Here Comes Santa Claus, Here Comes
Santa Claus...
So here we all are, December again and Christmas nearly
upon us. I think it was Adolf Hitler who said (in German, obviously) that
the bigger the lie, the more people will believe it. I apologise if the
mention of Hitler in the same sentence as Christmas has sullied anybody's
festive spirit, and if it has then please stop reading now, as you
certainly won't like the start of the next paragraph...
...where I feel it my duty to state, categorically, that there is (brace
yourselves) no Father Christmas. Surprised? Shocked? Curious as to who in
that case was fiddling with your stockings last year if it wasn't the man
himself? I know that the origin of the Father Christmas figure is believed
to be in the real person of a genuine Saint Nicholas, and I know also that
the popular image of F.C. nowadays is largely based on Coca Cola designs,
but I'm not honestly concerned here with that side of it. I believed in
Father Christmas when I was young of course; so did my wife (although I
was shocked to learn yesterday that she was very young when she learned
the truth, about six or so); and now it's our daughter's turn. But as I
sit here thinking over the absurdity of it all, and at the risk of
sounding like a cut-price version of the outraged Tom Baker from "The
Pirate Planet" I find myself wondering what the point of it is - What is
Father Christmas for?!!
It's a ludicrous tale - the idea that he does the whole world in one
night, absurd. The idea that he is transported in a single sleigh, big
enough to hold all those presents, and driven by flying reindeer (a
creature that in the real world as far as I am aware has neither the
aspiration nor, more importantly, the equipment to fly) - ridiculous. The
suggestion that he can somehow enter houses by descending the chimney
without making a huge mess of both house and his trademark big red suit -
or the further claim that for those houses not possessing a chimney, or
those where the fire is lit, he somehow gets in through the door, using as
some claim a special skeleton key... Well, frankly it's all rather
unlikely isn't it.
And of course it doesn't stop there. Each family has their own little
variations, which you might expect would reveal the inconsistencies and
thus the unlikelihood of the whole thing. Children at school natter all
the time, yet somehow they never seem to encounter the situation where
somebody's Mummy told them this about Father Christmas, which doesn't fit
with what thingummy's Auntie told him... In our house as children my Mum
used to tell us that Father Christmas also acted as a sort of free carrier
service (as if he didn't have enough to do, poor bloke) so that as well as
presents from him arriving on Christmas night, we'd also get presents from
Auntie Glenda and Cousin Alf, bought by real people but delivered by
reindeer mail. In my wife's house Father Christmas always left a little
stocking of smaller presents on the bedroom door handle, which were opened
upstairs first (which of course to an adult mind is a clear attempt by the
parents to stay in bed that bit longer). This latter tradition has now
been carried over into our household, as my daughter will attest (which of
course to an adult mind... Well, it's a good theory anyway, although
experience has now taught me that it doesn't work very well, or the
resultant lie in last very long. Once the first taste of presents has been
sampled the blood lust is awakened and the wild child seeks out yet more
prey elsewhere in the house....)
And yet, for all that it doesn't make any rational sense whatsoever,
children just lap it up. I make no apologies for the fact that as a child
I was just as... well, it seems a bit harsh to say stupid, but gullible
certainly, unquestioning, blindly accepting. All those things. But looking
back, and also looking at my daughter now, I have to wonder: WHY?
On a 'fictional' level Father Christmas is there to bring presents, of
course; but on a practical level what does he actually do? Why do we as
adults perpetuate the myth when frankly it does no real good. I once heard
my Grandpa say that we only make trouble for ourselves by keeping up the
charade (as an aside, I think that kind of comment is primarily a male
province, make of that what you will). At the time he said it both my
brother and I knew the truth, whereas our two younger cousins didn't, so I
can imagine that with all four of us in the house at the same time things
could have been a little tricky. Nevertheless I clearly remember thinking
then, and agreeing even more so now, that Grandpa was quite right. It's
not as if there would be no presents on Christmas Day if our children
didn't believe in Father Christmas, now is it? (Is it?!) So why do we
bother?
I suppose one reason may perhaps be this business of 'be good or Father
Christmas won't come'. It is at times handy to have something to hold over
a child as a, well, threat (I hesitate to say blackmail because blackmail
is of course an ugly word). A device used to guarantee good behaviour can
seem very attractive, and I can see that the presence or otherwise of
Father Christmas probably works very well as this - it's spelled out
pretty plainly in the song, "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" where we learn
that not only does he see you when you're sleeping (are you scared yet?)
but also that he has a list which he checks (twice, mark you) to ascertain
which children have been good and which bad, and thus which are deserving
of presents and which are not.
I don't for one minute claim to be a model parent, far from it, but I
think I can honestly say that I have never used the threat of Father
Christmas in this way. Without becoming overly philosophical or
controversial, the above description of Father Christmas seems to equate
him with the Almighty himself - if I disapprove of the Catholic idea of a
vengeful God (which always makes me wonder why anybody would consider him
worthy to be worshipped?) then how can I condone the idea of a wrathful
Santa Claus, dispensing judgement and salvation in the form not of bolts
of lightning but of lovingly wrapped and ribboned presents and toys?
There is another, more pragmatic reason that I can see for the constant
maintenance of the sham of Santa, and this one I confess holds more sway
with me - namely, conformity. Children aren't always the most discrete of
people, and if even one were to know the truth it isn't beyond the realms
of possibility to imagine it being broadcast to its peers. The image of my
little girl being summarily marched home from school by an enraged
headmistress because her loose tongue had caused a near riot and a score
of psychological traumas amongst the other infants, is not a picture I
particularly treasure. Consequently at the moment my little girl is
upstairs asleep, counting down the days to Christmas, in the sure and
certain expectation that cometh the hour, cometh the white-bearded old
philanthropist.
Mind you, my next generation is now six (and two-thirds!) and to put that
in a personal context for me, I know that I was a good eighteen months
younger than that when I first saw "The Deadly Assassin" - if the sight of
Tom Baker nearly having his leg sliced off by a runaway train, or the
emaciated and grisly corpselike form of the Master, didn't scar me for
life at that age, why on earth should the revelation that there really is
no Father Christmas do the same for my daughter now? The fact is... well,
the fact is I don't think it would, not especially.
There are three mythical beings that are assumed real within the walls of
Curnow Towers. (Four if you count the bogeyman I suppose, but I don't, so
it's three, OK?) As well as Father Christmas, my daughter also believes in
the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. In the case of the Tooth Fairy, I
reluctantly and without enthusiasm go along with that one, on those
occasions when it becomes necessary. A couple of weeks ago, however, my
daughter told me that the first time the tooth fairy came she woke her up
and asked what her name was and it was all I could do to stop myself from
disclaiming her lie, on the grounds that the tooth fairy is in fact a
gestalt creature formed from me and her Mummy (and the bank manager). As
for the Easter Bunny... I may be wrong but I'm sure there was no such
thing when I was little - maybe he has his roots in ye olde English
history, but I rather think that he has hopped across the channel along
with Trick or Treat. Earlier this year my daughter did ask me whether the
Easter Bunny was real and I told her there wasn't (which to be fair was at
least consistent of me, as I had never maintained that there was in the
first place). Typically, however, she didn't believe me, and since Mummy
demurred on giving a definitive answer on the subject, when a change of
conversation worked just as well, the matter remained and remains somewhat
up in the air. My final word on the subject has been that next year we
won't buy any Easter eggs, and we'll see how the Bunny gets on!
But back to Father Christmas! I suppose to an extent I do encourage the
myth in our daughter (and for encourage, you can happily read deceive, if
you want to) that he is a real person. On Saturday we are taking her to
the local Garden Centre to see Father Christmas in his grotto, another
absurd part of the fiction - how does he find time to make personal
appearances when by rights he should be up at the North Pole worrying
about deadlines and the late delivery of plastic dolls? (As another aside,
although I am quite certain that there isn't a Father Christmas, if there
is then he's the one in our Garden Centre. No fake clip-on beards or
padding - genuine whiskers and tummy. The likeness is so uncanny in fact
that it makes me wonder what he does for the other eleven months of the
year...)
Although I may go along with it as and when required, though, what I don't
do, and what I can never fathom other people doing, is bring Mr Claus into
the conversation when there's no need. It's one thing to nod and utter
vague platitudes on the subject if a child starts it off; but why would
anyone (by which I mean fully grown adults who really ought to have more
sense) start that sort of conversation with a child? My mother-in-law does
it, much to my irritation, with numerous comments such as, "I had a word
with Father Christmas... "or "Father Christmas told me..." or "There are
some presents for you here, because Father Christmas..." Unlike my
'children's drawings' dilemma of last week, I suppose I could get an
answer to this simply by asking my mother-in-law (but then, the very fact
that it bugs me may be enough of a reason for her).
To be fair (well, ish) it isn't just my mother-in-law. I was finally told
there was no Father Christmas in early December 1980 when I was nine (and
a half!) but I always feel that I would have rumbled it long before then,
if it wasn't for one thing. The lady who sat in the pew behind us at
Chapel had said to me a few years previously, that one Christmas Eve her
grandson had been wanting a bike, and she had looked out of the window and
had actually seen Father Christmas flying across the sky, with a bike on
his sled!!! Well, fair's fair - actual eye-witness testimony is a
clinching rebuttal to any burgeoning suspicions that it might all be made
up. And consequently whenever I began to put things together (just one
night, all presents on one sleigh, flying reindeer, chimney) I would run
up against this seemingly unassailable fact that Mrs L. had seen him!!! It
never, of course, occurred to me that she had made the whole thing up.
Methodists on the whole are a very sensible and friendly bunch, but if
they did have a list of Cardinal Sins I'm quite sure that lying to a
Minister's son would be on it (and probably quite near the top too). But
of course she would never have considered it a lie, simply part of the
game, part of the fun.
I still can't see it to be honest - if my daughter comes to me this year
(and I write the next paragraph from the point of view of somebody quite
sure that she won't) and asks whether there really is a Father Christmas,
I don't think I'll keep the pretence going. As I said to begin with, I
can't see what it's for. I love Christmas, in spite of the fact that
there's never enough time or money, and I do enjoy it when it finally
really arrives, and I feel strongly that the reason is that I always used
to enjoy it when I was younger. Conversely my wife doesn't really look
forward to it (except on our daughter's behalf of course, which is only
natural) because she doesn't have such happy memories of childhood
Christmases. Nevertheless, we both of us at one time or another believed
there was a Father Christmas. My point is, I don't think that we enjoy
Christmas as children because of Father Christmas himself. If he only ever
dropped in for a bite to eat and a quick chat, we wouldn't be so quick to
invite him in now would we? On the avaricious level, children love the
presents that he brings, and aren't really that bothered where they've
actually come from. But on a slightly more elevated level, children love
the atmosphere, the decorations, the Christmas plays, the songs, the
cards, the whole ambience of it. Every year we all moan about how
commercialised it has all become, how materialistic everything is... But
don't we bring that on ourselves, when the first thing a child knows about
Christmas is that some bloke comes and gives them loads of presents?
Finally, and then I will leave poor Saint Nick alone (whatever good or
otherwise he may be!) and if I may almost very nearly get just a little
bit serious for a change... As you get older, part of the excitement of
Christmas isn't the getting of presents, but the giving. It's a cliché but
it's true, but all the time that the concentration for children is on
Father Christmas bringing them presents, they aren't really going to get
in touch with the selfless side of it. In many ways though, isn't that the
most exciting part? My daughter has got me three little Daleks for
Christmas, which she thinks I don't know about - I am currently practicing
my surprised & excited face for the grand unwrapping on Christmas day.
(Actually that shouldn't be too tricky, well not the excited part anyway,
as I'm quite hyped up even though I know - I have been surreptitiously
rehearsing witty off the cuff remarks that I can spontaneously produce on
Christmas day in a Dalek voice. So far I have come up with, "Turkey? The
word is not registered in my vocabulary bank" which I have been
practicing, in a grating monotone, in the car on the way to work this
week. Any other such... witty... suggestions will be gratefully accepted.)
I'm not saying that giving me those Daleks will be the highlight of my
little girl's Christmas, and indeed I wouldn't want it to be, but
nevertheless she very helpfully tells me on a regular basis that she has
got me something but that she isn't going to tell me what. By that
excitement she has caught just a hint, I think, of what really makes
Christmas so enjoyable, certainly as we get older.
Having pretentiously dragged the Wife of Bath ("I was a lusty oon" - well
quite dear) into last week's column can I equally pretentiously drag
another quote from another dead author into this week's, magnificently
expressing in one sentence what I have probably failed to convey in an
entire essay. If you've never read Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol"
then do so (there's still time (well, unless you're a slow reader)) and
it's from this that I gleefully quote: "And every man... waking or
sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than
on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities;
and had remembered those he cared for..."
Ho ho ho!
NEXT WEEK: Find out just when and how, and indeed from who, I learnt that
there was no Father Christmas, and why it was all George Lucas's fault
anyway!
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