No Ho-Ho!

Within a week two Christmas attractions have been closed down in Britain. Lapland New Forest closed because, as a spokesperson stated, of “bad publicity” read: such a shoddy rip-off that it drove some parents to violence in front of their own children. While, Lapland West Midlands, decided against opening because of, as a different spokesperson said “poor ticket sales” and “negative media” read: if it opened it would have been closed down anyway.

I’ve certainly been to a few dubious attractions and some outright tourist traps, from what I have seen from television pictures, those British versions of Lapland certainly looked like a very disappointing way to spend a long car journey, never mind the over £100 required to get a family in.

I myself feel very lucky. Instead of having to travel some distance, be it to a different country or merely a different county, Santa traveled to visit me! Well if that sound a little too boastful to be entirely true, then you’ll be right: Santa arrived to see all the children who visited our parish hall on that day.

Father Christmas had to leave the reindeer in a rather discreet parking spot: I grew-up in north London, the criminal fraternity would nick anything. The church hall was decorated with an artificial tree, paper decorations which I believe I personally had a hand or two, with my school chums, in making and tinsel from a decade the parents of the time would have trouble remembering. 

There was no snow machine, in fact, not even a spray-can or cotton wool suggestion of snow. Santa had to make do with an orange, stackable, plastic chair; the kind that would look cheap in a roadside, greasy-spoon, cafe.

I and the other children cheerfully queued for a turn to sit upon Father Christmas’s knee; it was allowed back then but that didn’t make it right. I re-assured Santa that I had been a good boy all year long and asked for what I would really like - in a whisper, of course, as not to spoil the magic.

As with many children of previous generations we were able to deal with mild disappointment, such as not being allowed a twelve go on a playground slide or the short time a pack of Opal Fruits lasted. So, even if I did see that suspiciously polyester looking white beard slip a little, I’m sure I wouldn’t make too much of a fuss; for the sake of all the other children waiting in-line with varying levels of patience.

“What is the point you’re making?” you may well and probably often ask: there’s no monopoly on the omnipotent presence on dear ol’ Saint Nick. If it’s for a good cause Father Christmas can turn-up anywhere and children simply won’t telephone Trading Standards to see where there stand if they want a refund.