’Twas the week before Christmas
And all through the House,
MHAs were deciding
Just who was the biggest louse.
It was hard to decide,
The bar so lowly set,
Embarrassing behaviour
Voters will not soon forget.
OK — that’s a mite nasty, even by my allegedly curmudgeon standards, for this schmaltzy and cuddly time of the year.
So, I’ve decided to forgo a few more tempting but offensive rip-off stanzas of “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” and have, instead, taken advantage of my long-time source, Harbour Deep Throat, who has supplied me with an avalanche of Letters to Santa he managed to intercept on their way to the Fat Man’s Mansion in Northern Labrador. Mostly local, he explained, but at least one piece of correspondence from the mainland, as well, came into his possession, as you will see towards the end of this weekend’s spiritual offering.
•••
Dear Santa,
Chris here. I’ve tried to follow your lead, Santa, and have been as generous as I can possibly be. But, Santa, look where it’s gotten me. All I did was find a spot for Ms. Foote at The Rooms, a purely charitable move on my part. After all, she had been shoved out of her lucrative seat in the premier’s office. But my magnanimous nature was turned upside down, Santa. Those scumbags (Oops, Santa, some unparliamentary language there!) on the other wide of the House and in the media have made me out to be a partisan stooge. So what if I “grossly mismanaged” public money, Santa? It was for a good cause, for gawd’s sakes, for Dwight’s sakes. And remember: I also had the premier’s back, Santa, my ultimate responsibility — you know, loyal soldier that I am. Anyway, all I’m asking, Santa, is that you continue to provide me with the gall to ignore the obvious, to defy parliamentary principles and to stay in this nice rewarding job I managed to eventually obtain after I stabbed Lorraine in the back those many years ago. Thanks, Santa, for giving me, in advance of Christmas, a dose of survival-mode arrogance. And for helping me realize just what side of my bread is to be buttered.
Your truly,
Chris Mitchelmore
•••
Dear Santa,
I’d like to thank you, first of all, Santa, for doing whatever you did behind the scenes to get Christopher Mitchelmore in crap (Oops! This use of unparliamentary language is contagious, Santa). Because it allowed me to escape, up to my ears in salmon lice as I was, from the isle of legislative ignominy. In fact, for a while, I thought my gift this Christmas might be similar to that present the Corleones received in “The Godfather.” Remember that, Santa? Two fish wrapped in paper arrived at the Corleone home; a message, as the character Clemenza observes, that “Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes.” I was worried, Santa, that two salmon would show up under my tree, wrapped in copies of The Telegram, the editions containing coverage of my forced (and totally unnecessary) apology in the legislature. The delivery would have been a sign that, as my detractors might say, cruelly, that “Gerry Byrne slept while the fishes died.” But then along came Mr. Mitchelmore, not as savvy as I am, Santa, but able to distract the hounds as I hid in the bushes. I bumped into the premier there, too, Santa.
Yours truly,
Gerry Byrne
•••
Dear Santa,
What I’d like this year is another batch of Teflon to coat this premiership of mine. It has worked so far, Santa. Nothing seems to stick to my behind. Even the Byrne and Mitchelmore scandals. Some out there in observer land believe I didn’t can those two because I lacked the “ruthlessness,” as Brian Peckford said when announcing his retirement, that I didn’t have a set of you-know-whats (just think of my last name, Santa, and make it plural). But I knew I could survive, that I’m the Teflon Man in Newfoundland (and certainly not the Mannequin Man, as some dastardly commentators have described me). Of course, I had other reasons not to fire Mitchelmore, in particular. But I’ll keep them to myself for now, Santa.
Yours truly,
Dwight Ball
•••
Dear Santa,
I could ask, I suppose, for a few more doctors in the province, but really, there’s no “crisis” in that area, Santa. I don’t know what the medical association is getting on with; those were self-serving arguments, if you ask me. And all those anecdotes so many people have about the desperate search for a replacement when your family doctor retires. So much exaggeration from the little people. And, no, Santa, I’m not being super-sensitive.
Yours truly,
Dr. John Haggie
•••
Dear Santa,
It’s been a rough year, what with those left-wing, politically correct pinkos having cost me my Archie Bunker perch on “Hockey Night in Canada.” But it’s never too late for the kind of change that many of my fans desire, Santa. So, if you could, I’d like for this Christmas a professional hockey league comprised of nothing but good old Canadian boys, no foreigners whatsoever. I’d also like you to use your influence to turn the clocks back to a time when hockey players didn’t wave the wuss flag, when a concussion was treated with a couple of aspirin washed down with a half-dozen beer. And, Santa, please help elect a Conservative prime minister; this immigration thing has gotten out of hand.
As have the charges that I’m a racist.
Yours truly,
Donald S. Cherry
P.S. A shiny blue suit, emblazoned with photos of Tie Domi, Dave Schultz, Mad Dog Kelly and Brian Mulroney wouldn’t go astray.
Bob Wakeham has spent more than 40 years as a journalist in Newfoundland and Labrador. He can be reached by email at [email protected]
MORE FROM BOB WAKEHAM
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