THE COLIN CHRISTMAS SPECIAL – SANTA’S UNSCHEDULED LANDING IN ELSENHAM

IMAGE: Knelstrom Media

​By Martin Foskett / Dispatches / Knelstrom Media

​It began, as all great seasonal catastrophes do in this corner of Essex, with a sound that should not exist outside the fevered imagination of a sleep-deprived choirboy. A jangling, clattering, frostbitten racket tore through the December dark, half miracle, half malfunction, as though Christmas itself had misfiled the paperwork and arrived via the wrong entrance. Before anyone could argue about it, the village found itself staring at the unmistakable, utterly uninvited arrival of Santa Claus in full operational distress.

​What followed was Elsenham's most festive transport incident since the Great Turkey Spill of '98.

Santa fell out of the sky the way most men fall out of pubs: horizontally, noisily, and insisting they meant to do it. One minute, the Grove Hill bend sat in its customary sulk; the next, it was introduced to the business end of a sleigh travelling at a speed incompatible with dignity. The runners scraped the tarmac in a manner suggesting deep personal resentment. The rear fishtailed theatrically. A cloud of affronted snow swirled up like powdered judgment. When the sleigh finally shuddered to a halt, half on the road, half in the vague emotional region of despair, Christmas appeared to pause, glance around, and consider resigning.

The reindeer went through a complete committee meltdown.

Dasher complained about the landing angle, claiming it breached European aviation norms. Dancer muttered something about emotional damage. Prancer, glowing with unearned self-belief, arranged himself in the most photogenic stance despite there being no photographers, merely bewildered locals in mismatched dressing gowns. Vixen demanded contractual clarification, Comet drifted trance-like toward the drifting scent of Lower Street's curry offerings, and Cupid fell deeply, helplessly in love with a plastic light-up reindeer outside a bungalow that had long given up on subtlety. Donner discovered a spilt box of Quality Street and vanished into it with decisive enthusiasm. Blitzen stared at a temporary traffic light, narrowed his eyes, and declared it his enemy.

Amid this riot of antlered ineptitude, Santa attempted leadership. It failed instantly. His beard hung at a sullen angle. His hat was missing entirely, presumably taking a sabbatical. He looked like a man whose patience had not so much run out as fled the country under an assumed name.

And thus the hedge rustled. And therefore Colin emerged.

He stepped through the foliage with all the solemn inevitability of overdue council paperwork. His festive hi-vis jacket glowed under the streetlamp, the glow one associates with supernatural visitations or exceptionally determined Parking Enforcement Officers. Colin surveyed the sleigh, the reindeer, the general carnage, and the deepening frost, then fixed Santa with a stare refined through decades of dealing with villagers who cannot reverse.

It said, "You've parked like this deliberately, haven't you?"

Santa launched into a defensive monologue involving crosswinds, unsympathetic chimneys, and elvish mismanagement. Colin responded by not responding. He took the reins, reorganised the knots, disciplined the reindeer with a series of curt syllables recognisable to any creature of the British countryside, and emitted such an aura of managerial disdain that even the temporary traffic lights dimmed respectfully.

Then the clipboard appeared.

Nobody saw where it came from. Scholars will argue for decades. But there it was, a sturdy, municipal artefact of pure administrative intent. Colin scribbled something briskly, tore the sheet free, and tucked it into Santa's gloved hand. Later examination revealed the damning assessment:

"REINDEER – UNMANAGEABLE"

Underneath, a festive pawprint, applied with unnecessary force.

Word coursed through Elsenham as swiftly as gossip or discounted prosecco. Within minutes, the Women's Institute descended upon the scene like a highly trained humanitarian brigade armed with mince pies, knitted moral support, and the sort of determined politeness that can realign the cosmos. Dasher perked up. Donner rose from his Quality Street chrysalis with a deep sigh. Blitzen, briefly appeased by a well-aimed custard cream, suspended hostilities. Santa, caught between despair and relief, straightened his beard with the air of a man clawing back a shred of authority.

Colin stole a mince pie. Nobody challenged him.

Barry, answering the village's eternal call for duct-tape-based salvation, arrived with his personal toolkit: one torch, one roll of tape, and one opinion he intended to share, whether invited or not. Under his supervision, the sleigh was patched, stabilised, and sworn at until it resembled something that could be used. If not willing to fly.

The final obstacle, however, loomed at the end of Lower Street: the notorious mini roundabout and its cluster of temporary lights, which flashed red in all directions like an angry Christmas pudding. Santa braked. The reindeer froze. A hush fell.

Colin's patience surrendered.

He marched into the centre of the roundabout with the solemnity of a man shutting down a pub argument by sheer bodily presence. He glared at the lights with raw civic fury. Several witnesses insisted they heard him hiss, a sound of such condensed moral certainty that the lights flickered, sputtered, and begrudgingly turned green.

Santa seized his moment. The reins snapped taut. The sleigh surged upward in a flurry of snow and mild disbelief. A scrap of Colin's hi-vis caught the slipstream, fluttering behind like a victorious pennant.

As he ascended over the rooftops, Santa leaned out and shouted into the cold Essex air:

"Lovely place. Terrifying ferret."

Colin accepted this appraisal without blinking.

That night, once the village returned to its natural, gently shambolic equilibrium, Colin completed his final report of the season:

"HUMANS: STILL CHAOS

REINDEER: ALSO CHAOS

CHRISTMAS: POSSIBLE."

And with that, he curled up beside a biscuit and allowed Elsenham its improbable peace.

The stars glittered. The frost thickened. Somewhere in the night, the temporary traffic lights reconsidered their life choices.

And to all who've lingered with this ridiculous saga through the months, thank you. Your laughter, your comments, your encouragement have been the mulled wine of this whole enterprise: warming, sustaining, occasionally explosive. Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to you all, from me, and most importantly, from Colin, who insists he was the real star of this dispatch and will accept fan mail in the form of poultry-flavoured treats.

​#SiegeOfElsenham #uttlesford #essex #Dispatches #KnelstromMedia