MANPOWERED

Auckland Star, Volume LXXIV, Issue 304, 23 December 1943, Page 4

MANPOWERED

SORROWS OF SANTA THE "SPIRIT" OF CHRISTMAS (By FRANK BRUNO) J "This," said Santa Claus, raising a 7d "jar" of ale to his quivering lips, "is the stuff. And again, Claude. Have another, laddie, to the spirit of Christmas, curse it!" Santa Claus punished another handle severely, by a frontal attack. He said: "Ah!" and looked satisfied. "I needed that," said Santa Claus. "Thank God for a place where juveniles are barred by'law—a wise measure," approved Santa Claus, "to which 1, as a taxpaying citizen—or at least a citizen—pledge my staunch support. And another, Claude!" he cried to the barman. "All this ado—" I queried- tactfully, "this Western Desert thirst?" Santa Claus put down his handle after a vain attempt to lick the inside of it. "Kids!" he snarled. "Last week, happijy seagulling on the waterfront, the Manpower found me. I got a choice between Westfield, the Turniptop Jam Co., Ltd.. and a position as Santa Claus in a city store. Madly, as I see it now, I reached out for the red habiliments, the flowing beard. And off on parade I went. "You remember that old song we used to sing in Maadi, 'There was rum, rum, swags of rum, in the quartermaster's store.' Well, there were kids, kids, piles of kids in the store, too. They all yelled together, some shouting and some crying, some fighting and some howling for sheer cussedness—" "Now, now, compose yourself," I murmured, appalled. Santa Claus shuddered reminiscently, dragged desperately - at his recharged handle. "Have you eyer had twins hanging on to your whiskers, shrieking with fiends' laughter, while a redheaded little devil blasted a tin trumpet like the Ferry Building siren in your ear? One little girl hoofed me on the shin repeatedly for offering to bring her a great big doll—she wanted an autographed photo of Robert Taylor. A Pint of Ink "A'little boy in a football jersey from Freeman's Bay asked me to please smell a toy rose he had, and when I did. let he have about a pint of ink from a bulb hidden in it. His father didn't believe me when I told him that his lovely little boy had fallen into the pile of hardware himself; and that his black eye was something quite outside my province. The fond parent took off his coat to fight me—and when someone pinched it five seconds later I had to left hook him in sheer self-defence. "Hot!" It was like wearing a pullover and overcoat in Cairo in June! Half of my whiskers had been pulled out by a hellhound of three and a half, who ought to have been a Commando. A little boy, who said he wanted to join the children's choir, made me join him in singing 'I'm Gonna be a Sunbeam ..." A stout

woman poked me in the chest with a frying-pan handle and asked me why I wasn't in khaki . . . "Dry! I got to dreaming of the All Nations Cafe in the Wagh El Berka, where the Pilsener was always ice-cold, and the Greek owner used to advance akkers on your wrist-watch—remember that . . . however— "The things those kids wanted! One kindergarten-graduate wanted a tommy-gun and a sheath knife. A little girl wanted a doll that squeaked: 'Five rounds rapid!' Then I had to spend ten minutes getting the tennis racquet from around a freckled gangster's neck. I'd just accomplished that when the department manager rushed up to me: " 'I've been keeping my eye on you, my man,' says he, 'and if you belt a tennis racquet over the head of one of these children—our little guests—again, the cost of the damaged racquet will be stopped out of your wages!' " "Got a Great Hand" "Then, when I had nipped outside for a swift cigarette. I got chased back into the shop by the floorwalker and jammed the cigarette at the back of my ear without thinking. I caused a riot a few minutes later when I caught on fire. The manager, a fellow in the E.P.S., rushed up and started to beat out the. flames with a strawbroom. When he picked himself up and put a handkerchief to his nose the first words he said were: 'You're sacked!' I got a great hand from the little gangsters . . ." Santa Claus, the ex—, gnawed reflectively at a pig's trotter. '.'Lady Macßoth, in whiskers, that's what they need to stand up to this festive season," he said.