A Peek into Santa’s Musette

Frankly Franklin’s unexpected trip to the seaside resulted in a welcome encounter and provided the inspiration (and facts) for this Christmas story. 
Those of you who have read Raymond Briggs’ Father Christmas Goes on Holiday will already know that during his summer break he likes to take well deserved jaunts to exotic places such as France and Las Vegas. This year Rudolph, Prancer, Vixen, Blitzen et al towed his ubiquitous holiday home to The Beach somewhere down in the South of Thailand where I found him after having got lost on a club run 1200 miles north of the same country. 
’I’m sure Chiang Mai is somewhere around here, after all I have been riding for 12 hours or so’ I thought to myself. Problem with living in this country is that if you get lost and don’t speak the lingo, there is absolutely no way that you can communicate with the locals. You just have to keep pedalling. And keep pedalling I did. 
Mind you, it was really very nice to see the seaside. I’ve been surrounded by mountains and paddy fields for far too long and the air fare from here to the southern islands is a bit steep. I kept on riding at my usual time trial pace (something around 15mph), rounded a corner and lo and behold I came across a wonderful sandy beach, not too crowded but populated with bright red fat tourists, wunderkids in bikinis and an assortment of local traders offering them battered prawns, leg massage, wooden croaking frogs and in a few cases what is euphemistically known as ‘friendship’.
This was the place to resolve my dilemma and find out how to get home. I found this lovely couple roasting themselves under the burning sun: "Excuse me", I said, "Could you tell me the way to Chiang Mai?" "Жаль, я не говорю на тайском языке, спрашиваю кого - то еще Ð’Ñ‹ дурак," came the reply. 
I tried asking another sun-baked tourist: "Schade, ich spreche Thai nicht, frage jemanden anderen Sie Irrer." I tried again: "Ci dispiace, non parlo thai, chiedere a qualcun altro è pazzo", she answered. I carried on like this for some considerable time. Ukrainians, Spaniards, Germans and Italians - The Beach was full of them, but there wasn’t one English speaker amongst them. "Wir haben die Engländer anderswohin gesandt, weil sie alle Liegestühle monopolisieren", a German sunbather explained. ’Ahh’, I thought, ’so that’s why there are no British sunbathers here!’ 
Of course, once you have this problem, there is nothing to do but wander along the coastal roads, buy an ice cream or two, eat the odd plate of noodles, ring home and explain to the Mrs why you’ll be late for tea. 
I continued, up a slight hill, a bit more climbing and then I was able to look down into these little coves, lonely deserted beaches with palm trees gently swaying in the seaside breeze. Rounding the next bend, there was this little footpath which wended its way back onto a beach - just about rideable on my GP4000s and it looked very inviting. So down I went.  
Now all of you out there whose Sunday club runs are confined to traffic laden roads in temperatures as low as or below nought degrees, should by now be feeling a little jealous (especially at this time of the year when the roads are too icy to ride on anyway). That’s the idea, but sit back and relax as there is more to come! 
Indeed there was more to come! I parked my bike in the shade of a coconut tree, removed my Specialized shoes and socks and ventured onto the smooth and beautiful sand. As I did so I caught site of just one person in the whole of this cove. He walked towards me, and as he got closer I thought that I recognised this portly fellow with what seemed like ice cream or sea foam around his face. And then, when he was just three metres away I thought, ’Yes! I know who this is ...... it can’t be ............ but it is! It’s got to be .......’ 
"Hello" I said, "Haven’t we met before?"  
"I think no" he replied in heavily accented English.  
"Yes we have", I said, and then explained "You used to have a job in Trinder’s toy shop every December. I sat on your knee once and asked you if I could have a bicycle for Christmas. But all I got was a lump of ice." 
At this he looked very uncomfortable. "Deed you? Waz that at Twinder’s in, now let me see, in ninety fiftee ate in a place called Fakestone?" 
"Yes, yes" I replied "But I never understood why all I got that Christmas was an icicle. After all, I hadn’t been that naughty during the preceding year." 
"Ah, yes." He thought for a minute and then said "I remember now, I thought you said ’icicle’. I could not have ’eard the ’B’ - so it was a Bicicle you wanted, hein? But how was the icicle?" 
"My mother always told me that I should never look a gift horse in the mouth, but I must tell you that the bloody thing melted!" 
"Never matter" he said "I am sure you ’ave ’ad many bicicles since then!" 
Well, this little exchange proved that the person in front of me was indeed Santa and not just some escapee from a fancy dress party. He had a long white beard, kindly eyes, a blue and white striped long sleeve t-shirt and the largest pair of red and white spotted shorts that you’ve ever seen. In fact, he was straight out of Briggs’ book. It was him, no doubt! 
He sat on the sand next to me and was clearly a little lonely. I had the distinct impression that my company was welcome and that he was up for a chat. What a great opportunity to delve into the hidden secrets of Santa world. "I was wondering" I said to him "how you manage to carry all the presents for everyone in the world in such a small sack." 
"It eez wun of Santa’s little see crets", he answered. 
"But ... it’s not only the sheer volume of toys and bits that you deliver, it’s the whole world you have to speed round. In such a short time too!" 
"You are a bi cyclist, hein? You are understood about speed. Ullrich, Schumacher, Pantani, Virenque - all zees people ride the cycable so much fartster than you, right? You must ask zem ze question same answer!" 
"I would really like to know more" I said. 
"Veree vell zen", he replied "I vould like you to fellow me. Iz zat good?" 
Well, follow him I did. We walked up the beach until we saw a group of reindeers munching seaweed at the water’s edge and just behind them a kind of old-fashioned caravan (see Raymond Briggs’ book for a good artists’ impression). It was red with a little chimney stack sticking up at the back. There were harnesses at the front and I guessed that these were to enable the reindeers to pull this contraption through the sky. 
"I vould much like you to come into my leetle ’ouse ere and see my sack." 
I did as I was bid and followed him up the crinkly steps into the caravan. I was a bit nervous here because it is a bit dodgy going into some lonely old guy’s caravan on a deserted beach - so if there are any juniors or juveniles reading this, be very very careful. None of my actions should be copied by you. Ok? [Inserted at the request of the health and safety department, Planet X, up north somewhere.] 
But his next move made me even more nervous. "Now poot your ’ead in the sack, pleeze." Now if he hadn’t said ’please’ I definitely would not have done it. As soon as I bent over with my head in the sack he gave me a ruddy great shove with his black boot and I went whirling and swirling downwards into a huge and different world full of toys and presents and little elves running about. ’So that’s the answer’, I thought ’It’s just like the wardrobe in Narnia - you disappear into the sack and emerge in an entirely different place. Magic Santa, indeed!’ 
Once I had settled down, got my bearings and overcome the shock of being booted up the behind by Santa, I started to enjoy what I could see. What was interesting was looking at the labels and seeing just which presents were going where. Obviously I could get some insight into what people like To55er were going to receive this coming Christmas and I found some interesting stuff. If you see him, don’t tell him, but I think he’s getting some go faster stripes for his old skool bike. Cavendish? They’ve only gone and got him a school cap and a school uniform with short trousers (well, we’re not used to school kids winning the Milan-San Remo, are we?). What else did I find ... ah yes! Here’s one for Dave Lloyd. It’s a book called How to Write an Autobiography. Hutchinson? A training programme and a can of Guinness to help him get the 25 record next season. That’s appropriate. Dave Loughran: a bag full of money to add to his already considerable wealth. Gordon Brown: a rubber duck (...... must be for a different person of the same name). Now here’s an interesting one: a Tour de France game for Ken Livingstone (must be getting into cycling); Bradley Wiggins: a lassoo to attach himself to Cancellara next time he comes whizzing past. And so on ...... oh yes me? A map of Thailand so I can get back to Chiang Mai (a bit late, I think). But I won’t give all the secrets away, you’ll know soon enough. 
And then I found about fifteen hippopotamuses milling about in a corner. Each had labels carrying the name of a professional racing cyclist. "I wonder what they’re for?" I asked myself. I stored that one up for later. All of a sudden I emerged from this world sooner than I expected. I suddenly felt this force that dragged me spiralling upwards until, emerging from the sack, I found myself back in Santa’s little caravan, in a cove, on a beach, in Thailand. 
"Wow!" I said "That was very very interesting, but why did you get all of these hippos for those cyclists." 
"Yes, I woz wunderin’ zat my shelf", he said "But I can tell that eech of zees cycling persons, when zey sat on my knee zey asked for an eepo. So if zat is wot zey want, zey can ’ave a leetle eepo, hein?" 

1 December 2009