Chris Hunter

It's cold, we’re surrounded by snow, we’re far, far to the north of Maidstone. What’s going on?

A hunt for the true spirit of Christmas, that’s what.

But I don’t mean an ethereal wishy-washy kind of quest to find peace and goodwill on the streets of England. No, this week I set out on a genuine journalistic hunt to find Father Christmas, the jolly old toy-toting saint himself.

And ladies and gentleman, I can today proudly announce – in a Kent Messenger world exclusive that will have the editors of glossy mags and tabloids around the globe shaking their heads in ho ho hopeless disbelief – I found him.

Surprisingly it turns out Santa’s not at all averse to being interviewed either.

“It’s just reporters so rarely visit me,” he says, munching a thick slice of Christmas cake during a break at his elf-staffed workshop. “People think this place is hidden away, but it’s easy to find. Just head north from Norway, turn right at the broken-down sleigh and then left at the big Christmas tree.”

Of course, there have been occasions when he’s avoided journalists on purpose.

“Well I’ve had to,” he admits, stroking his beard. “You can tell the dodgy ones a mile off; they come snooping for a bad Santa story. You know, 'Christmas cancelled’, 'Santa’s Grotty’, 'Striking workers tell Claus to elf off’.

“They think they can get a scoop on me, but I’ve seen it all before, I’ve been doing this job for thousands of years – through wars, earthquake, famines – they talk about credit crunch! Ho ho ho!” he scoffs, emitting his trademark laugh and accidentally spitting out a bit of mince pie. “I was around before they invented money, let alone financial crashes! Anyway enough of that; glass of sherry?”

Ah, the sherry; that warming fireside tipple to steady the hand for a long night behind the reins. But don’t you know, Santa, of Maidstone Police’s Safer Winter campaign against drink drivers?

He looks concerned for a second, then takes another sip. “Listen boy, when you’ve been drinking sherry for several thousand years you sort of develop the constitution for it; you get used to it,” he pats his belly and laughs, then holds up his big, toy-maker’s hand, “look how steady that is, besides I only have a little sip from each glass.”

Hmm, I suggest such reasoning might not go down well with Kent’s finest. “Saint Nick!” he exclaims. “Haven’t they got anything better to do than stop old men delivering presents to children? “And anyway it’s all done by magic. When was the last time you heard of a crash on the M20 involving a eight-reindeer sleigh?”

Well perhaps not the M20, but Headcorn aerodrome might have something to say about a large sleigh crossing their flight paths.

“No, I phone them up,” he says, suddenly surly. Oh dear, it seems the normally jolly old soul doesn’t like the line of questioning.

Sorry Santa, you won’t put Maidstone on the Bad List this year will you?

“Hmmm,” he grumbles, then cheers up with a chuckle, “no don’t worry, but I must say there have been a few occurrences to make me consider it recently. Take that bloomin’ lorry park they’re talking about for instance.”

The Kent International Gateway development planned for Bearsted? What about it Santa?

“It’s a bloomin’ concrete catastrophe! That’s exactly where I park my sleigh for a mince pie break after France. Look, you’ve got to see it from my perspective; when I fly in over Maidstone I’m looking for landmarks to guide me in. First I look for the festive lights of Shepway – I can see them from Dover – and then I swoop in over town and land by the M20 at junction 8 – it just makes sense; it’s convenient.

“And another thing – parking charges for residents!? What’s that all about? They’ll be making it illegal to park on your own roof next!”

Is that a prospect that genuinely worries him? “Don’t be silly, the roof parking’s all done with magic too!”

And with that he erupts in another rumbling ho ho ho and stomps off back to his workshop.

“Best be getting on, see you Christmas Eve.”

Now, was it a left or right turn at that broken-down sleigh?