If you have young children looking over your shoulder, or still believe in Santa Claus, close the screen. Please.
A few taxi owners and drivers populate my family tree and one told an early Christmas story that has warmed the cockles of my hardened heart.
The taxi driver passed a pub where a Christmas party was behind held, and Santa hailed him down. He was dressed in full red and white kit and accessorised in kind with a fluffy white beard. This Santa was regulation size XL without the need for padding under his belt (and, if I may be crude, the person telling the story said he almost needed to coat Santa in grease to push him in the door, such was the grandness of his figure).
Santa jumped in the taxi, lamented that his workmates had wives and were going home to make sweaty, alcohol-breathed love to them, and he was feeling left out.
“Take me to the brothel!” Santa declared.
And to the brothel he was taken.
Somewhere in a suburban business where money is exchanged for time and make-believe intimacy, a woman with sore legs and worn girl bits was probably looking forward to knocking off and laying her head on her own pillow. But, she’d better not laugh and better not cry due to her last job of the night, because Santa was coming to her town.
If I ever hear anyone denigrate the role of prostitutes in society, I’m going to tell this little story about a big man in red.
Crank-o-meter: working in the pub(l)ic service doesn’t seem so tough