Writer Unblocked

The Coke Side of Christmas

Father Christmas rubbed his hands in glee. The run up to Christmas was his favourite time of year. As an Angel of the Fun Fraternity, he spent most of the year at the tourist resorts of the vast heavenly realms – in return for one month of work each December. As a terms of employment, he did not have a bad deal. Dish out fun on earth, then enjoy eleven months of idle fun himself.

However, his role came with certain conditions. He could only visit Earth during the month of December, and no taking back any goods – the heavens were decreed to be free from Earth contamination.

So he spent December fast forwarding to the same midnight half hour on 25^th December, using his time machine technology and whizzing around the world, again and again, with a cloak of invisibility (yes, such a thing really exists) around his flying sled. It took the entire month of December to perform this time travelling task; in between trips, he relaxed on December Earth in unassuming attire, savouring the Earthly delights unavailable on high.

His favourite indulgence was Coke. Not diet, not max, not any other fancy variant: just normal, full sugar coke. To him, the hours spent in coffee shops and bars (no alcohol, angels do not drink) were the best times of his life.

He rented a flat for his month’s work, paid for in cash imbued with the energy of a million angel blessings (whoever believed that money was always dirty, could not be more wrong). The reindeer hunkered down with him, resulting in a massive cleaning operation on their final day. Luckily, the cleaning angels came to assist: or rather, to do it all, as Santa frantically drank the last of his stack of coke.

“It’s that guy again,” said the supermarket checkout operator. “Coke man.” Santa rolled up with an overflowing trolley: pizzas and coke. “The diet will start in the new year,” said Santa, winking. “I only indulge in December.”

The checkout operator waited patiently for the usual punchline. “Now be good, or Santa may not come!” The checkout operator laughed. This guy really brightened the boring late shift.

Father Christmas decided that this year he should go the extra mile – or the extra time travelling sleigh ride. What could he do to brighten up people’s lives after this catastrophic covid year?

Angelic blessings were well and good, but people never knew they had been blessed. They didn’t feel it. No, material blessings were needed on Planet Earth just now.

Perhaps he should just give away money. No one could deny that the citizens of Planet Earth loved money. But it lacked imagination, like the thoughtless gift from the elderly aunt you only ever saw at weddings, the gift from someone who knew you not at all.

What would brighten Christmas morning? A brainwave attacked his brain – or his throat – as he gulped back coke. The magic manifester machine – the science of angels, put one item in, and ask for enough for the entire planet.

But first, it was time for a grand gesture. And forget about invisibility: this was covid Christmas, all the rules suspended for this one year!

Derek could not wait to get home. It was Christmas, and he was working long shifts because he needed the money. The steady stream of faces at the Macdonalds drive through window had begun to blur, and now all looked the same. Until the guy dressed up as Santa arrived. He was even in a sled pulled by reindeers. Talk about pulling out all the stops. He wondered what he was doing out at this time – surely all children’s entertainment was over hours ago?

“Hello sir!” exclaimed the white haired man, grinning as though demented. “I will have ten cans of coke! And your largest bag of fries!”

“That will be 9 pounds, sir.”

“Here is the 9 pounds. But I have a tip for you. I don’t want you to have to call anyone sir ever again. Live your dreams! Travel the world! Create the perfect life! And never look back.”

Santa handed over an envelope brimming with hundred pound notes. Derek looked in disbelief, there must be thousands there. Surely this was pretend money, Monopoly money perhaps?

“Call it your Christmas tip. Because everyone deserves a tip at Christmas!”

Derek was speechless. The man was gone before he could thank him. Slowly, he opened a can of coke and sipped it thoughtfully. It cured his dry mouth, but not his shock.

Santa was feeling reckless. Forget invisibility! “Fly!” he commanded the reindeer. And as they took off in to the sky, late night pedestrians looked up in disbelief, which turned to delight. “Well it’s 2020 after all,” shouted one man. “What do you expect!”

“Santa is real,” murmured an eight year old boy who had stopped believing the year before.

Father Christmas had finished his Christmas trips. Tomorrow, children everywhere would wake up to presents their parents did not buy, hidden among other gifts under the tree. Mum and Dad would think the unlabelled present was from someone, anyone … but not Father Christmas. The children, however, would know better.

And on Christmas morning, every house, flat, tent or other abode would awake to a six pack of Coca Cola at their door. Homeless persons everywhere also woke up to Coke next to them. All over the world, Christmas became more cheerful, and more mysterious. The media was aflame with stories of pretend and secret Santas. The Coca Cola company meanwhile wondered where these counterfeits had appeared from: they certainly had not sold that amount of Coke! Then they realised what a good Christmas advert this was for them, and decided to comment no further.

And perhaps, if you look out your window now, you will see the coke bubbles in the sky, trails of the invisible Santa’s sled above.

Have a very merry coke-fuelled Christmas! Because at this special time, only the best bubbles will do.