I’m glad to hear that the authorities are finally cracking down on sharp practice in the Santa Claus industry. Men who wear false whiskers should never be encouraged, in my view. When I was in the circus, we once gave a middle-aged clown Santa privileges during the festive season. Unfortunately, the impudent fellow supposed that putting on the costume and beard gave him the right to pester female staff whenever he had the urge to feel a pert bottom on his lap. The knife-thrower’s assistant got more than her fair share of his attention and asked me to swap trailers with her on Christmas Eve. I readily agreed, keeping the door unlocked to allow the blighter to pursue whatever villainous scheme he had in mind.
I awoke in the dead of night to the sound of rummaging at the foot of the bed. The deluded nitwit had grasped my left foot and was about to subject it to some sort of oral perversion! Unluckily for him, the dextrous toes of a gorilla are capable of faster and more decisive action than the slobbering tongue of a man. Without issuing a warning, I grabbed his nose and gave it a vicious tweak. He stumbled out of the trailer moaning, obviously in no condition to deliver further presents that night. He subsequently tried to hide his injury under the false nose of his clown’s costume. I hushed up the incident to preserve what little dignity he retained.
Next Christmas, I was approached by an all-female delegation begging me to play the part of the nocturnal nomad from the North Pole.
“You’re the only Santa we’d trust to fill our stockings!” they chirped.
I wasn’t going to fall for their flattery. There is a fine line between a performing gorilla and a big hairy arse in a Noddy costume. I excused myself with the following words:
“I am touched by your offer, ladies, but I fear that I am rather too bulky to slide down your slender chimneys.”
The women swallowed their disappointment and hit upon the revolutionary idea of appointing a female Santa. The girl they chose worked in the make-up section and insisted on wearing a red miniskirt rather than the traditional pixie britches. She did a fair job until she was caught in flagrante with her boyfriend under the trampoline, still wearing her costume. People then started calling her ‘Saint Knickerless’ behind her back, and it was all downhill from there.
It goes without saying that there’s a lot more to Christmas than getting presents from a pot-bellied codger dressed like a garden gnome. In my considered opinion, Mr Claus is a usurper who has unjustly upstaged the true luminaries of the occasion, who are the nuns. As brides of Christ, they are, figuratively speaking, wives of the birthday boy. And after spending the whole year living on bread, soup and prayers, they ought to have pride of place in the Christmas celebrations, wearing festive clothes and dancing with the best-looking blokes.
If the Pope had a little more imagination, he would give the nuns special dispensation to have sex with the man of their choice on Christmas Day. No man should be allowed to refuse them on pain of excommunication (other than the Pope himself, who is primus non bonkus). On this special day of the year, making love to a nun should be a holy sacrament rather than fornication most vile.
It would be interesting to see who the holy sisters would choose to be their lovers. A lot of them wouldn’t bother, of course. After years of non-use, the female parts are prone to seize up like an engine that’s short of oil. My feeling is that those who are still interested would surprise us with their selections, eschewing the predictable Brad Pitt or George Clooney types. Call me a fanciful ape, but I reckon that Sister Bridget would be fatally drawn to a brooding saturnine fellow like Christopher Lee in his Dracula days. The temptation to dabble in the dark side is greatest for those who have known only light.
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