, the party had lasted all day and all night. Ohhh, she was a beauty, one out of the box. (With most of the sheilas right out of their frocks.)

In fact, when I woke up, the first thing I seen was rather a lot of the topless Charlene. Which came as a shock in me hungover state, though I didn't look long, now l'm tellin' ya straight.

See, all of a sudden, from out in the kitchen, I heard a tense voice that set m' ears twitchin'. It was a voice on the wireless with "news just to hand", saying "Christmas disaster has rocked the whole land".

Reports coming in make it tragically clear there's been no Christmas presents for Kiwis this year. They've not been delivered, old Santa's not come. All the kiddies are sobbing. So's Dad and so's Mum".

I was suddenly sober. How awful. How weird. I reeled round the room and I trod on a beard.

"Oyyy, get off, young Rudolf. My whiskers aren't hay. I'll feed you lot later, round Dargaville way." The voice was a stranger's, some bleary-eyed coot, with a big pair of boots and a funny red suit.

"Who are ya?" I shouted, in no mood for banter. "You pillock," he bellowed. "You boofhead. I'm Santa."

We stared at each other, both stunned and aghast. I could see the truth dawning on red suit at last. He must've dropped in at the height the party; just slid down the chimney all ho-ho and hearty.

And some gormless geezers had poured him a drink. A big one, a strong one and, quick as a wink, they'd poured him another and then several more. And soon the old codger was out on the floor. And that was the reason that Christmas had flopped. He'd made it to our place. And then, simply ... stopped.

"I'm ruined," sobbed Santa. "Oh, what a disgrace. The children will hate me, all over the place." I remembered the wireless and thought, "Yeah, that's true. But when they hear the whole story they'll all hate me, too." We had to do something to put Christmas right and bring back the joy of a lost Christmas night.

It was then I remembered old Normie next door. With his huge, dingy shed with that thing on the floor. I'd been in there once and this thing that I'd seen was a rusty old, crusty old, big Time Machine. That gave me a brainwave, a plan of attack, a way we could maybe get Jingle Bells back.

So we rushed off to Normie's, me leading the way. And Santa behind with his reindeer and sleigh.

We banged on the door and we dragged old Norm out and I quickly explained what our trip was about. I mentioned the party and how Santa missed taking presents to kiddies because he was ... a bit tiddly.

"Norm, would your machine save us? Could it make time reverse?"

"Let's try it," yelled Normie. "Things couldn't be worse."

So we brushed off the cobwebs and scraped off the rust and peered at the dials through the layers of dust. And we checked out the boiler and tightened the nuts, then Norm gave his gizmo a kick in the guts.

It gurgled and clattered, it sure sounded sick. "Better hop in," said Normie. "She'll blow pretty quick."

Well, we gathered the reindeer, the sleigh and the loot; stuck the deer on the roof and the rest in the boot.

Then we clambered aboard and I saw Santa smile as Norm primed the ignition and reset the dial.

"We're not going far," I heard Normie say. "I'm aiming for 1am on Christmas Day."

With that came a flash and a clamorous whir. And we hurtled through time in a merciful blur. I saw party-goers beginning to jive and knew it must be about quarter to five. But that's all I remember, I don't recall more, till the time machine stopped somewhere north of North Shore.

Where we hovered in space at the right time precisely.

"You bewdy," said Santa. "Yup. This'll do nicely."

So he loaded the sleigh and prepared the reindeer, and said "Thank you" to Norm, "I can take it from here."

Then, with a "Ho" and a "Hip" and "Hooray" he gave us a wave and went on his way ...

And so ends the story of what might've been if it wasn't for Norm and his big Time Machine. 'Cos that was the gizmo that took Santa back to deliver the pressies and empty his sack. That ingenious thing pulled the fat from the fire. Yup, this was the Christmas of number 8 wire.

The moral, I guess, is abundantly clear. But in case you don't get it, let's spell it out here: If you want to see Santa's deliveries mastered, if he turns up at your place then don't get him plastered.