Humble apologies to Dr Seuss and Clement Clarke Moore (and the faintest of Christmas nods to Monty Python….)
…..
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the garage with care, in hopes that St Colin of Sprite Parts goodies might land there;
The Spridgets were nestled all snug on their sheds, while visions of demijohns of HPR30 danced in their heads.
And mamma in her nighty, and I in my cap, had just settled our brains for a mid-summers nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter!
Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters to the sight of a hell of a crash!
When, what to my weary eyes did appear, but a bloody great sleigh, and eight, slightly winded, flying reindeer.
And a bloke in a suit, covered in mud really quite thick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
Oh bugger, he muttered, the sleigh was bent right, out of shape and dented, with only tonight.
To deliver the presents to kids and dreaming car owners, now the night was all ruined, for a white Roo he had run over.
That doesn’t look good muttered I, then passed him a cold beer, his reindeer became startled and did up and disappear.
And the White Roo now joining the choir invisible, the remaining White Boomers to up and long bolted, their concern unequivocal,
Leaving little kids dreams fading , yet oh but so near.
A bent sleigh in the night, the steering all shot. The right ski was all bent, the left reigns in a knot.
“What the bloody hell now shall I do?” he said between swigs, tears running down his fat cheeks, as he thought of the kids.
Looks of disappointment of presents not there and losing their faith, in the jolly man with white hair
So I passed him my phone with “I know a bloke you might call. The Marquis d’ Restauration and there’s no job that’s too tall.”
“Really? Right now?”, the jolly gent spluttered, “but it’s so awfully late?”
“Can’t hurt” I replied, “those kids, they won’t wait!”
“Are you sure”, he replied, “do you think he might look?”
“Oh”, I said thoughtfully, “the sleigh might fit right in his book.”
So he dials the number and a bleary voice says “Tonight? Sorry, no way. Bring it round next week and we can try for March, or maybe for May.”
“There’s a list you know, of car owners’ naughty and nice. Don’t you have mechanic elves up North on the ice?”
Said Santa with a growl, lost deep in his funk, “They’re on their union stand down, now very likely quite drunk!”
“But hang on a jif”, the voice says with a hoot, “Lets call brother Pat and borrow his old Ute. With its cavernous boot, you can load up the sacks, then haul all the loot.”
“Yes”, I jump in, “but you’ll still need some help. That Falcon alone won’t manage the hand that’s been dealt.
With eight roaring Spridgets, you’ll never be late!” Call Gordon and Chris” I cry, “they’ve got several to offer, and if you plumb don’t ask, you never know what they can proffer”
“Then try Michael and Gary, Steve, Darrel, Garth or Nathan, but don’t bother Dean, he will tending his vines, dreaming of vintage and serving Shiraz to the nation”
“Russell and Judy will be out meandering along, and, oh, Chris M’s cars won’t be running, so you might want to call Don”
“Yes, I think these are you best bet, just don’t rely on Jez, he’ll most likely forget!”
More rapid than eagles his saviours all then came, and with a smile on his face, he whistled and called them by name:
“Now, Skinner! now, Union! Now, Dellorto and Weber!
On, Austin! on, Healey! on, Bug-eye and Midget!
To the top of the porch. To the top of the wall! Now race away! Race away! Race away all!
As valve rockers dance before the wild push rods that did fly, and with those A Series on cam, hill climb to the sky;
Up to the corkscrew, atop the Hills, they rapidly flew, with the cars full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
“Oh My”, muttered Santa, “this is now quite a Spritely Adventure!”
And then, in a twinkling, I heard back up on the roof
“Oh bugger and damnation, blasted Lucas electrics went poof.”
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nic came back with a bound. Dressed in fur overalls, all stained head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with gearbox oil and Lucas smoke soot;
A bundle of toys he now flung off his back, he looked like beaten and downhearted, like a tramp with only his pack.
“That’s it, I’m buggered”, he moaned, “the Prince of Darkness has got me”
His eyes were down cast, “Just carrots and milk, dear God, where’s the damn Sherry??”
His droll little mouth, now drawn down like a bow, And his beard mixed with grease, no longer whiter than snow. A stumpy screwdriver he held tight in his teeth, and puff on a Cuban and smoke rings like a wreath;
He had such a broad face and a massive round belly, that shook when he sobbed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right grumpy old elf, thank goodness for the Ute, for slipping into a Spridget, he was really not svelte!
Then with a glint in his eye and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know the kids of the world had but nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but consulted his phone, and called Sir Sean of the Clubbies, to more reliably light his way on, to continue his work and then fly all the way home.
Then he filled all the stockings, and if he didn’t give a faint little twerk,
And laying his finger on his rather large nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He lept into the Ute, with Sprites all on song, away they all flew, that burble heard long.
But I did heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all Spridgets a good night!”
