Santa's Little Helper: a Christmas carousal, Page 3

Being the European headquarters of News International, London was to be the first stop (it said so in the contract). The sleigh skimmed across the North Sea in a twinkling of an eye, and soon the rooftops of London were shining in the moonlight. Santa got to work, and was up and down chimneys with such lightning speed that like God he was literally everywhere at once.

  He’d just finished scattering designer presents under the Christmas tree in an upmarket house somewhere near Hampstead when something caught his eye. He was being watched; it was a little girl.

  ‘Sneaky little brat,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘If she wants to sit on my knee she’s got no ruddy chance. I’ve got a busy night; can’t waste time messing about with kids, can’t stand the little pests.’

  Then he remembered the contract. ‘Ah … erm … um, hello little girl, and what do you want for Christmas?’

  ‘Are you weally Santa Claus?’ she lisped.

  ‘Of course I am, little girl … little girl???’ He scrutinised her through his spectacles. ‘Hey what’s your game? You’re not a little girl!’

  ‘But I’m a little girl at heart, and I still believe in Santa Clause.’

  ‘Do you now…’ Santa scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘Then why are you dressed as a schoolgirl?’

  ‘I’m at finishing school.’

  ‘Well, heh heh, they certainly made a very good job of finishing you, but you don’t come under my responsibility. I’m the patron saint of children.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m twenty-one and never been done!’

  ‘I still don’t see…’

  ‘Aren’t you the patron saint of virgins, as well?’

  ‘Only until you lose it…’

  ‘But until I do, I can sit on your knee, can’t I?’

  ‘Hmm, I don’t know…’

  ‘You look as if you could do with a pick-me-up.’

  ‘Sorry! I never drink on duty.’

  ‘One teeny weenie little drink won’t do any harm. I promise not to tell.’

  ‘Mmm, I could do with a warmer. Got any vodka?’

  ‘Coming up – but only if I can sit on your knee.’

  As she climbed up onto his knee, she presented Santa with a problem: her school uniform being several sizes too small, some of the more interesting parts of her body were literally bursting out of it. Her perfume didn’t help matters either, nor did the way she kept wriggling her bottom on his lap. But as he took another swig of vodka, he began to feel a bit guilty about all those children eagerly awaiting his arrival. Okay, he can’t stand the smelly little creatures, but after all it is Christmas – peace on Earth and goodwill to all men, and all that. He’d best be on his way and hope the reindeer don’t notice the alcohol on his breath or the bulge in his trousers.

  ‘I really must be going, sweetie. Thanks for the drink, and don’t forget to be a good girl and hang on to your virtue.’

  ‘But you can’t go yet, Santa.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I haven’t asked you my questions.’

  ‘Questions?’ He frowned.

  ‘Yes, my Cwistmas quiz,’ she lisped, wiggling her bottom and making Santa’s hormones jingle like sleigh bells.

  ‘Will it take long?’ he sighed, as he felt his hopes of an early departure shrinking and another part of his anatomy rising.

  ‘Only a few minutes, Santa, I promise, and if you answer all the questions correctly you will receive a Christmas present.’

  ‘A Christmas present for me? That’d make a nice change. What is it?’

  ‘It’s a surprise, but you must promise to answer all the questions truthfully.’

  ‘I’m a saint: saints always tell the truth.’

  ‘Right, here we go then.’ She wiggled her bottom again and Santa took another quick swig of vodka to dampen things down.

  ‘First question: do you like children?’

  ‘Yes, I like children.’

  ‘Do you love children?’

  ‘Yes, I love children.’

  ‘Do you like having children sit on your knee?’

  ‘I just love to have a child sitting upon my knee.’

  ‘How about cuddling them?’

  ‘Nothing I like better than to hug and squeeze ’em.’

  ‘Do you love all children?’

  ‘I most certainly do.’

  ‘Little girls?’

  ‘Little girls: love ’em to bits.’

  ‘Ah, but what about little boys?’

  ‘Little boys: I just can’t wait to get my hands on a little boy and give him a cuddle.’

  ‘What age?’

  ‘Any age.’

  ‘How young?’

  ‘I’ve already said any age.’

  ‘So you love babies.’

  ‘Of course I love babies. Now are the any more questions, because much as I’d love to stay…’

  ‘No more questions, Santa. That’s the lot, and you’ve past with flying colours. Would you like me to give you your Christmas present?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Whisper, whisper…’

  As she leant forward and whispered in his ear, Santa’s eyes widened and a big grin appeared on his face, but he shook his head sadly.

  ‘Sorry, darling, no can do. There’s nothing I’d like better, but being as I’m your patron saint, it’s my job to make sure you hang on to it. Why, it could be worse than incest!’

  ‘But surely…’ she pouted.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, it’s more than my job’s worth. Now I must be getting along; so if you could just hop off of my lap…’

  ‘But I want to give you a Cwistmas pwessie.’ She wiggled her bottom again, making Santa groan.

  ‘Now, I really must be on my way! All the little boys and girls are waiting for me to … er I’d rather you didn’t put your hand there…’

  ‘Whisper whisper…’

  ‘Mmmm…’

  ‘And I wouldn’t lose my virginity if we did it that way…’

  On the Feast of Stephen

  ‘Murdoch’s been on the phone! He’s livid!’

  ‘Tell the old fart to piss off. Christmas Day is over. It’s the feast of Stephen, and in honour of Good King Wenceslas I’m indulging in a good old fashioned piss up.’ Santa lolled back on his gilded throne, clutching a turkey leg in one hand and bottle of Krug champagne in the other, while his feet rested on the semiconscious figure of an elf lying in a drunken heap on the dais.

  ‘My job’s on the line!’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Santa waved the turkey leg.

  ‘And so is yours!’

  ‘Bollocks! He can’t sack me. I’ve got a contract.’

  ‘He can if you bring Christmas into disrepute, says so in the small print.’

  ‘Don’t be a silly boy. If he gets rid of me the brand’s not worth a brass farthing. Who’s he going to replace me with, Ronald Macdonald? Anyhow, what’s his beef this time?’

  ‘You’re all over the front page.’

  ‘Good! It’s about time he gave me a bit of publicity. For years I’ve been begging the old digger for a puff in one of his papers, and what did I always get? “It’s not up to me; I never interfere with my editors; you’ll have to talk to one of them.” That’s what I got, a load of old fanny.’

  ‘You’re not in one of Murdoch’s papers. You’ve made the front page of the Daily Mail.’

  ‘Daily Mail … hmm,’ Santa stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘That makes a nice change, a write up in the Daily Mail. Hitler always used to get a good one back in the old days, but they’ve always ignored me.’

  ‘Hitler?’

  ‘Yes, Hitler. That was in the nineteen-thirties, they were always banging on about what a good chap he was – and that other fellow … what was his name now? Leader of the Black Shirts… Moseley, that’s it Moseley. Thought the sun shone out of his arse they did. Always up for a spot of law and order was the Mail in those days. So what have they got to say about me,
that I should rule the World?’

  ‘Not exactly. I think you’d better read it for yourself.’

  ‘Bung it over then.’

  Having given his specs a quick polish, Santa squinted through the lenses… ‘Blimey!’

  Daily Mail

  SANTA CLAUS IS A PAEDOPHILE

  THE PICTURE WE DARE NOT PRINT

  Santa engaged in a perverted sex act with a schoolgirl

  In an exclusive interview with our under the covers reporter Barbara Bedworthy, Mr Claus (alias Father Christmas) declared, “I just can’t wait to get my hands on a little boy. Little girls: love ’em to bits … nothing I like better than to hug and squeeze ’em”. When asked what age, he replied “Any age”. Asked if this included babies, he answered “Of course”. He even went so far as to admit that his behaviour was “worse than incest”.

  I spokesperson for News International denied that Rupert Murdoch was planning to close down Christmas, pointing out that News International did not own Christmas, only Father Christmas. He refused to comment on rumours that a new Christmas gift-giver named Father Sun or Sun Claus was to be launched next Christmas or that the reindeer would be replaced by kangaroos.

  A spokesperson for W H Smith stated that there was nothing unusual about the fact that all Christmas merchandise had been removed from their branches. “We do it every year once Christmas is over”. However, whilst the established Christmas sponsored by the Vatican and the Church of England was above reproach, there had been some concern about the smaller operations and they would not be available at WHS next Christmas. They also flatly denied rumours that only books written in newspeak would be sold by them in future.

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