Santa is Jolly

Michael Porter

As a young man I was full of energy, life and fun. So it was no surprise that I was occasionally called upon to be the source of entertainment.

One such occasion took place in the winter of 1981 when I was asked to be Santa at the local community centre.

Initially, I had been a reluctant participant. I had only volunteered to transport local pensioners to the Kingsgate Centre, after one of my clients had taken ill. As a home help, I had expected to slip off early, and this had been my intention before I was called aside by Mary Heaney the centres coordinator and asked to stay and help.

Given that I was a big strapping man my specific chore involved conveying trolleys laden with festive food back and forth to the diners. Looking for all the world like a mundane task I tried to be cheery by wearing those naff paper hats that you get out of Christmas crackers.

As I was returning to the kitchen I tripped upon a wet spot and went crashing towards the floor. Before I hit the ground I did a commando roll and sprung to my feet. In full view of the elderly partygoers I turned around to them, bowed and said and now for my next trick and swiftly exited through the swing doors.

Uninjured, apart from my pride, I emerged to collect the trolley and was roundly applauded. This farcical incident broke the ice and I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the afternoon joking with everyone, as I collected the empty plates from the tables.

With food in their stomachs and stories to tell their neighbours of being entertained by an agile Scottish helper, the pensioners all headed home, safely.

After clearing up, Mary asked me if I would be Santa Claus on Thursday week. I said do you not think that there has been enough excitement for one festive period. Mary replied surely not, I bet youd be a great Santa. Pass by tomorrow and well look you out an outfit and discuss the celebrations.

Despite my confirmed acceptance I was continually having doubts. Especially when I learned what the celebrations entailed. These doubts only subsided when I thought about everyone I could possibly disappoint.

When the big day arrived it was actually snowing. I had been in the great metropolis two years and this was the first time that it had snowed. It wasnt as if I hadnt encountered snowflakes before as I had spent many a winter in Glasgow immersed in the powdery granules.

Anyway the white canvass remained over North West London all day. The local kids seemed to be enjoying the novelty, the weather had brought. Collectively they were having a ball as they capered around in the snow. Snowballs were being fired in all directions and some adults heading home via Swiss Cottage tube station took unkindly to being the subjects of target practice. A few grunts and groans rang out as the commuters huddled together as they headed underground.

Whilst not trying to be blatantly obvious, I practiced my Ho! Ho! Ho!

As dusk broke, I headed to the community centre. I walked gingerly down Dynham Road towards Kingsgate Avenue watching not to have any more catastrophic slips. I would not be much of a surprise Santa if I done myself an injury.

From outside, the centre looked deserted, but once inside the building there was a cacophony of sound.

I was immediately whisked away by Mary and Slavka to be dressed up. Slavka was a seamstress to trade and the red Santa outfit she had made accentuated my broad features. The flaming red peaked hood and loose buttoned chest was tied with an enormous black belt. The vivid white beard was lumpy but contrasted perfectly with my doc marten shoes. Slavka had done well and the outfit was comfortable. Mary was delighted too and said I was the best looking Santa she had seen in ages.

Deeply embarrassed but not in need of any make up I took last minute instructions from the Irish patter merchant. With my appointed helpers on hand I headed for the main hall. We had huge bag of presents donated from Help a London Child.

When the presents were all dispatched the merriment continued. The DJ kept the music going and most people either danced or queued for some refreshments. Whilst I was having a drink and chatting with a group of parents some older kids approached and asked if Santa was into break-dancing. I said that the best one to ask was Mary and when she agreed to their request I decided to give it a go.

Miraculously a large square of shiny linoleum appeared and the dancing crew were showing me power moves like the windmill, swipe and flair. The kids showed great dexterity and they were keen to tell Santa that break dancing usually ends with a freeze which is a stylish pose.

I was unsure whether I could muster such composure but I did take the advice of one young lad who said the music enters your ears and its your arms and feet that do the talking.

Having been provided with plenty of encouragement I did a routine to the beat of the music. As I gathered pace and momentum I improvised a few handstands and butterfly kicking moves and I finished up spinning on my back like an upside down ladybird in a tizzy. I did give the freeze a go by remaining motionless and I had everybody in the hall in raptures of laughter.

When I got to my feet I was saturated in beads of sweat and out of breath gasping for air. As I took sharp intakes of breath, I heard a young girl say to her grandmother. That man is fat and jolly. Granny smiled and replied yeah Santa is fat and jolly. I said to Granny you could cut out the fat bit and call me jolly.

From that day onwards, I got the nickname of Jolly and this nickname has stuck with me ever since.

That was a day that changed my life, as I feel that the Nick-name is a cracker.