DRESSING up as ‘Santa Claus’ has become a Christmas Eve tradition for me over the past 20 years or more – but spreading the Christmas magic has not been without its mishaps.
There was the time when I rang the doorbell at a friend’s house – resplendent in my full Santa costume – only for his little boy to appear, look me up and down, and shout: “Dad’s it’s Pete Barron at the door!”
Time flies and, unbelievably, that was nearly 30 years ago, but 2025 will be remembered as another year that didn’t go according to plan…
Now she’s reached the grand old age of nine, my own granddaughter, Chloe, has become too big a risk for one of my disguised Santa visits. However, there are always new little ones coming through whose innocence remains intact.
This year, my friend, Dave, had his two grandkids – Max, 5, and Holly, nearly three – staying for Christmas in the next village.
“We’d like to book a visit from Santa, please,” said Dave, who’s still a big kid himself.
When the time came, I donned the Father Christmas suit that’s kept well hidden in our garage, made sure my wig and beard were in place, threw my sack over my back, checked my bell was in full working order, and set off for Dave’s house at Neasham, near Darlington.
Now, those who’ve never played the role of Santa Claus might be mistaken in thinking it’s straightforward. It is most certainly not.
For a start, one of the secrets to being a convincing Santa is investing time in research. Therefore, a discreet telephone call with Max and Holly’s dad was arranged a few days earlier, so I could scribble down some key information that I could claim Tinkerbell, the good fairy, had been able to gather on her pre-Christmas tour of the world to check if children are being good or naughty.
- Max has started school and is loving life in Mrs Olding’s class.
- He’s been very good and his favourite subject is maths.
- His best friend is Rex.
- He enjoys football training on Saturdays.
- He’s asked Santa for a train set.
- Holly’s started pre-school.
- She loves Bluey.
- And she would like a Toy Monkey.
Armed with all of this in my ‘magic notebook’, I arrived at the house, parked the car out of sight, and tried to calm the nerves that inevitably start to flutter, like swirling snowflakes, in the face of such momentous responsibility.
With an opening story up my sleeve about the reindeer having a rest and a nibble of grass on the village green, I walked up to the house, knocked on the door, peered through the glass, and gave it my best ‘Ho-ho-ho – Merry Christmas!”
In a flash, Max was at the door – shouting “It’s Santa! It’s Santa! – and leading me into the lounge, where the scene was set for me to perform.
It was at that moment that I realised – to my horror – that I’d somehow managed to get my whiskers caught up in my bell.
If I’d tried ringing my bell at that point in proceedings, I’d have risked yanking off my beard and being disastrously exposed.
So, instead, of my jolly introduction, the children and adults alike were presented with the unedifying sight of Santa desperately trying to untangle his beard from his donger.
It had turned into a hairier night that Father Christmas had expected, as he got more and more flustered, while sweating profusely, and having to apologise to two bemused children.
When Santa got stuck up the chimney may be an established part of the Christmas fairytale. When Santa got stuck in his magic bell is a carol yet to be written.
In the end, Santa had no option but to tear off lumps of his beard to free himself before he could try to regain his composure and carry on.
Maybe it’s an alarm bell ringing to tell me that I’m just getting past it.