Santa's Business Plan

It was 5.30 on Christmas Morning. Santa let out a self-satisfied belch and drained his bottle of Guinness. “Well we done it again Nigel; over for another year. Went pretty well I thought.” He rummaged on the floor of the sleigh and found a particularly toothsome half-eaten mince pie, popped it into his mouth, and reached into his ‘special sack’ for another bottle.

Nigel the Head Elf looked up from his clipboard. “Pretty well” wasn’t exactly the term he’d choose. And the use of the past-tense, as in “done” wasn’t quite justified from where he sat, faced as he was with the biggest pile of uncompleted paperwork this side of Companies House.

“No boss” he said, as a quiet rage started to bubble inside him, “It didn’t go ‘pretty well’. It was bloody chaos as per usual. It was the same fly-by-the-seat-of-your-increasingly-tight-fitting-pants as it always is.”

“Seemed ok to me,” said Santa, rummaging with his fingers deep inside his beard and producing a misplaced piece of Panettone and popping it into his mouth (reflecting as he did how you got a much better class of midnight snack down a Bath chimney).

Nigel exploded. “That’s because all you do when the going gets tough is clear off out on deliveries. You have no idea about the rest of it. You have no idea just how much you leave to me. You breeze in and out all year making random decisions and then on the big night you sod off to have all the fun. How’s this for a new company slogan: When the going gets tough the fat clear off?”

“Oooooh” chimed Santa. “Someone’s in a bit of a bait.” He could be very camp sometimes. “Are you a bit tired? Soon be January, don’t worry.” He closed one eye and peered with the other into his bottle, puzzled it seemed to be empty so soon.

“Yes. It WILL soon be January.” Nigel tried in vain to regain some composure. “ And while you lie back in your squalid grotto and work your way through the assorted gratuities left out for you by the few grateful parents we have left thanks to our increasingly appalling standards of organisation and customer-service, who is it who will be dealing with the aftermath?”

Santa’s mouth lolled open as though to reply, but Nigel wasn’t stopping. “Me! That’s bloody who. I field the calls from the suppliers about when they’ll get paid. I’m the one who has to make rash promises to the bank about when the overdraft will be reduced. I deal with the letters of complaint and try to hold on to our fast-dwindling market share. Jesus, we’ve got a bloody monopoly and still we’re losing market share. How does that happen? Then months will pass during which things will return to what we laughingly call normal and then the whole bloody circus will start again. Well I’ve had ENOUGH!”

Santa was experiencing a strange inner conflict. On the one hand he was becoming increasingly aware that this outburst wasn’t the usual Christmas Day tirade which he had been deftly deflecting for many years. This morning there was clearly an extra edge; a note of urgency which seemed to require a little more from his wide range of personnel-management skills. It was pulling him towards a greater alertness than he was used to around this time of year. A blurred vision of life without his trusty and much-exploited first lieutenant was forming in his mind and he didn’t much like it.

On the other hand the subtle and insouciant charms of a recently opened and particularly perky Amontillado seemed to have other ideas and his mind swam as he tried to decide whether this apparent management crisis was real or imagined.

“Would a likkle shhhlerry help?” He slurred, instinctively trying to buy a little time, whilst simultaneously wrestling with the ring-pull on a tin of chilli-roasted almonds.

Nigel however had reached something of a point of no return. It was now or never. He’d been with Santa for a long time. Santa had taught him all he knew in fact. But that was back then, when Santa still had the hunger, was still driven by that wide-eyed look in children’s eyes. Then they’d shared a vision: a vision of the best Christmas present delivery business in the world. They would set new standards; redefine the concept of ‘just in time’. And then one day, when Santa was ready to let go of the reigns, Nigel would take off his little green jacket and pull on the stylish, warm red suit and the cosy fur-lined boots. Maybe even a good fake beard. One day all his hard work would be rewarded.

But right now Nigel’s dream was in danger. He could see it slipping away. Times were hard and getting harder. He knew what they needed to do, and if he left it to Santa they were sunk. They needed a plan. They needed to count the beans and know where they stood. They needed to make careful decisions based on good information. They needed to re-equip. Donner was looking increasingly wobbly with every passing year, and Rudolf’s nose just couldn’t really be called red any more. More a washed out, faded pink at best. It wouldn’t light the way out of the shed, let alone across five continents. And they definitely needed a new sleigh - but buy or lease - that was the question. You’d be looking at thirty big ones at least he reckoned, and could they get the finance?

Nigel stared at Santa who was trying to dislodge an almond that had got stuck up his nose. The chilli didn’t seem to be helping. “I. Do. Not. Want. A. Sherry” Nigel fumed, “I want you to listen to me. There’s going to be some changes around here. You’re going to do this my way, or you’re going to do it alone!”

“S’funny” thought Santa. “Two Nigels. I don’t remember employing two Nigels.

“Look at this.” Nigel thrust a small, blue folded card into Santa’s hand. He opened it and tried hard to focus. A small square smiling face in glasses peaked out at him. He read the strapline: ‘A goosh forecalf ish wolf it shweight in golf’ “ Dushn’t make any sense.”

Nigel ignored him. “Now listen Boss, and listen good. I met this guy through the Elf Breakfast Network.”

“The what?”

The Elf Breakfast Network. It’s a service that puts elves all over the country in touch with useful business services.

“The whole country?” interrupted Santa.

“Yes that’s right, the whole country”, said Nigel. “It’s a national elf service”.

“Go on,” said Santa trying manfully to get the seal off a giant tin of Celebrations.

“I’ve spoken to him and I think he’s just what we need. He can help us really understand what makes this business tick. He can help us plan and manage the business. We can stop just fighting fires…”

“Fire! Fire! Where’s the fire?!” Santa exclaimed as he jerked upright, looked around, grimaced, giggled, temporarily lost consciousness and fell out of the sleigh. Nigel kicked him awake.

“We can stop just fighting fires and get a grip; see what’s coming. And if we need to borrow some money from the bank, he can help. He can present a forecast so that the bank can see we’ve got a handle on it. I thought we could even try and buy out the Tooth Fairy. Diversify into something less seasonal.”

“Sounds like a ferry goosh idea to me,” burbled Santa as he tried to force a corkscrew into the screw-top on a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon.

But Nigel wasn’t listening. He’d seen the future. And it wasn’t going to be like the past. He was taking charge. He reached for his mobile and dialled: 07710 176443.

“I know it’s 5.45 on Christmas Morning,” he said to himself, “but he does say call any time…”

Have a great Christmas and a happy, prosperous and well-planned New Year!