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One of my earliest memories (or maybe a couple of the conflated into one) is going to meet Father Christmas at a Santa Grotto. I remember the sleigh ride that took us there - I am pretty sure it really flew- and I vaguely remember Father Christmas himself (he had a white beard and a red coat so I think that must have been him) who gave me a plastic hairdressing kit (though I also remember some Play Dough entering the equation, but maybe that’s what I asked for or what I got on a different occasion). I even remember him asking me what I wanted for Christmas, but think I was too star-struck to answer. I wanted Play Dough Santa. And I still do.
Today we took Phoebe to her first Santa’s Grotto at the Westfield. It was, as you’d expect at this festive and Christian time of the year, Kung-Fu Panda themed. Shame we didn’t make it last year. They put a shrek in it. Would my daughter have similarly fanciful and conflated memories about this experience?
I found it difficult to enjoy as it had set us back £30 for the three of us to experience this and I was pretty sure that two of us weren’t going to get any presents. This was going to have to be as good as the near hour long theatrical experience of Father Christmas at the Lyric which had cost us the same.
But it wasn’t. Has Kung-Fu Panda not made enough money yet?
To be fair they were employing lots of people to be elves, Father Christmases (plural - any intelligent child could have worked out that there must be two as they whisked the kids through too quickly - I didn’t though. My wife told me) and Kung-Fu Panda sales people and these people were enthusiastic on the whole. They asked the kids what they left out for Santa on Christmas Eve. A girl correctly said “Mince pies” and I might have added “Some brandy and a carrot for Rudolph”. But not in the world of Kung Fu Panda Christmas (and I for one am not racist enough not to acknowledge the different traditions of the martial arts Chinese bear community) where Santa gets left a cookie. And the whole story that unfolded was about some cartoon characters that I am unaware of trying to get some cookies to Santa (I think). We were asked about cookies and whether we could smell them. I assumed we were all going to get a cookie at the end. I mean, it would be cruel to make kids think Santa got cookies, make them think about cookies and then not give them (and their parents who have paid the same for the experience) a cookie.
We didn’t get a whiff of a cookie.
Actually we got a whiff of one. That’s what made it worse.
I found the whole thing a bit underwhelming and not as magical as that Christmas in some Yorkshire department store in the early 1970s. The kids got to play a Kung Fu Panda game on iPads as they waited for the “ride”. Then we got on to a sleigh that smelled a bit of wee (though confusingly it was cat wee) and watched a video of the sleigh flying up to Santa’s grotto. The sleigh itself didn’t move (as I am sure the 1970s one did) and Phoebe was more interested in watching the grown woman pretending to be an elf, pretending to hold on tight to the sleigh less she be tossed off.
To be fair, given the amount I had paid, being tossed off with an elf was the least I was expecting.
Then into another waiting arena, with more iPads to occupy the kids whilst they waited their turn. Phoebe was last of the three groups and got to design several Kung Fu Panda cards, including one for a Snowy Hanukkah. She is open to diversity. As long as a Panda is involved.
Finally we went in to Santa’s grotto and the fat cunt had clearly scoffed all the cookies as there were none for us. Phoebe, who has seen Father Christmas in the above mentioned play and always smiles and points when she sees a picture, took an immediate dislike to this Santa. He was quite downbeat and unjolly, and we were there pretty early so it wasn’t like he’d got bored after only five other groups of kids (and his brother Santa had done two or three of those). But he gave Phoebe a present (not me though, even though I had paid the same as her - I should have caused a fuss) and insisted we get a photo taken with him. We had to do a few because Phoebe was squirming and screaming, terrified and suspicious of this man. I think she knew he wasn’t the real Santa at all.
I mean seriously, look at her face in this picture. Have you ever seen a more brilliant combination of fear and disbelief. What the fuck is wrong with the world? Why are you going along with this? It’s insane. And where’s my fucking cookie?
And yes. This picture also shows the four ages of Willie Rushton.
Of course the photo wasn’t included. So there was another £8 to pay over. That really took the biscuit. As well as Santa taking all the biscuits. They’re called biscuits here Kung-Fu Panda. It’s you who is the racist.
I hope she remembers none of this.
