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Christmas cheer
Page 26
Page 27
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Tucked away in deepest Lapland, Santa is busy preparing for his annual distribution miracle.
Chris Tindall braves the cold to see how he handles the ultimate peak in demand.
It took a while to organise. Lapland PR was being particularly obstructive this year ; it seems they got their fingers burnt over a recent article in the Jehovah's Witness' Watchtower magazine and feared their client's supply chain might dry up. But the promise of a fair and balanced interview, a sack of carrots and no mention of the Reindeer Liberation Front's increasing popularity bought me an exclusive interview with possibly the most famous bearded, round-bellied man in the world.After Brian Blessed.
Northern Finland in December is cold, dark and snowy: much as it is at any other time of year, only more so. The husky dogs whisk me through the desolate countryside, illuminated overhead by the Northern Lights, while falling snow gently gathers either side of the path carved out by the sleigh on which I am perched. As I swish by there are red-breasted robins perched on frosty tree boughs, cherubic carol singers a-plenty and snowmen by the dozen — it all looks uncannily like a cheap Christmas card.
After half an hour the dogs draw up alongside a vast, RDC-sized log cabin with wooden docking bays down either side. I clamber off the sleigh and hand each husky a carrot, which is ignored, and a mince pie, which they wolf down along with a glass of sweet sherry, before collapsing into a steaming, shaggy haired heap.The dogs that is; not me.
Through the cabin's window I see a roaring log fire and a horde of elves, in smart corporate uniforms of forest green and scarlet (not unlike Eddie Stobart drivers, come to think of it) staring with steely-eyed concentration at a bank of computers. There are many more elves sitting on the floor, surrounded by wrapping paper and countless toys and games. One elf, who is standing up, appears to be simultaneously shouting into a mobile phone and wrapping up a large parcel. He could be the transport manager I think. I open the door and walk in.
"Of course, we're at our busiest at this time of year,"Father Christmas explains, shooing a gaggle of elves out of his office at the rear of the cabin. He closes the door and stares out through the glass partition at the chaotic scene before him in the warehouse. -But the truth is we are busy all year round.You don't really believe we sit around from January to November, playing 'pass the parcel',do you?"
I mutter something about the thought never entering my head, but Christmas ignores it and continues: "I banned that game when it became too hard to unwrap the parcels, and games would last for, well, most of the year. My elves are the best in their field at wrapping, you see."
But why Finland? Surely Christmas' supply chain would be better served by being based somewhere more convenient for a truly global distribution business?
"Ho, ho ho, you really know nothing about this company, do you? What is the number one priority for haulage fat cats like me?"
Cheaper than Barnsley
I suggest margins."Margins!he booms back at me, tugging his beard with excitement. "That's right. I've seen many, many companies fall by the wayside thanks to expensive overheads and fancy new technology. Turnover may be high, but it's profit that counts. Believe me, 60,000 acres of prime warehouse space in north Finnish countryside is even cheaper than Barnsley!" he chortles. In fact, truth be told, virtually every sentence is accompanied by a laugh, a chuckle or a belly laugh so it's difficult to know when he's being serious. A little like Bob Russett in that respect.
Christmas plonks himself down behind a finely crafted log desk, overflowing with toy cars, aeroplanes and Barbie dolls. He leans towards me, voice suddenly lowering in a conspiratorial manner: "There's something else. Not everyone gets what they want at Christmas. I make as many people angry as I do happy... like owning shares in Christian Salvesen. Can you imagine the problems if I was based in Northallerton, or even Wisbech? I would be inundated with people requesting refunds and exchanges in person throughout January "It's the aunties and grandparents — they're the worst. I can never work out what to get them. I usually settle on socks or aftershave; Old Spice seems to still be popular for some strange reason. Perhaps they drink it? Having tasted their sherry I can see why."
I ask if the modern economics of transport explains why he still shuns the obvious potential of planes. trains and automobiles for distribution purposes, in favour of rather more, er, traditional modes of transport.
"The reindeer? Absolutely. Among other things, I haven't yet found a telematics system that can outwit old Rudolph and his frighteningly bright red nose," he chuckles. "He's like a London cab driver, but with a worldwide geographical knowledge and no irritating chirpy Cockney banter."
Christmas sighs and absent-mindedly ruffles the head of a Jack-in-the-box on his desk. "But you're right; times are a-changing. The fuel duty alone is crippling me."
But I thought Christmas didn't use trucks to transport presents for a large percentage of the world's population? And surely Finnish diesel has to be cheaper than soaring prices in the UK?
"What are you talking about?" Christmas looks agitated. "I'm talking about the duty on the moss that the reindeer eat. It's bloody expensive I can tell you, and the reindeer don't want any old moss: only the best will do for them.They claim they work more efficiently on certain types of lichen," he rolls his eyes,"which generally means the most expensive."
Christmas has been quoted many times in CM complaining that he's not getting any younger and the dire lack of anyone else to take over the reindeer reins could spark an international crisis on a scale not seen since Oliver Cromwell banned Christmas in the 17th century, almost bringing the company to bankruptcy.
"There's a chronic skills shortage," he com plains. "The elves may be good at sourcing goods and wrapping, and they are second to none in the traffic area office. But if the sleigh broke down in the middle of the night it's muggins here who has to deal with it, single handed. I had hoped Michaelmas [Christmas's son] would have joined the business, but he's become an accountant instead. I don't blame him, he'll make more money than his old man — even selling your soul is more attractive than transport. Lord knows what'll happen when I retire."
Talking about time This disturbing thought aside, Christmas is relatively upbeat when the talk turns to the Working Time Directive.
"If you average out my hours over a twoweek period, you can understand I come well within the legislation," he explains. "I've also employed more elves —the national elf service, I call 'em, to compensate for the shorter working hours, which now takes the workforce up to three hundred thousand. However, with short days and long, long nights here, they tend to work the night shifts for extra pay. Elves are a shrewd bunch, you know."
Finally, I ask him what he would like for Christmas. "As if I haven't been asked that one before," he groans.' 'A day off would be nice. Or perhaps someone who can do a decent impersonation of me. No-one ever gets it right."
Time's now up. Father Christmas is always busy, but every December he works non-stop. I bid him farewell and make my way out of the office, dodging elves and presents being wrapped for the millions of kids in the world (assuming they've been good, of course). Back out in the cold, I spy the reindeer gathering together by the light of Rudolph's nose.! have to agree. telematics have nothing on him. •