It’s a children’s animation and story book about a burnt-out Santa Claus with a drink problem.
At Sale Waterside, this production of Raymond Briggs’ Father Christmas translates perfectly to the stage. All Santa (Marcus Henry) wants is to be at home with his cat and his dog, not lugging around toys in the freezing cold at his age. As he steps over the rooftops, goes down the chimney and flies across the moonlit sky, it’s all so bitter and thankless. No chance of retirement and he can’t let anyone clock him and his misery at work or he could lose his job. The man’s got reindeers to feed as well. Worse still, it’s the 1970s when some poor sods (Santa) still have an outside toilet.
Thankfully, in tonight’s production, it’s no longer the 70s. Here, we see a snowy skyline, Santa’s kitchen, and an attic where musician Grace Liston makes everything run smoothly, orchestrating, literally, Santa’s miserable yet magical looking Christmas Eve. Also quietly tending to this working-class northern curmudgeon is puppeteer Imogen Khan, working all the animals and shifting props.
Photo by Jason Lock
Staged by Lyric Hammersmith and Pins & Needles, the kids in the audience love the show. At one point, they all set off meowing, even when the cat isn’t there, rebelliously joining forces in silliness for a moment until a wave of shushes take over.
I attend the relaxed performance, replete with schoolchildren, so it’s easier for me and my granddaughter. She’s four and doesn’t go in much for the etiquette of polite society. On this occasion, in any given quiet moment, she wants to remind Santa not to forget her kalimba. She had found said tiny instrument unwrapped in my kitchen drawer before I had chance to hide it, and doesn’t trust that I will give it to Father Christmas, who will give it to her. The logic of this transaction doesn’t sit well with her.
During the performance, her heckled reminders garnered the attention of two boys sat in front of us, so I had a bit of a chat with them. Because I couldn’t hear them properly, I thought they said their names were Seven and Eleven. But perhaps they said Evan and Oliver?
I’m not an easy person to be around right now. Life is noisy, demanding and unforgiving and I want a bit of peace. But to the world, to Seven and Eleven, I’m this cuddly looking, rosy-cheeked Santa’s wife type, holding the coats and jumper. Orchestrating a performance, much like Briggs’s Father Christmas.
My granddaughter fires out at the end, to where Grandad has parked on the flags and wants us to hurry up and get in. Later, he does two revolutions of Sale town centre with her in the car while I rush into Greenhalgh’s, hungry.
“I’ll have two of them sandwiches, one of them things, what are they? Santa’s belly? Is it just a donut with icing on or is there something in it? Jam? She doesn’t like jam. No, don’t put it back, I’ll eat that. She can have one of those gingerbread reindeer. Thank you. And a couple of potato cakes. Well, how many do you have to buy to get two free then? Six? I’ll have six then, please.”
I eat Santa’s belly as soon as I get through the door.
Main image by Jason Lock
Raymond Briggs’ Father Christmas is at Waterside, Sale until December 27, 2025. For more information, click here.
