Categories: uncategorized
Date: 17 December 2007 22:54:10
Before I launch into Sunday's tale, there's a bit of back story that you'll need to know. Firstly, about a month ago I was walking back from cell with K (see previous post) and my housemate Chez, and we had an idea to organise a Christmas lunch for the group. Fast forward about a week or so from there, and the three of us are again walking back after an evening out, with K mentioning that she's seen a great outfit she wants to wear to the meal, when we pass the local charity shop. Chez and K notice a Father Christmas costume in the window, and suggest I should buy it to wear to the Christmas meal. I'm a bit unsure at first, but later come round to the idea and decide it would be quite hilarious. So the next day I phone the charity shop, only to be told the Santa suit is for display purposes only and not for sale. Chez and I make a few other enquiries, but eventually decide it's not going to happen. But then... I mentioned it to one of my colleagues, who tells me her son-in-law has one (just in case the kids wake up at the wrong moment...) and the next morning it's sitting there on my desk. I take it home and try it on, a perfect fit. But now I'm thinking, rather than telling Chez or K or anyone else, I'll just save it as a bit of a surprise...
Fast forward again to Saturday, when K and I are wandering around town. I mention how we've been looking forward to seeing K's amazing outfit that she'd been talking about, and she replies, "oh, but Steve, I didn't get it. It was an elf costume that I was going to get off the internet, but I didn't get round to it." At this point I let slip about my outfit, and thus the plan is hatched; the plan that then involved us running all over town all afternoon, the plan to find the few necessary items to complete K's makeshift elf outfit. Having just about cobbled together the required components, we then hatch the most audacious part of the plan yet...
Which brings us to Sunday, and my getting up and pulling on my Santa suit. But there's a slight - how can I put this? - wardrobe malfunction. The Santa trousers have a drawstring through the waist, and somehow I managed to pull it out. Oopsie. So, with five minutes to go before K was picking me up, I was frantically trying and failing to push a piece of string through a rapidly-moulting pair of trews. My only option was to pull the trousers up to Simon Cowell levels, and put a belt around the outside to masquerade their looseness. And then K arrived, and it was time for the piece de resistance.
From the lack of reactions, you would imagine the staff and shoppers in Co-Op of a Sunday morning are quite used to seeing Father Christmas and an elf strolling around. Barely an eyelid was batted. One of the shelf stackers excitedly shouted to his mate, "Look - Santa's here!" and I nodded in their direction, but otherwise there was nothing. The Big Issue seller in the doorway recognised me though, so I ho ho ho'ed him and gave him a little spare change on the way out. And as we walked back across the car park, an old man smiled to himself as we passed, and a small child of about 3 or 4 looked mesmerised until I waved at him, at which point he turned away embarrassed. Aah, bless.
The next part of the plan involved swinging back to ours to pick up Chez, and a few things that we needed to take. As the FC outfit was lacking in pockets, I had put all my change, keys and phone in my coat pocket; but since it was flipping cold and the outfit was a little threadbare, I took my coat with me into the house and left it in the spot I usually leave it in, hanging over the bannister post at the bottom of the stairs. Picked up everything, got outside, closed the door - and, yes, then realised my coat was inside and I had no keys to get us back in later. Knowing another of my housemates was at least awake, as I'd seen him wandering about the kitchen earlier, I hammered on the door for a couple of minutes until he eventually came downstairs; having been out for several drinks the night before to celebrate his birthday, he assumed the sight of Santa on the doorstep coming to nick my coat was just the after-effects of the booze.
A bit of driving-around-getting-lost-trying-to-find-the-house-we-were-going-to-which-none-of-us-had-ever-been-to-before-in-an-area-none-of-us-knew-particularly-well later, we arrived at our benevolent host's address. After setting a few things up, K and I quickly assumed door answering duties, with each new arrival getting a ho ho ho'ing as the door opened. The responses ranged from hysterics to complete lack of any reaction beyond, "alright Steve"; sadly more of them fell into the latter category than the former. Once everyone was assembled, I decided to slip out of the Father Christmas clobber; not only had the novelty worn off for me by now, but much of the material was doing the same. Bits of red and white fluff were moulting all over the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms I was wearing underneath, and in fact over most things I came into contact with. K, however, had not bought a change of clothes and thus remained committed to the cause long after I'd chickened out.
Anyway, the meal itself - top notch. Everyone had been allocated something to bring, and since a traditional turkey meal was going to be difficult to organise, we'd decided to do lasagne instead. Some of the portions could have fed a family of twelve for a year, yet we all still had room for dessert (a choice of as many as you wanted out of apple crumble, chocolate brownies and mince pies). Crackers were pulled, and subsequently crap jokes were told (Sample joke: Q. Where do fish get their petrol? A. Shell. Oh stop, my sides are splitting.) and silly paper hats were worn and those party blower things were blown (in some cases more than one at a time; I won't name and shame the individual immature enough to blow three from his mouth and one from each nostril all at the same time, but his initials are Steve).
And after the food, a bit of unwinding time starting with communal carol singing around the piano (featuring various comic falsettoes, occasional beatboxing and a brief burst of a barber shop quartet), and culminating in that old Christmas party standby, charades. Despite a repeated suggestion from our cell leader that I should attempt to enact 'Borat: Cultural Learnings Of America For Make Benefit Glorious Nation Of Kazakhstan', I somehow decided not to give that a crack. As usual, being the pub quiz smart arse, I was rather too good at guessing, and eventually decided to step back a bit and let others have a go. This worked to my advantage when, for the very last go, cell leader attempted to enact something which I got very quickly, but rather than spoiling the entertainment I called for him to enact certain parts specifically. See if you can work it out from this:
Film; four words
First word, two syllables; second syllable, mimes drinking from a cup
Second word, two syllables; second syllable, mimes drinking from a cup
Third word, mimes shooting someone
Fourth word, mimes shooting someone
Back to first word; first syllable, mimes straining to poo
Second word, first syllable, mimes straining to poo
As I'd got it around the point of the third word, I then insisted that the first syllables of the first and second words should be demonstrated. We haven't really grown up, any of us...
Eventually, it wound down, and everyone headed off home. I was utterly worn out from running around organising things so Chez kindly made me a cup of tea and then set about fixing the Santa pants (which had miraculously only falen down once while I was wearing them) with the aid of a hair grip.
Talking to my mum this evening, I've realised we both have the same reaction to the stress of being very busy organising something; at the time the adrenaline keeps us going, but when we stop to sit down we get an almighty headache and feel rough as. Perhaps because of that, by the end of Sunday I felt utterly deflated, like the whole thing had been a bit of a letdown. But thinking back over the weekend, it's been hugely enjoyable, and full of special experiences; being valued as a leader by those you're serving, helping people to worship their God freely and publicly, and of course spreading joy/bemusement to people through dressing like a pillock. Truly, God is good.