AS TOLD TO BC PIRES
My name is Santa Claus and every Trini done know that, just like God, Santa Claus bound to be a Trini.
I'm from North Post, up Toco side. If you check it, everywhere in the world have an address like North Post or North Coast, like how every Caribbean island have a Church Street. That address was invent to facilitate the I, Santa Claus-self.
I can’t reveal the technology because them elf and them unionised but, when I leave the North Pole, is straight North Post, Trinidad, I reaching, by some kinda elf-internets WhatsApp-something.
That is how nobody doesn’t see flying reindeer pulling sled. North Pole to North Post Trinidad, then North Post Australia, then Asia, then come back round to the Americas and then I tie everything off in You-Rope.
Of cuss I have to reach Por’Spain first! I’s a Trini!
Boy days in the North Pole didn’t eat nice at all-at all. Trini like they air-condition but that cold does blow your mind and nose same time. You doesn’t can turn it off! It come like you living your whole life in a sno-cone cup! People does talk ‘bout spinning top in mud but that more better than spinning top in ice!
But last couple years, with covid and thing, I work out a system whereby I working from home. By the beach in Toco.
I am not North Polish. I am North Post-ish. I’s a Trini.
I doesn’t really give out my pussonal files but, yes, I in a relationship.
True talk, on those long cold nights delivering presents like a FedEx of the Sky, the onliest thing that does keep me going is the dream of returning to his arms.
Of course I’m gay. The red suit, the ermine collars, the tall black boots and the oversized handbag didn’t give it away?
Too besides, is only the gays nowadays have any compassion, tolerance and kindness left. If I fire this work, I going to pass the presents bag to Elton John.
Of course I believe in God! My day job is to fly a sled pulled by reindeer through the air round the whole planet in one single night giving every child in the world presents out of a bottomless sack. If that don’t sound like God work, you at least have to admit that it don’t sound like a nine-to-five neither.
For real, if I didn’t believe in miracles, I would be out of a work.
What I doesn’t can figure out is that, all the good whereby I doing, all them Christmas whereby everybody hug-up with they gyul knocking back poncha crema, and whole night I in the cold, toting heavy crocus bag and looking for chimney in Goodwood Park – and all people want to know is how reindeer could fly.
You never see a plane in the sky? You ever axe the pilot how iron could fly? Is that you go ask a big man when you finally get him to stop and talk?
BC Pires, you come like them pothound who does chase car up and down the street. When you stop, as a driver, and tell the dog, “All right, you catch me! What you going and do now?”
And that is when they
