North V South-Pole: Clash of The Titans

Meanwhile, the big man is busy over at the North-Pole preparing for his gifting-expedition.

It’s almost December and we’ve been bamboozled by Christmas ads since the first of November. Ads that were conceived by Advertising Creatives back in January and most probably shot in Spring/Summer, with actors sweating in sweaters trying to look cold as eco-friendly faux snow is sprinkled over them to create the idealised winter wonderlands that are ubiquitous at this time of year.

Meanwhile, the big man is busy over at the North-Pole preparing for his gifting-expedition.

Once upon a time, the big man was a lean man. He dressed in green robes to symbolise the coming of Spring in order to bring optimism to the dark winter months.

But, at some point his girth grew and he became the rotund man we’re all familiar with. And it wasn’t gluttony that lead to his weight gain; some say it was advertising. Back in the 1930s the people at Coca-Cola decided it would be a good idea to link the man to their brand. Thus, Santy was given a makeover and reimagined as a large beardy-bloke dressed in red with white fur trim.

Ho-Ho-Ho-However, that story may be advertising urban legend. But regardless of where Santy’s big-bold-red look came from, it stuck.

I was unusual as a child, I was scared of Santy. I think I was the only child who wrote to tell him not to bother coming to my house. I told him to ask Mam and Dad to get my present. I know he received my letter, as a week before the big day I found a bike hidden behind Mam and Dad’s wardrobe.

That Christmas Eve I slept soundly, and in the morning I profusely thanked the parents for my present. They insisted Santa brought it. I let them believe I thought the big man had delivered it, himself.

While I’m on the subject of Santy, let me tell you of the time I witnessed the great North-Pole-Man, collide with his South-Pole-Counterpart: Thomas Crean.

Tom Crean, the heroic Irish Antarctic explorer crashed head long into Santy on a crisp December afternoon – a veritable Clash of The Titans. It was the Christmas before Covid, and not a viral-case stirred. As this fateful day dawned, I was in the pub – decorating it for the festive season. With the decor done, I moved onto the library to write.

Once there, I became aware of a visiting writer. A biographer of Tom Crean was giving a talk to a class of school children. Interested, I sat at the back to listen in.

The kids were brim-full of pre-Christmas cheer; while the author was presentation ready. He began with a projected image displaying the savagery of the South Pole, a frozen inhospitable landscape. It was a powerful opening that set the scene for Crean’s hazardous journey ahead. As the author documented the expedition to the South Pole, a boy jumped up and raised his hand. The author was firm, “I will answer questions afterwards.” The boy sat down, compliant.

For weeks Crean travelled with all his might, battling the icy elements and ferocious frost bite. Weeks turned into months. The boy shot up again, his arm straight and straining with question. “Afterwards,” repeated the author. The lad flopped down, fidgeting with frustration. When an image of Crean’s huskies pulling a laden sled across a snowy landscape flashed upon the screen; I was struck by the similarity of it to Santy’s reindeers and his toy laden sled. So was the boy, he shot up, again, “Wait until the end,” asserted the author.

I found myself willing the end, for I wanted to know what the boy had to say. And then the final slide arrived, an image of Crean and his team: triumphant and frozen in time.

And, with this image, came that great clash of Santy V Crean, as the boy rose and asked with unerring logic, “How come he took so long to get to there? Santy can get from the North Pole to here and back in one night!” The author looked flummoxed and mumbled something.

Tom Crean was a mighty man; but dear reader, he could never beat the magic of Santy!