This story is 22 years old. By which I mean to start it, we have to go back to 2002.

Nicole Kidman and Robbie Williams are at number one, with Something Stupid. The Twin Towers is out at the Cinema. 

It is dark and wintery, I'm a student and I'm skint. Always, utterly, skint.

It was the time of year that I dreaded my sister calling on my Nokia 3210.

She ran an entertainment agency called Big Hand People. And so when her name appeared on my phone screen, I knew I had no choice but to say Yes.

Hey Alex.

Chris. You've seen Lord of the Rings?

Who hasn’t Alex. It’s the Star Wars of this generation.

Good.

What's a Dark Rider?

Well, Dark Riders are Sauron's chief servants, also known as the Nazgûl. The nine Nazgûl are named, including the Witch-king of Angmar, the Dark Marshal, and the Shadow Lord.

Good Good.

Do you want to be a Dark Rider at a Lord of the Rings Party for Goldman Sachs Christmas Party?

All you must do is walk about. And. You won’t be by yourself. 

I've got hold of an amazing Dwarf who has agreed to be Frodo for the first 45 minutes, and then Bilbob for the second 45 minutes.

And… he's chucking in Gimlip as a freebie at the end.

Its two hundred and fifty quid take it or leave it.

I was on the point of telling my sister that I didn’t want to work for Goldman Sachs as they were the real Sauron of the world, when I heard myself say. 

I'll take it.

As a writer, you always need a job you can do if your life goes to shit.

William Burroughs worked as an exterminator in Chicago. Harper Lee sold airline tickets.  Philip Glass drove Taxis.

What did you say Chris?

I said I’ll take it.

Some of you have heard my stories before will know all about my Dad and his outrageous fortune. You’ll know that I’d gone to school in a Rolls Royce. You’ll know that my sister had gone to school in a Rolls Royce. A blue one. A metallic blue one.

Well in 2002 my Dad, who was also down on his luck was in the same predicament. He had been a very successful businessman.  All his business plans came to naught, his 2nd wife left him, he’d lost his driving licence, and our house got repossessed.  

This resulted in his 56th year of accepting a gig as Father Christmas in the Bentalls shopping centre in Kingston.

Despite the tragedy of his life, he was good with it. It suited him. If he had the money to be generous, he would be happy. He hated being skint and would do anything for money.

For those that haven't been there Bentalls is the, Harrods or Selfridges for people in Norbiton and Surbiton and Kingston.  It has the hot air blowy things that ruffle your hair like a nice nanna. I love Bentalls.

In fact I remember going with my own nanna to Bentalls when I was tiny and walking through the main doors and getting a blast of hot air that really warmed you up.

My ex-wife would tell me stop going on about Bentalls. And when she thought I was being nuts, which was quite often. She’d tell me to stop being Bentalls.  

You’re being Bentalls. Stop it. It rhymes with Mentals you see.

 The Lord of the Rings Party went well. I wore a huge black cloak and one single metal gauntlet hand which I poked out like this.

My sister rang me on the 23rd of December 2002.

Chris, Dad's fallen down the escalators and hurt his knee and he can't do the Santa Grotto.

Oh God. A ghastly thought shot into me.

Don’t say.

They got an ambulance but. They took him to A&E.

Oh. Fuck. My heart was thudding.

Is he alive?

Course he is. You idiot. He’s in A & E in wheelchair working out if he can sue Bentalls.

I don't suppose you can help out.

Can you be Santa for a day.

Oh God No.

They can't not have a Santa on Christmas Eve.

There was a draining feeling in my stomach.

What. I've got to be him? I've got to pretend to be my own dad. Pretending to be Santa, who doesn't really exists?

Don't be a smartarse. I can't lose the Bentalls gig. It's too much of a good earner.

But I'm too young to be Father Christmas. I’m 29.

No one will know under the beard and wig and glasses.

But I haven't got a big belly.

Yes you do.

But it's really embarrassing to dress up in public. I’m a writer.

Harper was an airline hostess.

How do you know that?
You told me.

Oh.

I can give it to someone else.  I just thought that you could do with the money. I thought you could do with twenty quid an hour.

But I haven't done my Christmas shopping yet.

The grotto close early on Christmas Eve, there will still be time.

Can I think about it?

No.

Just think about how lovely it will be to see all those kids all excited and thinking you're Father Christmas. Also, if I keep the Bentalls gig. It will keep our Dad off the street.

Okay Okay.

It's Christmas Chris. Just think of the Money.

My sister met me off the bus the next day with a holdall containing my costume. It was early and still dark.

She went through the content of the bag as we walked. 

One set of red trousers.

One set of size 11 welllies with white fur trim.  

One red jacket with white trim. A thick black belt.

Some close reading glasses from Boots, a white curly hair wig and a beard and some Fabreze.  

Fabreze? I said.

That's to freshen up furniture that you can't put in the wash.  Why are you pointing the Fabreze at the beard?

She was indeed pointing it at the beard, and was in fact spraying it as we walked, turning it around expertly in her hand as if she had done it before. 

Before you ask, it is your dad's and you can't put a beard in the wash, they fall apart.

That’s Dad's beard?

She handed it to me.

A synthetic polyester white beard. The beard that my dad had been breathing through for six weeks. Now combined with Summer Splash Febreze.

It brought me to a standstill.

I retched.

It was perhaps the worst smell I have ever experienced. Bar nothing. 

Even the thought of it makes me wretch and it’s been 22 years.

(Look at the beard)

I can't wear this.

You're going to have to be a bit grown up here Chris. Sometimes in life you have to make sacrifices. Big Important Grown-Up Sacrifices.

It's not about you today. Chris. It's about your dad, and those kids.

My sister always did this, with her clever words.  

She did have a point. My dad did need to be kept off the streets. He was trying hard to be sober.

Maybe I could do it.

Think of the happy faces. Seeing all those happy faces.

Okay. I’ll put it on.

That's when she handed me a piece of paper. The rules of being Father Christmas at Bentalls 

1)    Father Christmas is always an ambassador for the Bentalls. He must at all Times be clean and well presented.

2)    No Child may enter the Bentalls Father Christmas Grotto without it's parents Guardian or two Elves being present.

3)    Father Christmas may at no point lift, hold or touch a child.

4)    Under no circumstances will a child sit on Father Christmas' lap.

5)    A child cannot go up the wishing stairs alone. An Elf must help.

6)    Father Christmas must spend no more than a minute with each child.

It hadn't occurred to me that everyone would think I was dodgy. I said.

Cheer up. You'll like the Elves. They're hot.

By the time I had finished reading it we had reached the back doors of Bentalls. Security let us in.

I suddenly realised that my sister was gearing up for a quick exit.

But But....What do I have to say to the kids?

 For crying out loud!  Make it up. You studied English.

Bye then.

Oh yes. Don't go wondering about. Stay in your designated area. That’s very important.

I was about to ask why, when I saw that she was already walking away. Blowing air kisses as she did so. 

Right. I thought. This is it.

I walked through the doors, and I felt the heaters Rustle my hair.  They even had them at the staff entrance. What class Bentalls was. Hello, Nana, I thought. This is where you are.

I asked security where the Grotto was, and was told that the Grotto was out of action due to power problems. They had a temporary throne by the escalators.

There is something weird about being in department store before it opens.

The tills are all shut; there is no possibility of paying for anything.

And how could it be normal stealing?

If you took something.

I got this massive urge to take something.

Why shouldn't Father Christmas have something for himself? He gives to everyone else.

I swiped a cheap pair of Cuff links from a display.

My Grandmother would have bought them for me. If She’d been around.

And anyway, I was getting into character.

My Father Christmas wasn’t a consumerist. He was…. A Kleptomaniac.  A middle class Looter.

I’m making the role my own.

I didn’t even own a shirt that needed cufflinks.

And besides all that, I knew I wouldn't get nicked. The security hadn’t turned on the cameras yet.

In the toilets, I begin the process of transformation. 

I put the padding around my neck and Velcro up the red jacket. It is so soft; it feels like being in some kind of baby suit. I put on the wig, the white gloves, the glasses, the trousers, and the boots. I tuck the trousers into the boots. I brace myself for the beard, knowing that as soon as I put it on, I have to breathe through my nose all day. 

I take a deep breath.

Shit. I am Father Christmas.

I am sea-changed. It feels amazing.

I may sound like a heavy breather on a telephone, but I look like Santa Claus.

Ho Ho. Fucking Ho. Off I go. 

My throne is a bit miserable. I sit surrounded by fake snow and stuffed deer, next to some children’s steps meant to help them reach an adult toilet. 

There is a Christmas tree, decorated with only one color of light.

It looks like it has been decorated by an out-of-work colorblind businessman.

I sit on the throne and, looking up, suddenly find myself flanked by two Elves. It is like they float down from nowhere.

My sister isn’t wrong about the elves—they really are hot.

And by that, I mean they are sweating.

They labour in ridiculously thick green jackets, hats, and tights. It isn’t even nine in the morning, and they are already sweating like porkers on a summer day.

I expect something more dwarf-like, but these elves have long legs in green tights. Saucy beyond belief. My dad must love that part.

Once they realize I’m not my dad, they go back to their bickering, which seems to be a favourite pastime.

One of them, Sarah, keeps mentioning an audition she has for Grease. The other one is also an actor but doesn’t have any auditions lined up. She keeps miming ripping Sarah’s elf ears off.

They hate each other.

At first, I think they are unprofessional, but then I realize they have been listening to "Christmas in a Winter Wonderland" for eight hours a day for six weeks. They have every right to be psychotic.

I briefly wonder if my father actually threw himself down the escalator.

Suddenly, the elves freeze.

The doors open, and like water flooding through a doorway on a doomed submarine, the children pour in.

I instantly understand the need for the elves. Despite their mutual hatred, they stand for law and order and organize a good queue.

The first child approaches timidly with her mum. She has incredible bright red hair, like Queen Elizabeth I. You can see that she is nervous—she really thinks I am Father Christmas.

I ask her, in my deepest voice, if she has been good. She looks at me, then at her mum for confirmation, and nods.

“What would you like for Christmas?” I ask.

She looks at me with gorgeous blue eyes and whispers so softly I can barely hear.

“Selotape.”

“Selotape?”

“Yes, Selotape.”

I look at her seriously and promise to remember. She walks off utterly happy. And, suddenly, so am I.

The next child is a little boy with his dad. Dads always make kids do things too early, like when my dad bought me a real motorbike at age seven. The boy takes one look at me and starts howling—not a normal howl but a soul-deep wail. 

His dad tries to soothe him. “Look, Charlie, it’s Father Christmas! Tell him what you want.” But it’s no use. They have to leave. I can hear him crying for ages after that. I terrify him so much that I know I will haunt his dreams forever.

After that, the queue blurs into a rhythm that isn’t unpleasant at all. Lovely, sweet little people ask for weird things. This must be what it feels like to be a village chief in Africa—the closest I’ll ever get to being like a living god. It’s so cool.

The afternoon takes on a slightly different tone. People mix the last bit of Christmas shopping with a pint or two at the pub. After lunch, a pack of what I can only describe as ‘tipsy cougars’ queue up.

“Oooh, Santa, can you give us a present? 

They make me sweat more than my costume. It is an abuse of power, really. But it is before the #Santatoo movement, so don’t judge women by today’s standards.

They are rightly escorted away by security.

Worse than the cougars are the teenagers. Bored, yet desperate to make each other laugh. So desperate they resort to throwing coins at Father Christmas from four floors up.

I can hear them cackling. Thankfully, they miss. Security chases them away, too.

Despite these distractions, nothing takes away from the joy of seeing little people excited about toys. Toys that bring them joy and teach them about the world. And their parents—their delight at watching their children’s thrill is even more profound.

Despite holding my breath all day, I sit beside a small river of joy. I feel utterly alive.

And then, suddenly, it’s over.

The bitter elves put up the chain. No, I think. Don’t let it stop. Please. More little children. More cougars. More dads wishing their toddlers were older so they could buy a Scalextric.

I am utterly exhausted, but I am in a happy daze. In that daze, I walk the wrong way out and head toward the main doors.

What snaps me out of it is seeing another Father Christmas on the high street.

Nooo! Two Father Christmases must never be in the same place at the same time. Everyone knows that if they do, Rudolf will die.

I quickly turn around before any children’s heads explode.

I rang my sister this week, to see how many Father Christmas' she has on her books. She has 8. In shopping Centres all around the South. Each of those will get around £160 a day. If you have white hair and a proper beard, you can get up to £350 a day. Add a big belly to that and we are talking £500 pounds a day.

So, if you’re ever down on your luck, gone grey, put on a lot of weight. Got separated. Don't stress. Simply go to your kitchen cabinet, pick and some Fabreze and give my sister a call.

Like I did. This week. And yeah. I said yes. We all need side hussles these days.

I don’t need any padding anymore, and the beard, well this doesn’t come off. And on Christmas day, this separated Dad, will be driving from Brighton to Ascot, to remember how to be joyful. 

And as I drive back home from the hotel. I will remember the true gift my father gave me. 

The ability to show up, no matter how ridiculous or humbling the role. My dad had fallen from high places more than once, both literally and figuratively, but he always got back up, put on whatever costume life demanded, he laughed at himself and kept moving forward.

Maybe that’s what Father Christmas really is. A celebration of the invisible things invisible things Dad’s and Mums do the world over, to Sellotape together our sense of what is good and right no matter what happens in the world outside.

Merry Christmas.