A Christmas Storeh


Kurt jumped off his BMX half way down Shelthorpe road. What number was it again, 49? 94? He pulled his Nike drawstring bag off his back and rummaged around until he found the crumpled up flyer he’d got from the Post Office.

Looking for young elf with good atitude to help Santa spread xmas joy on weeknights.

Decent £, decent hours, mon- fri

Give Spike a call on 07565673241 or call on 944 Shelthorpe Rd if interested. Start IMMEDIATLEY


Spike was in the lounge watching Top Gear with a can of Oranjeboom (red and black) when he noticed the little kid outside. The house was half-decorated, and the floor was all splintery, dusty floorboards. Spike was fat, bald and his clothes were always covered in white paint stains.

He paused the show and went out to the front to hold out a big, strong workman’s hand. Kurt’s shake was nervous and flaccid, he simply allowed his hand to be enveloped. He kept brushing his hardened gel quiff to the side. It never moved an inch.

“So, you must be Kurteh?”

Kurt nodded.

“The name’s Spikeh, You look like a right young’n, how old are ya 13, 14?”


“Oh, that a relief. Just means I don’t ave to pay ya properleh.”

Kurt contrived laughter noises.

“Only jokin ya little bastard. I’m full of little bastard jokes like that I am. You’ll find that out soon enough kidda.”

Spike went over to his van and unlocked the front. He checked the foot-well, grabbed a bundle of empty cans, and chucked them into his neighbour’s black bin.

“Ya mind if I call you Kurteh do ya lad?”


Spike paused a second and stared at Kurt, “Do you mean yeah you do mind, or yeah can I call you Kurteh?”


An even longer pause. Spike raised one of his eyebrows to the sky. He thought to himself, how have I managed to recruit another one? I bet this fucker can’t even count. Just my fuckin luck.

“Right then so you know what you’ll be doin today then Kurteh?”

Kurt shook his head, clutching tightly onto the strings of his drawstring bag like his life depended on it.

“Well as you might have noticed, I’m Santa and you’re my little elf. Now I’ve got a couple of things for ya.”

Spike went back into the van and picked out a small green hat from the foot well and a big white bucket covered in dirt. The hat had little gold bells all round the side, so it jingled much like a tambourine. On the side of the bucket were written the words



“This’ll be your at, and this’ll be your bucket. I need you to always wear your at, and always carry your bucket. All right? Now then Kurteh, I’ll show ya where you’ll be workin.”

Spike led Kurt to his garage door. He opened it up slowly to reveal Spike’s sleigh. It was built out of a trailer Spike previously used to take things to the tip. He had plastered it in lights, tinsel, and the odd bauble. In the middle of the trailer was a tall plastic Christmas tree with big purple baubles and green and white flashing lights. A plastic model of an angel stood at the very top, flashing at two second intervals. A speaker lay hiding underneath the tree for playing Christmas anthems. Bordering the trailer were four reindeer made out of brown mesh, all with a seemingly arbitrary number of limbs.

“Go on then kid, jump aboard.”

Kurt looked back at him to confirm he wasn’t joking. Then after a few seconds he realised he wasn’t and jumped over the back. His long, fleshless body clambered and rolled off the side, into a bed of straw and discarded roll ups.

“Ya like it do ya?”

“Yeah it’s all right.”

“Made it wi me own bare ands, me and me mate Wilkeh anyweh like. He’s in prison now, ya don’t wanna know. Only took us a few months. Don’t get me wrong it’s a heap of absolute shite if you ask me. People still like it. Fuckin idiots. They see it whizzing down the streets, fucking Pogues blaring out and they think it’s like Christmas day!”

Kurt stood there, blank faced next to the tree. He looked hopelessly out of place.

“You are a dumb little bastard aren’t you? But it’s all right. You don’t need to be a rocket surgeon. You just need to follow the trailer while I drive it around, and politely ask the people on the streets to put money in the bucket. Do you think you could do that Kurteh?”


“Wicked, and if you do that for me, we both make a bit of money, and go home to the pub afterwards appeh as larreh. Kapish?”

Kurt nodded.

“Any questions kidda?”

“Errm, what do I wear?”

“You can wear whatever the fuck ya like kidda, football kit, tracksuit, overalls, gimp suit. So long as ya wear that at. The public couldn’t give a toss so long as they think you’re an elf. And ya are you an elf, ent ya Kurteh?”


“I said, are you an elf?”

“I don’t know?”

“What do you mean, you don’t fucking know, are you wearing an elf at or what?”


“Yes you are Kurteh, so ‘ll ask you again, are you an elf or not?”


“Good,” Spike produced a smile like some kind of evil shark. His teeth were a piano of silver metal crowns and yellow, natural teeth,  “all right then you little bastard. I’ll see yas outside here at 6pm, tonight, sharp as a diamond. And also, any bollocks from you Kurteh and I’ve got a queue of elves up to the McDonalds roundabout waiting to wear that Elf at for me.”

Kurt nodded, with the face of a turkey ready for the slaughter.

“Good lad. Now piss off would ya, I’m off to Mark Jarvis.”




On Kurt’s BMX ride home he was overwhelmed with content. He had never had a job before, which meant that he never really had any money. His mum gave him a fiver every week, but he ended up having spent that all on coke cans and chocolate bars by Tuesday. Other times he would starve himself a bit until he had enough money to buy a game for his Xbox. Kurt loved his Xbox, and being the elder brother of five and therefore having had to share it his whole life, he wanted to buy one for himself. He longed to become an independent gamer.

When he got to the top of his road he transferred his feet to the stunt pegs at the back and just let the bike roll all the way down the road until it took him to his driveway. Kurt opened the side gate with the sign on it that read, ‘BEWARE, trespassers will be SHOT!’ in a dripping red font, and concentrated briefly on not stepping on any of the dog chews and burst footballs strewn everywhere across the concrete garden. Kurt’s father was drilling in the shed. He glanced at his son through the window and removed his safety mask and shouted ‘“alright cuntybollocks?” Kurt wasn’t immediately aware. Kurt’s dad turned off the drill.

“I says, are you all right CUNTYBOLLOCKS?”

“Yeah dad I’m fine.”

“Did you get the fuckin job then or what?”

“Yeah think so.”

“When do ya start?”


“Ahh good lad. What were it doin?”

“Goin out wi yim in his sleigh and collectin cash.”

“Ahh well we all gotta start somewhere kid. The bloke all right?”


“Gotta watch out for these dodgy cunts these days Kurt. What were is name?”


Kurt’s dad pulled up his T-shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow.

“Can’t say I know the bastard. Well you tell him if he does ote to ya I’ll drill him.”

Wilkeh switched the power drill back on and held sideways in the air laughing hysterically to himself for a moment before sliding back into the shed like a crab sliding back into its hermitage. Kurt grinned for a second, then went straight up to his bedroom to boot up Call of Duty, frothing at the mouth.

Three deeply frustrating hours passed, which Kurt spent trying to unlock Red Tiger camo for the G3, a gun Kurt didn’t even particularly like. After being repeatedly slaughtered at close quarters by a number of players playing with weapons with a much faster fire-rate, Kurt threw his controller at one of his little brothers’ back.

“Kurteh you know what Mum said, if ya threw controller at meh gain then you won’t get play Xbox three days.”

Kurt looked at his little brother briefly as if to say yeah right, get fucked mate, and stormed out of the door. Stanley was left sat down on a bean- bag crying, controller on his lap. He soon forgot the grief that his older brother had caused him, his eyes lit up as he realised he had access to the Xbox.

“You betta let me go on aftward Stanleh.” A voice came from behind the beanie bag from another of the siblings on a smaller bean bag. All of the brothers looked almost exactly the same, only they came in different sizes. They were Russian dolls in second-hand sportswear.

“Maybe tomorrah Andeh,” little Stanley replied.

Kurt threw on his Air Max, wheeled his bike round to the front and cycled off to Shelthorpe road for his first shift.




When Kurt got to his destination, he pulled out his Iphone 5 and checked the time. 17.54. He was 6 minutes early. The sleigh was now parked outside the house, attached to the back of Spike’s van. On the side of the van was a large unlit neon sign that read


Kurt realised his feet were shaking, and sweat had saturated his trainer-liners. He stared at the door with eyes wide open, like a little bunny in the headlights. He decided to just go for it, and swung open the front gate to walk towards the front door. He knocked once. Immediately he heard the barking of a ferocious canine.

He stood on that doorstep for just under fifty minute before Santa Claus finally opened the door. The house stank of stale fag smoke, which wafted out onto the street.

“Kurteh, we’re goin,” Santa said as he struggled to apply his snowy white beard to his face, which he attached to the sides of his hat with safety pins. His black boots were his work boots and were very old.

“Where’s your elf at kidda?”

“You what?”

“Your elf at, what you put on your ed. Where is it?”

“Oh yeah. It’s in my bag,” he pulled the drawstring off his back and plucked out the dirty green elf hat and put it on his head.

“I told you, and I’m not being funneh, you always need that thing on your ed. Honestleh kidda, I’ve sacked perfectly good employees for smaller offences.” He took the opportunity to give Kurt a long, stern and calculated stare, which evoked terror in its recipient. Spike opened the van door for Kurt.

“Wait there a minute kiddeh while I go and switch on the genneh.”

Kurt sat there in the passenger seat, staring blankly through the windscreen whilst chewing the skin off his cuticles with his head at a 45 degree angle.  Spike switched on the generator in the back of the van, it roared into life and the sleigh lit up. The sleigh was mostly red lights, the charity sign on the side of the van was white and purple, and only the top half of the C was illuminated. It looked more like a fairground ride than anything Christmassy. Spike saw the C, dropped his sack from his shoulders and punched the side of the van with his fist. Kurt quivered in the passenger’s seat.

“Fuckin Leceh, bollocks.”

The introduction of Fairytale of New York came on as the vehicle dragged itself down the street. Spike then reached across the dashboard and opened up the glove box. Inside were two CDs, one a Ministry of Sound Ibiza Weekender compilation and the other Morning Glory by Oasis.

“Like Oasis do ya Kurteh, you little bastard?” Kurt looked puzzled.
“The band, Oasis.”

“Dunno em.”

“Jesus whatever they teach you kids in school these days, it ain’t nothin important is it,” and with that Spike fast forwarded to Roll With It, and turned it up full blast until everything vibrated. They stopped at the traffic lights just opposite McDonalds.

“Don’t wanna ear that Fairytale bollocks any more. Christmas songs are for wankers. Drives me insane it does kidda. I just wanna listen to proper music. From the nineties. ‘

Spike spat in the foot well.

‘You feeling Christmasseh then Kurteh?”




They were in Barrow Upon Soar tonight. When they got to their first street it was dark and starting to rain. Above, the moon was hiding behind thick grey clouds, drifting fast. Spike had Kurt standing at the back by the trailer with the bucket while he slowly drove on in the van. If anybody was in the street, Spike expected Kurt to give them the bucket. He told him if he ignored anybody he would know about it, because he could see all that was going on in his side mirrors.

Kurt encountered all kinds of village-folk and found most of them to be quite pleasant. Some were very impressed by the trailer, and others were completely disillusioned, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. Worshippers were enjoying a service at the Barrow Methodist Church when Santa and his sleigh rode towards them. In the car park a few of the parishioners had set up a table, offering mince pies and mulled wine. Noticing a gathering there, Spike stopped the van in the middle of the road, threw his roll up out the window and jumped out the side.

“Ho ho ho to the Church!”

He was attempting to make his voice as posh as possible.

“Merry Christmas to all, and what a fine day to celebrate the birth of Jesus.”

“Merry Christmas to you both!” said one elderly lady.

“Like a mince pie, some mulled wine?” said the other.

“I can’t have the wine sweety because I happen to be driving you see,” he pointed to the van and sleigh outside, “But I’ll have one of these pies if I may. Little fellow can’t drink you see. Not yet anyway, he’s only 13 years old. HAHAA!!”

Spike grabbed one and shoved it in his mouth in one and whilst munching he turned to his assistant, looking at him, and then the bucket.

“Have you got any money?” Kurt asked.

The women looked at each other with raised eyebrows. After a few seconds Kurt received a swift slap to the ear.

“What did I tell you about manners Kurteh? What do you say?”

Please can we have some money?” he then held the bucket out forwards.

“And what are you collecting for?” a lady asked.

“Chariteh,” Kurt pointed towards the purple and white sign on the side of the van.

“That’s wonderful, what charity is it?”

“That’s a good question sweetheart. Which charity you ask?”

“Yes. For example we are collecting for the Salvation Army,” she pointed towards her own bucket on the table, “which charity is your bucket for?”

Spike stood still playing with the curls of his beard and paused for ten seconds. Just as one of the ladies began to sigh, Spike said “cancer.”

“Oh Cancer Research UK, I see. A very good cause. And this is your little son is it, helping you out?”

“Yeah my pride and joy this one,” Spike put his hand on top of Kurt’s head and patted.

“Aww well it’s lovely that you’re both out doing good deeds over Christmas for no benefit of yourselves. Very refreshing to meet somebody who has taken the lessons of the New Testament well and truly on board!”

Spike had no idea who she meant, so turned to Kurt and shrugged his shoulders. Still smiling, the two ladies grabbed their purses from their coat pockets and dropped a few coins into the bucket.

“Cheers girls.”

The vicar then wheeled out from the back of the Church, vestments strewn across his shoulders.

“What’s going on here then ladies?”

“Oh hi Albert. Nothing, just Santa and his little helper doing some humanitarian work together.”

“Yes they’re collecting for Cancer Research.”

“Oh fantastic!” The vicar then pulled out a fresh twenty pound note and placed it into the bucket like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Merry, Merry Christmas! We’re going now aren’t we Curtis, we’ve gotta do the new estate now.”

“Great stuff gents,” said the vicar with a perfectly holy smile.

One of the ladies then grabbed a couple of leaflets from the table and handed them out.
“We have service every Sunday and we’ve got a special three hour one coming up on Christmas eve. You’re both very welcome to come down.”

“Oh it’s an honour to be invited it really is. We’ll be there won’t we Kurteh? Kurteh?”


Everybody smiled and waved as they left. As they got back into the van Spike told Kurt that that would do em both for the night, he ‘couldn’t be arsed to do anymore’.

When they got back to Shelthorpe Road Kurt handed over the bucket for Spike to count the cash. The sum was £43,37.

“Not bad Kurteh, for your first shift. “

Kurt was quite happy with himself.

“Here ya go Kurteh, here’s £9.80 or summet. You’ve earned that kidda.”


“Cash in and as well. You know what that means? Cash in and?” he didn’t wait for an answer, grabbed Kurt’s hand and put the cash into it.


He pulled out a Sainsburys carrier bag bursting full of cash from under the seat, and emptied the rest into it, then returned it.

“I’m off to the boozer with my pals now kid. Wanna come?”

“I’m 15.”

“Oh yeah.”




The days went by surprisingly fast for Kurt and he slowly grew accustomed to working, it made him want to leave school even more than he did already. He would go to school, go home, play COD for a few hours, then go off to Spike’s, work for four hours, then go home and play some more COD until his eyes felt like they were bleeding.

After the first week he turned over £37, which he kept inside a magazine under his bed so that his brothers wouldn’t steal it. He’d spent next to nothing of his earnings at school, intent on saving it to buy Call Of Duty WW2 before Christmas.

On arriving back at the house after his last shift on Friday, his parents called him from the lounge.
“Oi cunteh!” his dad shouted.

“Come in Kurt and say ello to your mam and dad,” said his mother. Kurt wandered into the room, hands where they always were, clutching at his drawstrings on his chest.

“Ow are ya cunteh?”

“Yeah how was work Kurt?”

“Yeah it was all right.”

“Being a good little helper are ya?”


“Paid you as he?” asked Kurt’s dad.


“You got enough to buy us all some nice Christmas presents?”


“Good lad Kurteh.”

“Yeah good stuff Kurt, proud of ya.”

“Well done Kurteh,” his mother said before turning her attention back to the television. Kurt went into his eight hour COD binge a very happy and slightly richer young man.

As the next working week pressed on, Kurt realised it wasn’t going to be so easy. One night in Sileby for example, a few kids with skinheads on Greedon rise had mocked Kurt’s hat and proceeded to throw rocks at him. When one of them hit the van, Spike, fired up on rage and hot blood, went into the back of his van and pulled out a Fiskars XXL X27 Log Splitting Axe. He chased them down the street, cursing and giving them death threats all the way to Seagrave, leaving Kurt standing there, shivering and chattering.

A series of drivers who were blocked off due to the fact that the giant Santa sleigh and van was obstructing it got out of their cars and went over to the little kid in the middle of the road.

“What the fook ya doing here kid?”

“Dunno,” Kurt replied.

“Who’s driving this fookin ideous contraption, your dad is it?”

“Dunno, I mean, no.”

“Are you simple kid?” Kurt just stood there, staring at the reindeer.

A mob had formed outside the van now, getting bigger and bigger by the minute. Some were taking pictures to upload onto Spotted Sileby. They were moaning, cursing and spitting everywhere.

One skinhead finally says, “right I’ve had enough of this. I’m movin the fucker ma self. Aint no one else gonna fuckin do it.”

The mob cheered as the man climbed into the front of the van. He pulled the handbrake and van and sleigh gently dropped down the hill. He stopped at the corner of the road at the bottom and nodded his head to himself as if to say yeah decent job that. The mob got back in their cars, and honked their horns in jubilation as they began to move up the road.

“Tell your dad I’ll be after the cunt if he does it again,” the man got angry again, “fuckin chariteh? Bollocks! This ain’t for chariteh. You appy to just take people’s money are ya? Yas are the fuckin scum of the earth the both of yas.”

Still consumed by rage, he then grabbed hold of one of the reindeer’s head and ripped it off the side of the van, throwing it onto the pavement. His wife stood on the pavement, loving every minute.

“Well done Toneh!”

“Come on Nickeh, that’s enough for me.”

Then he grabbed her hand and they walked off into the night together. Kurt wanted to cry.

His master returned an hour later, deadly weapon in hand, Santa beard and hat still firmly in place, out of breath and puffing hard on a fag.

“Couldn’t catch the bastards. I fuckin ate Silebeh.”

It took him a good few moments before he noticed the meshy reindeer skull staring at him from the pavement. The blood went straight to his bald head. He screamed at Kurt until his larynx wanted to burst out of his neck.

He picked up the terrified little kid by his collar and threw him against the side of the van, spitting into his face with every word. He proceeded to ask a series of questions he knew he would never get an answer to.

“How the FUCK could you let this happen?”

“Who the FUCK’s been driving my van?”

“How did you get to be such a dippy, worthless little FUCK?”

At one moment, Kurt feared that he might be struck by the axe in Spike’s arms, but it wasn’t to be. He swung backwards, but then stopped at the final second and took a deep, deep breath. Spike grabbed the mangled reindeer, and threw it onto the sleigh.
“Get in the car now you little bastard or I’ll leave you ere on your arse.”

The journey back to Shelthorpe was quiet. For the duration Kurt desperately tried to hold back the tears in his eyes.




Kurt’s was traumatised after what happened at Greedon on Friday night. He was starting to realise that Spike wasn’t a very good man. He was quite angry about how he had been verbally abused, and as he stormed buildings, tossed grenades, commanded air strikes and controlled helicopter attacks, he imagined every soldier he exterminated was Spike. It made him want to be a soldier in real life, if only there was a civilisation of Spikes somewhere out there that the government had an interest in decimating, little Kurt would have been on the front line with his AK-47, wanting blood.

But Kurt was getting tired of the same COD game. His friends at school were all teasing him by constantly gloating about how good the new one was. About how on the zombie mode instead of a knife you get a spade, which you use to cave the Zombies’ heads in at close range. Kurt fucking loved Zombies. He needed that game, badly. Which is why, unfortunately, he was resolved to carry on working until Christmas. He went to work on Monday as normal.

“Listen Kurteh. I lost my rag on friday night. I’m sorreh about that. Little fuckers throwing rocks mate. I ad to try and smash the little bastards or it wouldn’t ave been right. I chased the fuckers but they got away. That made me even worse mate. I remember a face though so I’m all right. I’ve cooled down now…”

He carried on talking but Kurt didn’t listen. It was Quorn tonight. He just had to carry the bucket around for a few hours, then he could go home and you know what.

The shift went agonisingly slowly. Partly due to the weather, the village people were nowhere to be seen. It was mostly dog walkers, and they rarely want to give out money to charity, they just want to walk their dogs and be done with it. Dog walking Bastards, Spike thought.

Kurt hated it when the streets were dead, not only because he didn’t make any money, but because it meant that Spike would speed off ahead in his van, and Kurt would have to sprint behind to keep up. Kurt was never a long distance runner. He was having a really hard time. Only to be made much harder when it came to the end of the shift as Spike counted the cash.

“12 quid Kurteh? This all you got is it?”

Kurt shrugged.

“Look mate, It’s simply not good enough. I’m not angry or ote. Just don’t be surprised that I ain’t paying you tonight. If you don’t work ard, you don’t get paid. Simple as.”

Kurt looked down at the cans in the footwell.

“You understand Kurteh?” Kurt nodded.

If only he had a spade, he’d know exactly what to do with it.


Mountsorrel was slightly better than Quorn, but the night was colder, and longer. He turned over £26.54 in total, and was paid £6 for four hours work.

“Let me tell ya ow it is. I’m running a business you see Kurteh. And with businesses, it’s all about making moneh. Notes. Cash. Fuckin WONGA. That’s what life’s all about kidda. You’ll find out when you’re older.”

Kurt felt very humiliated, but hoped for better nights to come. Spike reminded him of Tyler, the school bully who used to throw people’s Beyblades onto the roof of the mobile.


When Kurt got home that night his parents noticed something was awry as Kurt charged through the house, without saying hello. His parents rushed to the stairs.

“What’s got into you cunty boy?” his dad asked.

“How was work Kurteh?” his mum.


The pair of them looked at each other, puzzled, then went back in the lounge to devour another episode of Gogglebox in a state of perfect mirth.

“This show’s fuckin ilarious!”

“Aint it! I ope little Kurt’s all right though.”

“He’s fine, he’s probably avin girl troubles or summet.”


As Kurt got up to his room he was crestfallen to see his brother Aiden playing Gran Turismo.

“What ya doin Aideh?”

“Playin Gran Turismo leave me alone,” Kurt hated Gran Tourismo.

“Let me play now.”


“Leave him alone Kurteh,” the youngest of the band of brothers Andy interjected, brainlicker juice all round his mouth.

“Why you playin that fuckin shite game anyway?”

The brothers completely ignored him, engrossed by the race Aiden was taking part in. Kurt put his head in his hands, “ARRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH” then went down into the kitchen, and grabbed a packet of his Mum’s Silk Cut off the side. He went down the side of the house and smoked it until he got niccy rush. Then he went straight up to bed where he twisted and turned for a few hours before sleep.




A few more days of making little money, a few more days chasing the back of Santa’s sleigh. Spike was getting noticeably frustrated about decreasing cash-flow. The car journeys were tense and quiet. On Thursday after Kurt pulled in on his BMX outside Spike’s house, Spike burst out of the side gate and came out with, “Look Kurteh. You’ve really gotta pull your finger out tonight. No excuses. We’re in Mountsorrel, and it ain’t like Silebeh, everybody’s got money in Sorrel. Like they do in Quorn, but the bastards in Quorn aren’t as thick as they are in Sorrel, so they’re much more likely to throw a bit of cash your way if you give it a bit of bollocks. I’m not bein funny or ote mate, if you don’t do it proper and make me some cash I’m gonna ave to get someone else. Now stick on your at and grab that fuckin bucket and make your family proud, all right?”

The night started out well. A group of carol singers, aggravated by the fact their singing was being interrupted by The Pogues, went over to Spike and asked him to turn it down a bit. Spike said, ‘Yeah if ya give us some moneh.”

The superviser lady then proceeded to throw a few coins into the bucket.
“Come on love it’s for chariteh.”

She then made it a fistful. Estimating that the total of the donation was probably in the region of ten pounds, Spike was happy to drive off and leave them to it.  

“And merry Christmas to the fuckin lot of yas!”

Most of the people Kurt met ignored him, treating him like an annoying beggar in the street.

Please can I have some moneh?

We haven’t got any change, sorry. They’d reply. It didn’t stop Kurt from trying ever harder.

Merry Christmas, can I have some money please?

A couple of girls he realised were from school simply said no, then burst into hysterical laughter together, taking a photo of him next to the sleigh. Kurt looked very distressed. He didn’t want to be all over Facebook in his elf costume. He heard them cackling like hyenas from the top of the road. It just wasn’t fair. He lost his ability to talk to anyone after that.

He continued to hold out the bucket to everyone in the street, but nobody threw in anything. They just walked on, like he and the sleigh were an apparition, a hallucination of a depressing reality. Kurt glanced at the wing mirror and saw Santa, staring at him whilst toking fiercely. He exhaled and the reflection of his face disappeared behind the smoke.  The end was coming.

Spike stopped the van  outside The Swan Inn on Loughborough Road, with a firm, lasting oink of the handbrake.This jolted the sledge forwards and backwards. The Christmas tree waggled, from side to side then fell over so that it was leaning on the top of the van. 

“Come into the front Kurt. Show me that bucket kiddeh.”

Kurt passed over the bucket. Spike gave it a shake, then turned to Kurt, “there better be some notes in ere kidda.”

He popped open the lid, and found nothing but the change from the carol singers. He inspected them with his chunky fingers and found that they were mostly coppers.

“Fuckin done by a bunch of carol singers. And what money have you made kidda out of that, 20 pence or summat? Four hours work for twenty fuckin pence? It ain’t fuckin good enough. Go on kid, fuck off will ya. ”

Spike stormed out of the van and headed straight for the Swan, Kurt got out the other side and walked the other way.  A man was talking to his friend outside the pub. They were both wearing extremely elaborate Christmas jumpers. 

“So basicalleh, Mickeh’s missus says to meh, I’ll give you two undred and fifty notes if ya can carpet the entire ouse before wednesday. So I turns to er and I says, I’ll tell you what love, ow’s about you give me two undred notes, and I’ll have it done by tuesd-”

“Ayyy up Toneh, weren’t that the van what you moved on Greedon the other night?”

The man’s friend pointed to the sleigh, which stood there, flashing red, a reindeer missing on the side, Christmas tree collapsed, angel hanging upside down. Marteh heard the comment right as he was on the threshold of the pub and stopped dead still. He put his hands behind his back and reversed back with three long strides, before turning to face the man.

“Owe ya Santa?” the man’s dippy mate asked and giggled to himself. Nobody else laughed. All went completely quiet outside the pub.

As soon as the man opened his lips to speak, Spike had swept somebody’s pint glass off the table, emptied its contents the floor and hurled it at the man’s head. It missed by centimetres, and smashed up against a fence. The broken shards fell on top of a couple having a drink in the corner. 

Spike then threw his body at the man and rained down fists upon him like a windmill. His mate tried to pull him back by his waist, but Santa elbowed him in the nose and he backed off like he’d been electrocuted.

Little Kurt who was round the corner could hear the breaking of glasses and men shouting as they brawled. He realised he had no drawstring bag on his back, he’d left it in Spike’s van. He thought about leaving it, but then realised it had his mate’s Xbox controller in it, and some cash from the previous shift and a whole can of Monster. When he got there he saw a scrum full of men, with a Santa’s hat poking out the side. Women were screaming and confused men turned to leathering each other. Spike emerged from the bodies and got involved with anybody he could see.

The van was pumping out And the bells are ringing out….

“Fuckin ell,” Kurt murmured to himself as he climbed into the van one last time. He picked up his drawstring and was ready to leave the scene and walk all the way back to Shelthorpe, when he saw a police van swinging round the corner, sirens blaring. He’d never seen so much action in real life, only on GTA. He watched as the police eventually apprehended the renegade Santa, and got him face down on the cold pavement. People were still kicking him while he lay there being handcuffed, beard full of blood. Kurt grinned as they dragged him, shaking like a salmon into the back of a police car.

Kurt noticed the handles of the orange plastic bag poking from under the driver’s seat and pictured a brand new Xbox all of his own.


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