Christmas Night at Nanook's
by Jon Horne 2000

© Touch Nottingham (internet magazine and What's On guide)


     "Make way!" shouted the two elves in unison. Head-to-foot in miniature Armani, and each carrying a high-calibre wand, their squawking soprano voices cut through the sozzled hubbub like scissors through a ribbon. An irregular gangway formed, as the patrons of Nanook's Polar Bar began to shuffle back from the door.
     "Make way yourself," muttered a translucent old man with big, sad eyes and a lined, leathery face. He carried with him a chain, hundreds of links long, each link made of half-inch-thick wrought iron, some of it draped awkwardly around his body, but most of it trailing on the fairydust-covered floor. The smaller of the elves shot him a look. It was enough to make him drop his head in defeat. Shimmering with the effort, he edged back into the crowd. As he did so, he felt a bony hand on his shoulder, and heard a dank whisper in his ear.
     "Leave it Jacob, it's not worth it."
     Jacob Marley forced a half-smile. "Yeah, I know," he said ,"it's just that... well, it's the same every year. All I want is a quiet drink after work, but he comes barging in, ho-ho-ho-ing, getting served before anyone else... I tell you, he's just a bloody show-off."
     "HO! HO! HO!"
     There was a gasp of awed recognition throughout the room, and then a burst of applause. Santa Claus made his way to the bar. Like the elves, he had gone for Armani this year. A pair of Raybans were clamped to the top of his head, and his long white hair was tied back in a ponytail. The white beard - which was left bushy while he was on duty - had been trimmed into a fine-pointed goatee. Gucci loafers made satisfying crunching noises on the fairydust floor.
     "Akvavit and ice please, Nanook," he said to the barman, in his trademark boom, and that was the signal for everyone else to breathe out and get back to their conversations.
     "Come on Jacob," said the Ghost Of Christmas Yet To Come, "See if you can find a couple of seats. I'll get you a pint."
     The ghost rattled through the crowd, to the bar. As he was waiting to be served, a Christmas-tree fairy slid along the bar and knocked a drink over, splashing the front of the ghost's cowl.
     "Oi!" intoned the ghost, in a voice radiating doom.
     "Shorry darlin'," the fairy slurred, as it took off and fluttered erratically towards the ceiling.
     "Bloody fairies," the ghost muttered. Then he said, more loudly: "What about some service here?"
     "Sorry, we don't serve spirits," said the barman.
     "HO! HO! HO!" boomed Santa Claus.
     "Ha bloody ha," said the ghost. "Just give us two pints of lager, will you?"
     By the pool table, Prancer and Blitzen were locking antlers, although it was hard to tell if they were fighting or just holding each other up. Their mouths were green; next to them was a half-empty bucket of vodka and wheatgrass juice. Santa Claus gave a jolly sigh, and went over to sort them out.
     With a pint of lager in each of his skeletal hands, the Ghost Of Christmas Yet To Come stood on skeletal tiptoes and peered around the room. He spotted Marley in a corner, sitting with a young couple.
     Marley had saved him a seat.
     "Cheers," Marley said, taking a sip of his beer.
     "Sorry," said the ghost, to the couple. If I'd known you were here, I'd have bought you a drink."
     The young man shrugged. His wife smiled demurely. She was carrying a tiny baby in her arms, which couldn't have been more than a day old.
     "Ah well," Marley said, "that's it for another year. Peace and goodwill to all men and all that."
     Marley raised his glass. The ghost followed suit. The couple looked puzzled.
     Marley added: "Shalom, eh?"
     "Shalom," said the couple, in unison, and their halos beamed a little brighter.
     "Sup up," said the ghost, as another 'Ho ho ho' came booming across the room.

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