The Winter Festival

If you recall the climax to the classic award winning epic novel ‘The Carnival’, Santa turned up at the Bunt residence in Maida Vale begging Wilson for a hand. It turned out that the elves had been struck down with illness so that Santa, a fat man in a red and white costume, decided to fall back on our benevolent and adventurous butler for help.
Now admittedly many people think Santa does not exist. Well, he does. But there have, undeniably, been some fibs about exactly what he gets up to. “There are only a few weeks left before…” Wilson stopped before
clearing his throat and continuing. “The 25th of December.”
“Don’t you mean Christmas?” Master Benjamin asked him as they headed into the kitchen followed by an overweight Santa who was panting and reaching for his inhaler.
“I’m afraid not Master Benjamin,” Wilson shook his head as he put on his oven gloves. “We cannot mention that word as it references a specific religious figure, who during these times of political correctness, cannot be name checked. From now on we shall call the day ‘The Winter Festival’ thus cutting short the religious overtones and risk of offending atheists, Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Sikhs and Jedis.”
“But Wilson!” cried Benjamin a committed agnostic. “We have actually met Jesus Christ! He exists.”
“If you are referring to what happened in the novel in which we both featured,” Wilson opened the oven to pull out a Winter Festival pudding. “I think you will find it was full of untruths and wild fantasy. I am rather ashamed that we went along with it to be perfectly honest. I cannot wait for the great sequel due out soon which will contain a modicum of artistic credibility and integrity.”
“I’m looking forward to it as well,” nodded Benjamin. “It’s rumoured that it’s like Beckett meets Dostoevsky.”
“Jolly good as we sold out a little bit in ‘The Carnival’. Did we win any awards?”
“No the Booker people were very quiet on that front.” “Exactly. So I am hopeful that ‘The Menagerie’ will be full of intellectual nourishment, contain a strong story arc and not fall back on cheap gags and all that awful post modernism that occurred last time.” “Well,” said Benjamin. “Apparently this festive short story is a teaser. I think us and the reader will be left in no doubt as to the great strides we are making on the artistic front.”
Santa farted loudly as he made himself comfortable at the kitchen table.
“Ah the Winter Festival pudding!” he beamed.
“Would you like custard with it?” asked Wilson as he plonked the entire thing in front of the rotund man.
“Yes please Wilson old boy!”
“But Wilson!” Benjamin reasoned. “Santa is St Nicholas! Even I have to acknowledge that the Christians might have a point!”
“St Nicholas?” Santa raised an eyebrow. “My name is Santa! It’s my surname!”
“What’s your first name?”
“Nick.”
“Well there you go then! You are a Saint!”
“I’m a CBE actually. 1972. The Queen awarded me that for my services to gift delivery. You don’t see Amazon getting a CBE do you?” “That’s because they’re American,” Benjamin remarked. “The Queen always does the right thing,”
Wilson poured a pint of steaming hot custard over the Winter Festival pudding.
“Yes, but I’m a bit disappointed she hasn’t upgraded me to a Knighthood. That joker Cliff Richard has got one and he’s only been turning up in the festive season for the last forty years. Plus, his songs are shit.”
“Oh this is getting really silly now,” Benjamin clasped his forehead. “It is Master Benjamin,” agreed Wilson. “You weren’t even here when Santa originally walked in at the end of the non award winning ‘The Carnival’ so how you have materialised here subsequently is quite beyond me. Although, at my age, I might be remembering things incorrectly. And where has the Chicken gone?”
“He would do best to keep a low profile around this time of year,” Santa said prior to digging into his pudding.
“So then,” Wilson sat opposite Santa at the kitchen table. “What happened?”
“All the Elves went down with Swine flu,” explained Santa between mouthfuls. “Lazy workshy midgets! They tried getting out of helping me a few years back claiming they had Bird flu. I reckon they’ve done a bunk and just fancied some Christ…I mean some Winter Festival piss up!”
“Well, whatever I can do to help!”
“We’ve got a big order,” Santa shrugged. “Although with Internet shopping the orders are not as much as they once were. I used to receive a deluge of mail in early December. Now I just get a few e-mails.”
“Ah the Internet,” Wilson shook his head sadly. “It is so impersonal and is quickly eroding tradition. What does it give us?” “Quick access to porn?” suggested Benjamin.
“I’m just glad all our fans are reading this having popped out to their local book store and bought a good hardback copy so that they’re currently thumbing their way through the pages as we speak.”
“Well despite the increase of present orders being made via the Internet, I still have a few to deliver myself,” Santa polished off the pudding.
“I am sure we can help,” nodded Wilson. “It cannot be as bad as that year we had to deliver all those Teletubbies dolls.”
“That was a tough campaign,” admitted Santa. “Lala and bleeding Poe. That Jeffrey Archer is a bastard.”
“You never said a truer word,” Master Benjamin nodded.

 Two weeks later at lunchtime on the 24th December, Santa showed up at the Bunt residence. Wilson was cooking a full roast for the Winter Festival party they were holding. Everybody had been invited. Skag had been released from prison for the period, the Chicken had come out of his safehouse, Brother Julius the monastery and Detective Inspector Banks had taken some well earned time off from saving the world to carve the turkey.  
 “Very nice!” the Chicken tucked into his slice of meat. 
 “I thought they were closely related to you?” Benjamin asked as he placed a red paper crown over his dreadlocks.  
 “Can they talk? I don’t think so!” 
 “Hey Chicken,” Banks cried as he stuck a fork through a pig in a blanket. “You did a fine job turning on the lights in Oxford Street.”      

“It would have been more fun if that awful Christopher Biggins fellow hadn’t been there,” the Chicken rolled his eyes. “Stupid cross dresser. And as for that X Factor contestant, don’t get me started! I was the only Marquee name on show.”
“But that last film you supposedly starred in was CGI!” protested Benjamin.
“Hey! ‘Chicken Run II – Return of the Cock’ was a masterpiece. I was the voice artist for the title role.”
“You do surprise me.”
“I bet you’re glad you are here,” Banks remarked to Skag who was busy sniffing on a spent party popper. “The Prison board really didn’t want to let you out.”
“Ironic really,” Wilson brought an unwelcome bowl of brussels sprouts to the table. “Given that they usually let him out at the drop of a hat.”
“It is certainly better than getting molested in the showers,” admitted
Skag. “Although many of the wardens are having the festive season off.” Wilson began doing some stretches by the pantry as everybody else wolfed down their meals.
“So then Santa!” he began. “Shall we set off?”
“Not yet,” Santa drank his fourth glass of sherry. “Best not to be too keen otherwise they get complacent.”
“But I’ve seen the list!” Wilson began his press ups. “It’s got lots of far flung addresses on it.”
“And I’ve got some last minute shopping to do!” Benjamin then nodded in Wilson’s direction.
“Don’t worry sir, I took the liberty of buying my usual presents from you of boot polish, a black tie and Brut aftershave. They have been wrapped and placed under the tree in the front room. I just need you to sign the tags.”
“You sorted me out as well Wilson?” Skag raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Wilson replied in a distasteful tone. “I have procured the ounce of heroin from a rather dubious character I met in Elephant and Castle. I really resent doing Winter Festival shopping at gun point.” “Beats queuing in Harrods,” Banks rolled his eyes. “Although doing it at gun point sped proceedings up somewhat.”
“Well anyway,” Wilson began his sit ups. “Santa, we must get going soon.”
“Oh sod it!” Santa poured the gravy over his turkey leg. “Every year I
slave over those greedy bastards. I want to take it easy.”
“It looks like you take it fairly easy the rest of the year,” the Chicken pointed out.
“I always prefer chicken to turkey for Christmas dinner,” smirked Brother Julius.
“Brother Julius,” panted Wilson as he placed a dumb bell over his feet. “Will you refrain from using such rhetoric? This time of year is not exclusive to Christians.”
“How many places do we have to visit?” asked Detective Inspector Banks checking the bullets in his revolver.
“About fifty,” Santa explained.
“Only fifty?” cried Benjamin.
“Yes,” nodded Santa as he shovelled three roast potatoes down his throat. “I have started forwarding on some orders to various Internet delivery companies thus taking care of the majority. But I have to deliver a few in person just to keep the pretence up. Apparently, it maintains the illusion!”
“The magic of Christmas,” sighed Benjamin.
“Er sir…”
“Okay Wilson! The Winter Festival!”
“Let’s do it!” Banks placed his gun in his coat pocket.
“Exactly why are you coming?” asked Benjamin of Banks. “You never know what might happen and I have today off as holiday,” nodded Banks. “Despite that, I have to keep my eye in.” “Are you expecting to shoot some poor unsuspecting children gathering around their chimneys?”
“Not really no. I just like to have it around for insurance purposes because you never know what might happen. There are plenty of people out there who might try stopping Santa deliver his bounty!”
“Such as who?” asked Benjamin. “The Grinch, the Ghost of Christmas…”
Wilson coughed loudly.
“The Ghost of Winter Festival past,” Benjamin hurriedly corrected himself. “And of course you never know when Satan might suddenly pop up and cause all kinds of fun and games.”
“Oh not Satan again!” cried the Chicken. “Won’t that guy just concede defeat and go away?”
“He’s quite a stubborn so and so,” admitted Wilson.
“First he had sex with Brother Julius and then he tried destroying the
Western world…”
The entire group froze but for Brother Julius who simply reddened. “He did what with Brother Julius?” asked Benjamin with a prominently raised eyebrow.
“He had sex with him.”
They all turned to Brother Julius in surprise.
“I was virtually unconscious!” Brother Julius angrily tried to defend himself. “I didn’t know what I was doing!”
“Oh yes you did,” Santa laughed. “Very much so.” Everybody now turned to the fat man in the red costume.
“Excuse me?” Benjamin frowned.
“Or so I heard.”
“A monk having sex with the anti-Christ,” Wilson shook his head
despondently. “This is why I’m an atheist.”
“Really?” Benjamin cried. “You’re an atheist Wilson?”
“Yes Master Benjamin I am,” he arose from the floor to produce a skipping rope from his pocket and begin skipping. “Although this is not a subject I feel comfortable talking about with my Master.”
“I don’t see why Wilson,” Benjamin shrugged. “I am an atheist.” “Same here,” nodded Banks.
“And me,” Brother Julius raised a hand in the air.
“I am a staunch Christian,” asserted Skag. “And I was offended
nobody said grace before we started our meal.”
“You’re a Christian?” Benjamin half laughed. There was another silence.
“How do you think he got released for the festive season?” Banks shrugged.
“Anyway,” Santa said before belching loudly. “It would be good to have Banks around. In fact, I insist on him coming along. I remember back in 1999 when I went down that chimney and they didn’t have the mince pies and sherry waiting for me. Banks went and set the house on fire. That’ll teach them to be tight wads.”
“Let’s be on our way!” Wilson cried. “I have to make dinner tomorrow for everybody. Plus, I have to fill Master Benjamin’s stocking!”
“Don’t I get one?” the Chicken welled up.
“Of course you do,” nodded Wilson. “But filling a stocking with corn is rather more simple and quicker to do.”
Soon enough they were on the back of the sleigh and the six reindeer led it off into the sky as snow began falling on London.
“Where are we off to first?” Wilson inquired as he sat next to Santa at the front of the carriage.
“Chicago!” shouted Santa. “There’s a little boy there who wants a toy train set!”
“Are you sure Santa?” asked Benjamin. “Most kids these days want more complex gear than that?”
“It’s nice to get some fresh air,” Benjamin said through chattering teeth before pulling a blanket over himself on the back seat.
“I am glad of the break,” Banks added. “I’ve been having these horrible visions. Ghosts keep appearing to me at night. I had one going on about my past last night.”
“Really?” Benjamin raised an eyebrow. “What did it do?”
“He entered my bedroom rattling his chains which made the wife very grouchy as she needs her eight hours. He moaned on about what I had done in my life so we went downstairs so not to disturb the wife and talked it out over a glass of sherry.”
“Then what happened?”
“He told me I had sinned and that I should regret how I spent previous Winter Festivals.”
“How did you spend them?”
“In 2004 I shot dead that rabid Corgi that was about to bite the
Queen.”
“Well that’s quite admirable.”
“In 2015 I filled Selfridges with tear gas. I had to empty the place as
Mrs Banks loves her Chanel No 5. The queues were ridiculous.”
“Understandable I suppose.”
“And last year I shot the winner of X Factor through the throat. It was a tactical shot so he only lost his voice.”
“Temporarily?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s a service to society.”
“I know, but the Ghost disagreed. He was really sanctimonious.”
“So what did you do?”
“I shot him obviously.”
“Oh Banks!”
“He was getting on my nerves. Special Branch will dispose of his body.”
The wintry conditions worsened as the sleigh crossed over the
Atlantic.
“Here Master Benjamin,” Wilson turned around and gave him his overcoat.
“Put that on as well.”
But Benjamin was still shivering frantically ten minutes later so that Wilson removed his scarf and jacket to give to him.
Very soon they reached land so that Santa tugged on the reins and they took a sharp right. About half an hour later they descended through the clouds and into the snow laden Chicago night.
Wilson, now wearing only his vest, boxer shorts and socks, climbed over Detective Inspector Banks and into the back of the sleigh where there sat several sacks, all bulging with presents.
“It’s the large box wrapped in red paper in the first sack!” cried Santa as they rapidly got closer to the ground. “Be a good chap and just hop down the chimney when I give you the nod as to which one it is!”
“Okay!” cried Wilson who perched himself on the side of the sleigh, all ready to jump.
Finally Santa tugged on the reins and they came to a sudden halt, hovering over a house, on the top of which was a brick chimney pouring out a thick trail of dark grey smoke.
“There you go!” Santa cheerfully cried.
“But there are people in and they have a fire going!” Banks pointed out.
“Occupational hazard!” Santa shrugged.
“I had better go,” announced a dubious sounding Wilson prior to readying himself to jump down the chimney which was only a few yards beneath them.
“No!” Banks arose from his seat and removed the revolver from his holster. “I’ll go. Give me the pressie.”
They watched in amazement as he disappeared through the cloud of smoke and down the chimney. A huge shower of soot billowed up from below thus provoking heavy coughing amongst them all apart from Santa who tugged on the reins so that the sleigh began moving again.
“Why are you going?” cried Wilson, hanging onto the side of the
sleigh. “You’re leaving Banks behind.”
“He’s a goner,” Santa shrugged again. “I know the signs. If he hasn’t broken his neck he would have probably been incinerated. Very sad but, as I said, occupational hazard. Why do you think the elves don’t like doing it?”
“But surely we should check?” reasoned Wilson as they shot up into the nights sky.
“We’ve got presents to deliver!” insisted Santa. “Next stop New
Zealand and I recommend we take a short cut via the North pole.”
“Wouldn’t it be better and quicker to head South and across the
Pacific?”
“Oh no!” Santa shook his head. “Not on a night like this. The Pacific will be jam packed with aeroplanes.”
“But you fly at a lower altitude than them!” protested Benjamin between his chattering teeth.
“Eh…” Santa paused for a moment before adding. “Jam packed with hot air balloons?”
“What? That’s preposterous!”
“Helicopters!?”
“On Christ…” Benjamin corrected himself after receiving a stern look from Wilson who had managed to take the seat next to him. “I mean on
Winter Festival Eve?”
“Low flying gliders…eh…” Santa cracked his whip so that the reindeer all whimpered before gathering pace. “Aha! I have it. The Pacific
sky will be full of fireworks! We’ll get picked off!”
Very soon the temperature fell dramatically so that Benjamin was in no mood to debate the best route, simply diving beneath the blanket for any extra warmth it might give him. Meanwhile Wilson, ice forming on the tips of his nose and ears, produced a flask of piping hot tomato soup for his master to drink.
“Has the cold made you fall into an unconscious state?” inquired Santa as he turned round to check on the progress of his passengers. He was disappointed to see Benjamin being revived by the soup thanks to the virtually naked Wilson.
Swearing to himself, Santa cracked the whip and tugged on the reins so that the sleigh was sent upside down.
As he was strapped in, he remained in his seat but Wilson, Benjamin and the sacks of presents dropped out of the sleigh to plummet to their deaths before the sleigh was straightened up.
As Master Benjamin and Wilson dropped towards the North Pole, the latter snatched the overcoat on his dear master and pulled a cord flailing in the harsh wind. Grabbing hold of him, a parachute shot up from the coat so that they sank to the snowy ground rather casually.
“Your overcoat contained a parachute?” remarked Benjamin. “Always be prepared Master Benjamin,” Wilson told him as they hit the snow. “We are close to Santa’s grotto. Let’s go and investigate.”
Sure enough they trudged through the knee high snow for half an hour prior to reaching the Grotto which was a little house lit up with rather cheap fairy lights.
Wilson barged the door down thus revealing a bound and gagged Santa on the floor by the fire. He quickly released him.
“Thank you Wilson!” the real Santa gasped. “I was kidnapped and
taken prisoner after that visit several weeks ago!”
“As I suspected!” Wilson proclaimed. “Therefore proving that Satan is not an anagram of Santa for no reason. The anti-Christ has fooled us all thus meaning Detective Inspector Banks might have been burned alive and we were nearly killed.”
“He took the reindeer!” the real Santa shouted.
“He did indeed!” Wilson smiled. “But he won’t escape.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have a spare sleigh and set of reindeers. Am I mistaken?”
“No,” Santa arose.
“Then let’s take them and pursue Satan!”
“What the heck is going on?” Benjamin cried. “This is getting ridiculous!”
“Come on sir, we have a job to do!”
There was an air of disappointment when they went into the barn to discover that all the reindeer apart from Rudolph had died from cold.
“Oh no!” Santa cried. “This happened in ‘69 when I got too drunk on
sherry and forgot to switch on the central heating in here!”
Rudolph ran up to his master, his nose having turned blue. Two minutes later the real Santa, Wilson and Benjamin sat on a sleigh being led into the sky by a rather wheezy Rudolph.
“We’ll catch him!” Santa declared. “I will teach him to try doing my job for me!”
Suddenly Rudolph failed under the strain of the weight of the sleigh so that it plummeted through the air and into the snow.
“Oh dear,” Wilson shook the snow off Master Benjamin. “It would appear the sleigh is too heavy.”
“Get rid of the sacks!” Santa insisted so that Wilson began off loading them.
“Come on then boy!” Santa tried cajoling Rudolph but, however much he tried, he couldn’t pull them forwards let alone get air bound. “Do we really need this?” Wilson held an anvil in the air.
“No, you can dump that.”
But still Rudolph struggled.
“Or this?” Wilson produced a kitchen sink.
It was dumped in the snow but Rudolph was still unsuccessful.
“Still too heavy!”
“Or this?” Wilson held a feather in the air.
“No, you can get rid of that!”
Suddenly Rudolph began galloping forwards thus taking the sleigh along with him before they shot into the sky and over the polar ice caps.
“Head towards London!” insisted Wilson. “Zone Two. I suspect he will be heading there to wipe out the rest of our group.”
And sure enough Satan was flying over the North Sea with his sights set on London and killing the rest of the gang who had so upset his plans in that previous novel ‘The Carnival’. Still dressed as Santa, he continued to whip the reindeer to get more pace from them as they went over the Scottish Highlands.
“This means there are lots of kids lacking presents this Winter Festival,” Wilson told Santa.
“Oh fuck ‘em,” he replied. “Spoilt little brats could do without them.
It’s a character building exercise.”
“Glad to see that, despite recent events, you have retained your good cheer.”
The impostor Santa tugged on the reins so that the deer descended to the snow laden ground of the street in Maida Vale. Santa reached into one of his sacks and produced a machine gun. He marched up to the front door of the Bunt residence and rather politely rang the bell.
“Oh no you don’t,” came a familiar voice behind him, joined by the barrel of a revolver being pressed into his spine.
“How did you get here?” Satan lowered the machine gun. “In fact, how did you escape from the chimney! You should have been burned alive, especially as I placed a pot full of boiling oil at the bottom of it.”
“I suspected it was a trap as your beard is suspiciously fake,” Banks turned Satan around. “Therefore I jumped down onto the roof before throwing up a bag of soot I just so happened to have in my pocket. All quite textbook really.”
A scream echoed around the street as Banks tugged on Satan’s white beard.
“It’s my own beard dyed white!” a tear rolled down Satan’s cheek.
“Oops,” Banks blushed. “Well anyway, quite a few things did not add
up such as you seeming a tad less hefty than the real Santa.”
“I spent hours working on this disguise!”
“Really?” Banks lifted up the top half of his tunic and pulled out a cushion which he tossed to the floor. “It’s pathetic! At least you might have bought yourself a fat suit!”
“What else made you suspicious?” asked Satan.
“Santa never uses a whip to drive his sleigh. He cares for the reindeer too much. And you never addressed any of them personally, either telling them off or encouraging them. The real Santa would do that.”
“Very clever Detective Inspector Banks,” Satan smiled. “But you haven’t been as smart as you think! Your little friends are lost or even dead in the North Pole.”
At that precise moment, much to the amazement of the neighbours, another sleigh landed in the street. Wilson and Benjamin leapt from it whilst the real Santa fed Rudolph a parsnip.
“Satan!” cried Wilson. “Your evil plot has been foiled.”
“Well, it was worth a try!” he shrugged as Banks led him at gunpoint down the steps from the Bunt residence.
“Where are you taking him Detective Inspector?” Wilson inquired.
“To the canal. One bullet, I fill his pockets with bricks and nobody will ever know.”
“Detective Inspector!” protested Wilson. “You cannot do that! He must be tried in a court of law!”
“You are talking about a man who can turn into a serpent and hypnotise people. Do you think that any prison in the land could contain him?”
“You cannot kill him! It’s Christm…oh damn it all…even I’m doing it now! It’s Winter Festival!”
“Oh come on Wilson!” Banks cried. “Let me just put a bullet in his back and put an end to all of this.”
“It’s not the British way,” Wilson shook his head. “He must face a court of law, be sentenced to life and then be able to hypnotise one of his prison guards prior to escaping by transforming into a dragon. That’s the
British way.”
“Oh, okay Wilson,” Banks sighed before pulling out his mobile phone.
Within minutes the Special Branch had arrived to take Satan away in an armoured van along with a fleet of cars. It won’t come as a massive surprise to the dear and valued reader that Satan had escaped them within hours by turning into an anaconda and eating three of the guards.
Meanwhile in the Bunt residence they held an almighty Winter Festival party with plenty of sherry, mince pies and crack in the case of Skag.
The following day Wilson served up a succulent roast duck for everybody.
“Oh I am looking forward to this,” a weary eyed Banks remarked.
“The Ghost of Winter Festival Present turned up last night.” “Oh and what did he have to say?” Benjamin asked.
“He told me off for not spending enough Winter Festivals with my family.”
“Oh, Detective Inspector!” Wilson shook his head sadly as he pulled a cracker with Skag who was delighted to discover a little of bag of heroin inside. “Which reminds me…why haven’t you returned to have dinner with them today?”
“Oh bollocks!” Banks slammed his fist against the dining table. “I won’t hear the end of this.”
“I love the Winter Festival!” exclaimed the Chicken as he tucked into the duck.
“And yet again!” began Master Benjamin. “We catch you eating another bird?”
“All they do is quack!” the Chicken reasoned. “They are the equivalent of apes to you humans.”
“Yes,” replied Benjamin sarcastically. “Because every day our diet consists of roast chimp.”
“I don’t like your tone,” remarked the Chicken. “I am going to ensure you only get a cameo role in the next novel. Meanwhile my name will be above the book title.”
“Please stop arguing!” Santa raised a glass of sherry, picking himself up after having to bury Rudolph in the back garden because his dear old friend had suffered a particularly fatal asthma attack the night before. “Let there be peace and goodwill to all men and chickens.”
“Are we having chicken on Boxing Day?” asked Brother Julius raising a glass in the air.
“No Brother Julius,” Wilson shook his head. “As you perfectly well know we are having ham.”
“Anyway, I must go,” Banks arose. “To return to my family and make my famous Winter Festival stuffing.”
“There’s a stocking full of gifts for you and your family,” Wilson indicated the fireplace. “Have a wonderful Winter Festival my dear Detective Inspector!”
“Thanks,” Banks picked up the stocking and headed to the door. “And Merry Winter Festival to you all.”
He went out onto the snowy street in Maida Vale and headed left, figuring he would have to jog to his house by the Thames.
Suddenly a ghostly presence appeared before him.
“I am the Ghost of Winter Festival Present…”
“Oh for crying out loud…”
A shot echoed out across the street before Banks stepped over the dead apparition and returned home for a good stuffing.

             Merry Winter Festival