The snow was falling onto the sodium-lit street. Chris and I sat in the
living room of my Rats Alley flat. We stared at each other in silence, hunched
up, wrestling with the fierce London cold.
Broke. Two days to go until Christmas.
‘Hey Charlie, have you got any old whiskey bottles?”
“Yeh, there’s two empties over there. Why?”
“Aha! Bring them to me, and bring out that fan heater you hide in your
bedroom. We’ll have a drink yet!”
Ten minutes later, we lay on our bellies watching whiskey seemingly
appear from nowhere. The heat from the fan was condensing the holy juice out of
the glass, and from nothing we suddenly had an inch or two of Christmas Cheer.
And we did.
The ‘phone rang. Did I want to earn some cash? And did I know anyone
else who needed some too?
Did I?
One of the shop owners down the street was looking for a couple of guys
to stand outside his store dressed as Santa Claus. They would be collecting
money for the Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital.
Sure, yes, we can do that. But how can you pay us if we’re collecting
for a charity? We wouldn’t stoop so low as to take money from the sick kiddies.
He explained that our presence was going to attract punters to his shop,
one way or another.
Well, fair enough then. More than fair, but just one more thing. This
was Golders Green, the most Jewish suburb in North London. How kindly were the
locals going to take to Father Christmas?
“Well, yer man was Jewish, wasn’t he?” came the inscrutable, irrefutable
reply.
Chris and I could not contain our laughter as we were fitted out for our
costumes. We were unsure if Santa was meant to be naked underneath his regalia,
but the freezing air settled our minds on that issue.
Somehow, fitting the tights over our jeans felt more than a little
Superman-ish, but the beard was another matter entirely.
It got up my nose, tickled my lips, and after a minute or two of
breathing, returned to my senses the less-than delightful scent of the previous
night’s Rogan Josh curry.
And so, out onto the streets, followed by a gaggle of giggling shop
assistants.
“Cor, look at those two sex bombs!”
“Yeh, don’t fancy yours much though!”
We asked the boss if it wasn’t a little excessive having two Santas out
there together, but once again, his answer was beyond reason.
“In most places you only got one, so in Golders Green, you got two.”
Chris and I started to shake our buckets, trying to catch a generous
eye. People were ready and eager to give. It was a cause that crossed the
barriers of race and religion, although I was a little saddened to have to
treat a hospital like a charity.
We had been provided with bags of lollipops, which we were meant to give
to sweet little kiddies who came up to us. Unfortunately, (or maybe most
fortunately) little kiddies are these days trained to stay away from strange
men bearing candy. The combination of my costume, and the ultra-deep voice I
adopted for my ‘rôle’ seemed to scare the hell out of the wee darlings.
All it took was “Hellow lickle girlie! Do you want a lollipop?” and I
was instant pervert, children scurrying away to hide behind their parents, safe
from the nasty red man.
Off in the distance, we heard a strange commotion. Two police cars
rolled slowly down the street, followed by a massive demonstration by Hassidic
Jews, they who sport the long hair curls, blue raincoats and big floppy velvet
hats. Hundreds of them were marching down the Golders Green Road, carrying
placards written in Hebrew.
Chris and I stepped back to watch this strangest of sights unfold, and
then all of a sudden, it dawned on me that each and every one of them was a
potential punter.
I leaped into the fray, shaking my collection bucket, while each side of
me, every which way, hats, raincoats and beards glided past, temporarily
blinded by this scarlet flash in their Aegean Sea of blue. I felt like I was
inside a roll of news film, and was tempted to just savour the moment, but
there was work to be done.
“Cough up for the kiddies! Great Ormond Street Hospital needs your help!
Dig deep!’”
Dig they did. Coppers started flying into the bucket, followed by silver
coins and then notes, fivers, tenners, the lot. It was enough to bring a tear
to my eye. There was no question of Old or New Testament loyalty here, just a
river of raincoats on a mission from God.
A full bucket, a happy shopkeeper, and two very merry Santas in the pub
that Christmas Eve.
May your God be with you.
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