Minstrels' Gallery

Winter Wonderland

Dear Chroniclers,

should you ever be invited by an attractive blonde neighbour to partake in dressing-up games, have no truck with it. It will be the very undoing of you, as I discovered to my cost this weekend just gone.

Teenygoth refuses to speak and, even now, mrs electrofried giggles manically every time she deigns to glance in my general direction. Oh, and we're still picking red fluff from our bedroom carpet.

A favour called

Sally the Flash lives just down the road from the electrofried estate. A professional photographer of no mean repute, she has on occasion helped yours truly extend his somewhat basic knowledge of the old Box Brownie and emulsioned glassy plates - for which I am deeply indebted.

Last Thursday night Fetlock opened the door to the Baronial Hall and in she marched clutching a designer-label carrier bag. The favour was about to be called. I should have spotted the danger-signs as soon as I saw the fur-trimmed sleeve dangling from the top, but no, I fell for it hook, line and sinker.

"Fancy dressing-up?"

How could I possibly resist?

The sordid truth

It didn't take long to regret my hasty decision.

I could sense the temperature drop several degrees in the TV Room as I broke the news of my imminent starring role in the Annual Christmas Fete at "Flatcaps", the local academic institutionary of choice to the well-heeled of Little Wittering.

Mrs electrofried appeared somewhat bemused,

"Santa, you're playing ... Santa?"

As for teenygoth she was, as might be expected, brutally dismissive,

"Well, at least you've got the figure for it, Dad!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "

Suitably discouraged, I made off toward my study as the horrible reality of the situation dawned.

The well-dressed man

Just one day later I was to be found up in the Master Bedroom getting ready for my star appearance.

It must be obvious to costume-designers the world over that Santas come in all different shapes and sizes. And the one who had occupied the Santa suit immediately before I, was clearly very different.

Tugging on the loose fitting velour trousers I soon established the waist was approximately twice the length of the trouser-leg. I tried to picture the previous encumbant in situ and alarming images of a strange jabba-like creature came all too readily to mind. Undeterred, for the electrofrieds are nothing if not resourceful, I reached for a pair of blackened Army boots that had last seen service in the relief of Mafeking, desperately hoping they would go some way toward bridging the substantial gap betwixt sock top and trouser-leg bottom.

Worse was to come. Closer inspection revealed the drawstring at the top of the trousers had perished, leaving no visible means of support. The only solution was to tuck the surplus material into the waistband of my empire-line pants and hope for the best.

Fortunately the Santa jacket proved more accomodating and was soon fastened firmly in place with a piece of loose webbing purloined from Cook's extensive collection of XXXL sized corsetry. The beard duly donned and a Santa hat perched jauntily on my head I made my way down the front steps of the House to where my carriage awaited.

Park and Ride

Sally the Flash, fearing justifiably that I might flee the country, had stationed her husband by the gates. There was to be no escape. He ushered me into his charabanc and off we sped toward "Flatcaps".

Disappointingly, there was no welcoming party to greet us. Indeed, so popular is the event in Little Wittering we had to park up some little distance from the school entrance and walk the remainder of the way. The one plus was that this gave me ample opportunity to practice my hearty Santa laugh on bemused members of the public we encountered during the last leg of our journey to the school.

Suitably disguised, I was even able to greet a member of teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft-drinks Youth Group with a cheery "Ho, ho, ho!" without being recognised. Under questioning later that weekend he did confess to mrs electrofried he had chanced upon a drunken lout dressed as Santa, but had wisely declined to pay him any attention.

Sleigh Bells ringing

If the Santa suit had been challenging, his sleigh defied description. It was there awaiting my arrival, a loosely constructed jalopy of a thing fashioned on the framework of a trailer that had clearly failed all MOT tests south of Lapland.

Santa's four elves were of equally unpromising material. Chosen at short notice by Sally the Flash, largely on the basis of availability rather than suitability, they were positioned at each corner of the trailer ready to take the strain when Santa should choose to mount the perilous steps to his parcel-decorated station. The back-axle pairing were of particular note.

Offside elf was a giant of a man, his diminutive counterpart on the driver's side being an elf of considerably lesser stature. I suspected strongly this was not to be a "magic-carpet" ride to Santa's grotto and this did indeed prove to be the case. One carelessly manouvered corner on the way in almost saw Santa catapaulted into the waiting crowd of expectant children like some bizarre red-tinted human cannon-ball. The potential kiddy carnage did not bear thinking about.

Santa's Arrival

Despite inital concerns. we arrived at length to the cheery cries of young children, accompanied by Santa's muffled entreaties to the now infamous back-axled elves not to lose their footing in the rain-sodden artificial snow. The sleigh duly ground to a halt, the safety of Santa's Grotto just a tempting few yards away. But first came the dismount.

Several of the more enthusiastic youngsters surrounded the sleigh as I began a backward descent, my Mafeking Army boots desperately seeking a grip in the footholds cut into the side. So keen were my audience to meet the star of the show they began tugging on my loosely fastened velour trousers. Suddenly my life flashed before me as I pictured said garment breaking free from the restraining grip of my pants to reveal Santa in all his glory. The front pages of the Little Wittering Post would be full of it come the morn.

Fortunately I managed to make a safe, if unsteady, exit from the sleigh to be ushered into the Grotto by Santa's two little helpers and a Bouncer carefully selected from the serried ranks of motherhood to guard the entrance from non-paying interlopers.

The dispensing of presents

I have to say it, but the next two hours passed relatively smoothly. A steady stream of small children were lead in at regular intervals, the little helpers practiced their "Ho, ho, ho's" and dispensed token presents with remarkable efficiency and the occasional blushing mother declined Santa's kind offer to sit on his knee.

All in all a good time was had by everyone concerned. The sole note of concern was the consumption of copious quantities of loose bri-nylon from a false beard that had evidently decided to commence its annual Spring moult under the heat of an adjacent gas-fire. Should I contract the Santa equivalent of asbestosis I shall call this web-page in evidence.

A Christmas surprise!

Had matters ended there, then the evening would have been pronounced a resounding success. But no, the allure of the spotlight had me in its grip and Sally's husband was called on to make one last journey.

He duly delivered Santa to the entrance of St Simeon's Church Centre wherein teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft-drinks Youth Group were gathered for Friday night chilling. What a fatal mistake to leap through the doors with a loud "Ho,ho, ho" having failed to check the fastening of the velour trousers.

There was no stopping either my momentum down the Church Centre stairs, nor the the escape of the velour from my empire-line pants. I arrived at the bottom with trousers round my ankles and a neat pair of Christmas-tree printed boxers on display.

"Oh Dad ... how could you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The screams of teenygoth still ring loud in my ears as I do penance in the Tower, wrapping the last of the Yuletide goodies. Pray for my forgiveness as I wish you all a very happy and a very velour-free Christmas.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

Captain Fantastic and the dirt-kneed schoolboy

Dear Chroniclers,

despite the tinsel, glitter and general holly-bedecked merriment, for many of us the Christmas season can be a reflective, even a sad time.

With this in mind, may I present the shortest of short stories entitled, "Captain Fantastic and the dirt-kneed schoolboy".

Cast a pebble ...

By way of preamble, may I point you toward the photograph above. Fetlock the Butler rescued it just this morning from the electrofried photographic archives. I wonder if you may recognise the callow youth pictured deep in thought and about to launch yet another ill-timed skimmy pebble in the general direction of a stormy sea. If you look close you may see a small scar on his left knee.

So, without more ado - would you like a story? Then settle down and make yourself at home as I tell you something of my very own Captain Fantastic.

The Captain under enemy fire

My father was a Captain in the Second World War. He served in the Royal Engineers, building bridges with enemy fire all around. He always took great pride in his work.

I used to have a picture of him in uniform, a thick, dark moustache and hair slicked back - his eyes forever twinkling. It stood on the escritoire in my study. A picture of a young man frozen in time, off to war and leaving behind a fresh-faced Christmas Eve bride, the beautiful young woman destined to become the Black Dowager.

But for now, let's leave this couple happy in silent embrace as the snow falls on their Wedding Day. It covers them with a soft white coat as they fade from view.

The Black Dowager

Captain Fantastic used to have the most tremendous hugs. By the time I arrived on the scene he was a bear of a man, portly in stature and with a huge, hairy chest - all the better to embrace his young offspring. He used to hug me; often under enemy fire.

You see, Mother dear was forever nursing a string of the dead, the last of whom was my sister. She had ridden her bicycle behind a bus and out into the path of a passing car. Not a good thing to do.

I first discovered of my sister's existence aged three, exploring the immense walnut cupboard in my parents' bedroom. I levered opened the door and a small doll fell from the top shelf into my arms to be duly carried down to Mother. There were tears, but no hugs.

One day I hope, the Black Dowager will be re-united with the laughing girl in a white dress who still dances somewhere in an attic room, her short life captured in a few precious black and white photographs. One day I hope, she will learn to hug again.

A dirt-kneed boy

We lived close by the sea when we were young. Captain Fantastic took me out one day with my younger brother and the three of us walked the length of the beach to a causeway at the far end. It was here that we used to skip and jump across the man-hole bolted covers drilled at regular intervals into a sewage-pipe beneath.

Only this time I didn't jump quite far enough. I slipped on the thick, green sea-weed and fell headlong to the barnacle-encrusted concrete beneath. It took off most of the skin from my left knee and, if you look close, you can still see the scar to this day.

Captain Fantastic knew exactly what to do. He swept me up in his arms, a dirt-kneed schoolboy, and carried me off to the local sweet shop where he bought three bars of cinder toffee. We wolfed them down, brother, father and me!

The screen falls silent

My last few minutes with the Captain were shared sitting on the sofa watching a Sunday cricket match together. I was ten years old, mesmerised by swinging bats and the tick of the clock on the lounge wall. If I had known I might have hugged him some more before he disappeared.

The Captain had taken a new job in the south and was living in temporary accomodation with my elder brother, the rest of the family waiting to join him once the house had been sold. He left us in a car.

Captain Fantastic died alone in a Hertfordshire lay-by - a massive coronary. He never did get to see the end of the match.

Many things to say

There were so many things left unsaid and often at this time of year I dwell too deeply on them. This is not how the story should end, for life is just too short not to enjoy the hugs.

So I'll finish by typing the shortest letter to the Captain, wherever he may be, then enjoy the true embrace of my own family this Christmas. Should you feel the need, just click on the comments link below and post your own letter.

best regards

electrofried (mr)


Dear Dad,

Notts lost. Hope you're well and miss you loads,

love from the dirt-kneed schoolboy