29: "Sexy" Mrs Claus

I don't want the first thing to think when you read this that I dislike Christmas in any way. I mean, I don't love it. I don't own any Christmas decorations - but that is mainly down to the fact that I'd have to put them up and then take them down, and I'm too lazy to do that. I'm so lazy that I tidied my lounge for the first time in about a year today and found the following things that I never knew I had:

1: A cigar. Cuban, I believe.
2: A copy of "Dead Snow" on Blu-Ray.
3: A small, neat pile of Ikea catalogues.
4: A hand-made ceramic snail.

But I do like Christmas. I enjoy giving presents to my family and friends, I enjoy Christmas dinner and I enjoy my early Christmas with my daughter (we have our present opening time on Christmas Eve, as she is under the impression that I have Santa's phone number and I text him every year). That's about it. I don't enjoy the crowds in the shops, the special menus in restaurants, the Christmas music on the radio or Egg Nog, whatever the fuck that is.

As a comedian we have the joy of performing in clubs in front of many a Christmas party during December, and I know that this is a subject of some consternation for many comics. It doesn't really bother me - this December I've had some beautiful gigs in front of Xmas party crowds that have outweighed the shoddy one that springs to mind that I hated every minute of.

I was in Putney this past Saturday at the Comedy Tree, a venue that I must have performed at around ten times this year. I like it there and had a great time this weekend, despite feeling like death and having a pain in my jaw so bad that I felt that someone was constantly hitting me in the face with a spade. Above the comedy club however is the Wahoo bar, a place that if I believed in Hell would resemble it somewhat.

At the beginning of any Saturday evening there it is full of sports fans watching the big screens and drinking quietly. At some point during the evening - I suspect at around 9.30 to 10pm - the mood of the venue changes. It becomes awash with crop-headed wannabe south London gangsters, all sovereign rings and attitude, and middle class girls from Putney, Wimbledon and Kingston who want to shock their parents by fucking one of these knuckle-scrapers to prove how terribly "urban" they are. It's a horrible sight, the air crackling with static electricity as G-Star jeans rub against Ugg Boots to the sound of Tinie Tempah.

I usually exit the gig through the fire door so I can avoid having to see how the youth of today chooses to mate, but this past weekend it was blocked and I had to step through the club to leave the building. And there, I saw three of them.

"Sexy" Mrs Claus.

You'll note my use of inverted commas around the word "sexy", because I imagine the only people who consider such an outfit sexy are the deeply deluded women that choose to wear them. Two were already hideous, one was actually quite attractive (although seeing the drinking venue and outfit she had chosen, I doubt we would have too much in common) but the costume she was wearing merely made you pity her.

As I left the bar and reached my car, I saw another two women dressed in similar garb. Then on my drive through London (taking in Chelsea and Kilburn, amongst other places) I saw dozens more. I genuinely lost count, although they may have been because a taxi driver cut me up and I was calling him a cuntbubble. A word I have genuinely never used before.

If you're not familiar with what a "Sexy" Mrs Claus outfit looks like then let me enlighten you (it's safer at this time of year than going to Primark or Ann Summers to find out for yourself):

A Santa hat, obviously. This part of the outfit is fine.
A very short red velour skirt, trimmed with white fur.
A red bra, again trimmed with fur.
If not the above two garments, then some kind of micro dress in the same vein.
Red stockings or long socks.

I hasten to add to the mix here that I was, the last time I checked, definitely a red-blooded male. I like girls. Without divulging too much of my personal predilections, I'm not adverse to girls dressing up. There's a list of outfits that I consider sexy and that I can share with you now:

Princess Leia.
Chun Li.
Nurse.
Snow White. (watch the Rammstein video)
Silk Spectre. (from Watchmen)
Empowered. (another comic book character)
Morrigan.
Felicia. (the last two both from "Darkstalkers", the video game)
Bayonetta. (Shut up, I'm a nerd)

I should really, ageing pervert that I am, applaud the decision for these hardy young ladies to expose themselves to the cruel winter air in order for us to gaze upon their bodies and be filled with Christmas cheer. But I can't. Firstly, here's a phrase I have never, EVER heard another man say:

"Phwooooar. I'd love it if she dressed up like Mrs Santa Claus."

Never.

It isn't sexy. Not in the slightest. When I worked in an office the only girl who would dress like for the Christmas party eventually left to start a career in pornography, specialising in DVDA.

(Dad, if you're reading this, that's a sexual practice. Not where you get your driving license from)

Also, when deciding what men may or may not find sexy, here's a tip. If Ann Summers sell it, it's probably not sexy.

Sorry, I just went to check the Agent Provacateur website to see if they sold anything like that. And they don't, it's just that I got distracted for a very long time indeed.

Anyway, you're probably reading this and wondering why I'm so bitter about this seemingly tedious and pointless issue. I'll tell you why.

Because once I dated a girl who thought that a relevant Christmas present for me would be dressing up in such a fashion so we could do the sex. That was it. I bought her LOADS of stuff. She bought me nothing. No video games, no DVDs, nothing. Not even a pair of socks. She bought herself some cheap lingerie and allowed me to have sex with her.

Merry Fucking Christmas, Mr Smallman.

It was during said intercourse that I really thought hard about why what she was wearing was so wrong. I mean, think about it. She is dressed up as Mrs Santa Claus. She is literally the wife of Santa Claus. I have no beef with ol' Saint Nick. I happen to like him. I like him enough to ensure that I NEVER smash the living heck out of his wife. Because I respect the man who brought me presents and that my daughter still believes in.

Also, if she is representing Mrs Claus then also consider this: If we take the modern representation of Santa Claus as starting in the 1950s at the latest (Coca Cola blah blah blah) then she needed to have been 16 then. So, 16 in 1950 makes her 76 now. And until Helen Mirren is 76 it is impossible to be 76 and sexy, man or woman, animal vegetable or mineral.

But, I hear you say: What if she's his second, third, even fourth wife? Then I put this to you: If she usually dresses like that around the North Pole then she's nothing but a money grabbing hussey. I bet when Santa is out on his rounds she's in the middle of a train-pulling orgy with the elves, and when Santa is resting she's probably constructed some kind of hoist arrangement in which to abuse the reindeer.

I know that you now think that I think about things too much, and you'd be right. But I got that outfit worn for me for Christmas once and it's scarred me forever. If you struggle to understand then let me utter the phrase used by many in Vietnam to quieten down questioning:

You weren't there man. You weren't there.

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