“Honestly,” he says in an accent which could place him
anywhere from Acton to Zimbabwe, tugging at the red jacket with the mild
resentment of someone who did not choose this outfit. “Five more minutes and
I’d have cleared the level.”
This, apparently, is Santa Claus.
Not the rotund, bearded figure of myth, but a skinny
21-year-old with messy hair, trainers and the posture of someone who grew up
hunched over a console. The beard is clipped on; the suit adds considerable
heft; the laugh is optional. The job, he insists, is real.
“People always ask why Santa isn’t old and fat,” Alfie says.
“But you try being out of shape in this job. If you think working in an Amazon
warehouse is hard on the system, wait until you have to get around the world in
about 24 hours, dropping presents as you go.”
Alfie reckons he trains hard to be in shape for his big
night, though you would not think so to look at him. He looks more like someone
who has trained his thumbs far more diligently than the rest of his body. For
364 days of the year, you would pass him by without a second glance. Which is
precisely the point – you can't be Santa for 365 days a year. It is the very
definition of a part-time job.
Alfie is vague about what he does for the rest of the year. He
volunteers that he works “in computing”, and says it in the way people do when
they don’t want to explain the rest. Later, he admits that he is very good at
getting into places he is not technically supposed to be. This has proved
useful in both his professional life and on Christmas Eve, when an increasing
number of households appear to have mistaken “secure” for “Santa-proof”. He
won’t be drawn on the issue of cyberattacks on JLR and Marks and Spencer.
“Trade secrets mate,” is his only comment.
A young person’s game
The Santa role, it turns out, is not a lifetime appointment.
In an inversion of the old slogan, the job is for Christmas, not for life. It’s
rotational.
“You can’t have a single individual doing global overnight
logistics indefinitely,” Alfie explains. “Fatigue effects, declining marginal
stamina, rising injury probability. Dad did it for years, but the system’s
changed. Weight is a disadvantage when aerodynamics and roof landings are
involved.”
Santa, like many institutions, has modernised. Each Santa
serves a fixed term, usually starting in their early twenties when reaction
times peak and knees still function. The old image persists, Alfie says,
because of branding. And what a brand! Alfie is aware that he is upholding a
centuries old tradition. “You definitely don’t want to mess up on the job.
After all, look what happened to the Prince formerly known as Andrew. And I’m
out there on my own. A misplaced yo-ho-ho and we’re all out of business.”
It is not as if the Santa business has the field all to
itself these days. “Amazon are good,” says Alfie, “but they’re not in our
league. I mean, if you’re not in, they have to leave a parcel out in the rain
or with a neighbour. We deliver to your living room exactly when we say we
will.” But he admits Amazon have come a long way in 25 years. There was talk of
them dressing their drivers as Santa around the Christmas period “but our
lawyers put a stop to copyright infringement,” interjects Fred Smith.
Fred Smith is Alfie’s father and a former Santa himself. He watches
from a nearby chair, nursing a mug of something strong and steaming. Fred does
look a bit closer to the archetypal Santa figure with his greying hair and
carrying a few extra pounds. He took over the round from his father, who in
turn took over from his father before him. Family legend has it that the
lineage can be traced all the way back to the fourth century Greek Bishop
Nicholas, or Old Nick as Fred calls him. The records suggest the line can be
traced back to the late Middle Ages, though this depends on how strictly one
defines “records”. One ancestor, known only as Old Tom Smith, appears in a
fifteenth-century parish ledger as a man who was “frequently abroad at night”,
usually carrying a sack, and always returning lighter than he left – unlike his
brother William, a noted burglar. Another is mentioned in the margins of a
monastic text, accused of “entering the nunnery uninvited, distributing items
of unclear origin, and insisting it was for morale”.
By the seventeenth century, the role had become more
formalised. A distant ancestor, Edmund Smith, is said to have standardised the
red coat “for visibility in poor winter light” and introduced the first sack,
after repeatedly losing gifts in snowdrifts. Industrialisation brought
challenges. One Victorian Santa Smith struggled with the sudden explosion in
toy variety and decided to simplify his job by giving every house an orange and
a lump of coal. This did not go down well. Lessons were learned.
The twentieth century was particularly hard on the family.
Two world wars disrupted routes, lists and morale. Fred’s grandfather was
reportedly forced to deliver presents by bicycle when the reindeer asked for danger
money. By the time Fred took over, the job had already begun to modernise.
Chimneys were shrinking, expectations were rising, and mince pies had become
increasingly experimental. Still, the principle remained the same: turn up,
don’t wake anyone, and never, under any circumstances, miss a house.
Fred takes a sip from his mug. “People think Santa’s
immortal,” he says. “He isn’t. He just keeps handing the job down.”
He pauses. “Like the crown,” he adds. “But colder.”
Getting around
These days the sleigh is no longer pulled purely by
reindeer. Not because the reindeer can’t handle it – they can – but because
scale matters.
“Reindeer are great,” Alfie says. “But capacity constraints
are a real problem.”
The modern operation uses a hybrid system: reindeer for
symbolism and short-haul rooftop work, supplemented by what Alfie describes as
“non-disclosed propulsion technology.”
“We don’t like to call it magic anymore,” he adds. “It’s bad
for investor confidence.”
The route planning is algorithmic. Time zones are exploited
ruthlessly. Sleep is not an option.
“You’re basically arbitraging time,” Alfie explains. “By
moving east, you keep buying yourself more night. The whole thing is a window
of opportunity, and demand for on-time delivery is perfectly inelastic. Every
household wants delivery by morning. No excuses.”
Fred laughs. “In my day, you just went east and hoped for
the best.”
Around the world in 24 hours
Alfie’s favourite part of the job is the flying. His least
favourite part is the living rooms.
“You see everything,” he says. “The good, the bad, the
aggressively beige.”
What makes the job worthwhile, though, is the people you
meet – or rather don’t meet if all goes to plan. “People say kids don’t believe
anymore,” Alfie says. “They absolutely do. Adults, though? Adults leave the
weirdest stuff out. Kale. Gluten-free crackers. One year someone left spirulina.”
He pauses.
“I still ate it. Sunk cost.”
Economically, Alfie says, Christmas is fascinating.
“You see inequality very clearly. Some houses are
overflowing. Others are sparse but careful. You learn quickly that value isn’t
about quantity.”
He describes one small flat where a single present sat under
a tiny tree.
“It was wrapped three times,” he says. “That’s effort. High
labour input.”
Fred nods.
“The best gifts are always like that.”
Learning on the job
Last year was Alfie’s first solo effort. Mistakes were made.
“There was a misjudged landing in Manchester,” he admits.
“Satellite dish. I took it clean off.”
He grimaces.
“Technically it was infrastructure damage. We had to compensate.
Fortunately I had a spare on the sleigh.”
There was also an incident involving a security system in
Munich, a drone in California, and what Alfie diplomatically calls “a near-miss
with an unidentified anomalous phenomenon.” It turns out he does not believe in
little green men. “They’re blue,” he adds quickly.
“But you have to learn on the job smartish,” he says. “The
margin for error is thin, and people are always trying to catch you out.”
Fred snorts.
“At least you’ve got GPS – Global Position of Santa. I
navigated by instinct and a vague sense of dread.”
Fred’s era, by all accounts, was tougher. No real-time data.
No dynamic rerouting. Just a sack, a list and an understanding that failure was
not an option.
“And we were heavier,” Fred adds. “Which was a mistake.”
Fred Claus
Fred took on the Santa role in his early-twenties and stayed
longer than was healthy.
“Of course the job was a lot harder in my day,” Fred says,
“When I did it we ate what we could, when we could. No route optimisation. No
GPS. Point the reindeer where we wanted to go and hope we would get round
without mishap.” He shakes his head. “Terrible for productivity.”
“There was pride in it,” he says. “But the workload kept
rising. More kids, more stuff, more expectations.”
Globalisation, it turns out, was not kind to Santa.
“When supply chains improved, people expected more,” Fred
says. “More variety, more precision. Try explaining inventory management to a
seven-year-old.”
He gestures toward Alfie.
“This lot have dashboards. KPIs. Recovery protocols.”
Alfie shrugs.
“Still hard. Just differently hard.”
At its core, Alfie says, Santa’s job is about expectations
management.
“The gifts matter,” he says. “But belief is the real public
good.”
Belief, he explains in language befitting an economist, is
non-rival and non-excludable. Everyone benefits when it exists, and no one
household can produce it alone.
“That’s why Santa has to be centralised,” Alfie says. “If it
were privatised, you’d get under-provision.”
Fred smiles.
“Never thought I’d hear Santa described as a natural
monopoly.”
As departure time approaches, Alfie stands, stretches and
checks his watch.
“Right,” he says. “Time to go.”
He pulls on the hat, adjusts the beard, and suddenly looks convincing.
Any last thoughts?
He considers.
“People think Christmas is a season of goodwill,” he says.
“But for many, it’s really about effort, timing, efficiency – and showing up
when it counts.”
He pauses, then adds:
“And surviving the spirulina.”
The grotto doors open. Cold air rushes in. Reindeer snort
impatiently.
Fred claps his son on the shoulder.
“Don’t forget,” he says. “Eat the mince pies. They’re baked
into the system.”
Alfie grins.
Then this year’s version of Santa Claus sets off into the
night, as he has for generations, though now with better tracking software.
Merry Christmas to you and yours.
