A Sort of Father Christmas

I moved from my job in Shetland, to Italy, with my wife, a daughter of five and a son of three in 1998. Not much difference between the two really; a little bit more sunshine, a few less windy days, a few more trees – and a lot less sheep! I loved my time in Shetland. It was a big leap, having not even seen the place I was going to be working in, until the plane touched down in Bari. I had one weekend and a single day at work with the person I was replacing. I was on my own for four months before my family moved out, with my knowledge of Italy consisting of two holidays and the most basic “una pizza per favore”. This was the rural south, “il mezzogiorno” (half-day) in a town of 26,000 far removed from the slick holiday adverts of the “cultured north”.

Let’s roll on a few years. Both children were in Italian state schools and my grasp of Italian, fortunately, was vastly improved. It had to be. I was working and living amongst many who couldn’t speak English and there were adventures a plenty. One day I was in the workshop with the twenty regular Italians, although my job also entailed frequent contact with many more. Suddenly, they slowly formed a standing semi-circle as the bay manager sat on a chair in the middle. This had to be big. By now all conversations were in Italian. He leant forward.

'Lorenzo, you know Babbo Natale?'
‘Uhm,’ I was thinking, ‘should I?’ 'Personally?' I asked. That caused confusion.
'Babbo Natale. How er do you say, Father Christmas.'
'Haven’t spoken to him for a while.' Luckily they knew my sense of humour. Not a twitch of any mouth or the raise of any eyebrow. This had to be really big.
'We want you to be Babbo Natale.'
'Uhm, er Ok.'
'Just like that?'
'Yes.'

The cheers would have put Serie A supporters to shame. I thought for a moment that there was going to be popping of prosecco corks. It transpired that I had volunteered to be Babbo Natale for the base’s Christmas party, the biggest and most prestigious event of the year.

Next came what Babbo Natale had to say. I’d done quite a lot of acting. There are only three words, well, one word spoken three times.

The bay manager and his chosen specialists began the next day.

'Ho-ho-ho.' Said with gusto. The “H” in Italian is always silent.
'No Lorenzo, o-o-o.’ (Pronounced a bit like the ho in hob.)
'O-o-o.'
'Louder.'
'O-O-O.'
'Sounds like you are in pain.'
'o-o-o.'
'Now you sound French.'

Three days of despair before the moment of joy. One month passed. I had the outfit, the tickly beard and the oversized boots. My daughter told our friends downstairs that Father Christmas was visiting our flat almost every day and was rewarded with a sympathetic pat on the head.
I had been chosen, apparently, because my Italian was good enough to cope with several hundred Italian children but the accent meant that I clearly wasn’t local and so much more believable. Babbo Natale arrives in a sleigh, doesn’t he and Italian hangars don’t have chimneys?

Four days to go.

'You do know Babbo Natale will be arriving in the back of a Tornado bomber, don’t you?'
'I do now!'

The plan sounded easy. Hangar doors shut. Tornado bomber in place. Engines on, revved up to sound like the plane is landing and the commentator inside the hangar giving it maxi excitement. The engines wind down, the cockpit is opened at the same time as the hangar doors and the adoring throng see Babbo Natale climb down with his sack. It’s game on and all is well.

Tornado bomber aircrew are lean, mean fighting machines, fitter than most of us can imagine and most definitely slimmer than me with two enormous cushions held in place with Velcro straps. Part of the tradition is also throwing sweets for the children, hence pockets stuffed full with about four kilos. I defy anyone to do it gracefully. My stomach, fortunately, did not become detached but there was a distinct sideways slew that looked in need of an immediate, life-saving operation. Step two, the wave, followed by a steady, Father Christmas swagger down the gantry. We are talking 3 metres high here and the next problem. The cushions meant I couldn’t see my feet and the boots were not the ones I normally wore. They had no grip. Unsteady, sack flailing and swaying I somehow made it. Probably some of the parents were cringing inwardly at the thought of Babbo Natale having had one too many grappa’s on his journey!

The hangar doors opened ever wider. The horde of over-excited children, fuelled by expectation and far too much ice cream and cake were ready to stampede. And then it happened! Cool outside air met warm inside air. My glasses fogged in seconds and I could see absolutely nothing.

'Babbo Natale, caramelle, caramelle.' It was sweet throwing time. I’d been reliably informed to throw them far and wide so all the children had a chance to pick them up. Quite blind, I imagined a scene reminiscent of pigeons being fed. I flung the sweets in every direction in as big clumps as my mittens would allow. One salvo struck a woman nearby, who used language that Babbo Natale should never, ever hear.

It calmed down. All I had to do now was sit the children on my knee. The first one was a little girl and her present, twice her size, was deposited next to me. It’s an Italian thing. She screamed, the mother looked like I was committing murder. The father told his daughter that I was nice and the parents started arguing.
Shakespeare was in the crowd. All’s well that ends well, and fortunately the rest of the evening did.