Was the weekend ‘fore Christmas
Santa’s North Pole house
Not a soul working, all man busy—resting, reflecting, toting plenty grouse.
T&T’s List was up top of Nick’s Global Tour. Santa wanted to reach before US 22nd MEU kick down Venezuela door.
PSA was snug, settled 10 per cent tight. Ham, lamb and jam in the oven. Delight! Others in labour dread and confused, wished, cried and cussed—hopes all abused.
Santa frowned at the naughty. He smirked at the nice. He considered telling em then, gifts like yellow gold, ain’t coming without a biga-- price.
Claus sipped on his rum, then heaved a big spew, “Damn increased duty! Make everything taste just like pooh! Can’t buy mih Carib, forget de Red Stripe! That @#*%^&! Alco Tax stop we getting high as a kite.”
He looked at the list, paused in great disbelief, … So much people —CEO to CEPEP—everybody wanting relief.
Christmas, Claus knew, will be different for sure. Charlotte Street tomatoes—$6 bag was $5 before. No toy guns and games kids usually call for. Now the real deal out there—soldiers “packing” full bore.
UNC royalty in fancy ball dress, happily gathering for dinner, and love fest.
US military landing, warships abound, radar in Tobago, troops on the ground.
Plus election-bound Tobago, yet to turnaround.
Claus pitied poor Gaston, unfortunate Skerrit. After speaking out, now, no more, US merit.
Strange season, Santa mused to himself. What Trinis asking for? Camouflage cargos? And some kinda … vest?
What happened, he thought, to UNC grand promise that T&T staying “out” of US/Vene comesse. Fighting down Caricom, talking Trumpanese, killing “everybody “violently! And squeezing Ralph in Victoria Keyes.
Santa bouffed his team, retooled work roster. He promised Big Things, and sought to muster.
“If you ent work hard for the people and dem, you fail, gon ! Resignation one time! Get yuh pen!”
He spread out the list on his tabletop. Pinpointed targets—south, east, central for extra big drops.
Tobago test he asked.
“That’s up to Farley to pass.”
But with the list in cost-cutting fire, he deleting all you bigtime before more Moodys and S&P ire.
Tancoo’s wishing US military pays. Worried, he says, “Ah checking debt size ‘coz 2026 deficit, go be bigger than Kamla hairstyle.
Barry’s Queen, whose “buss head” and “cuff down” put some into meltdown while others want to pound long; look for more suits with side pockets for she—wide to hold banter, big stick, and verbal artillery.
That sounding so bad, sighed Santa chewing his barra. Maybe we could just hide the derringer in she hair clip tiara.
He pondered her crew, wondered what was the best, so T&T wouldn’t be royally screwed.
Selected gifts taking his time: vitamins, dictionary, boxing gloves, “Don’t-tell-me-sit-down!” sign.
Checking Opposition currency, counting good Pennies. He hoped for more, in fact, many. Giftwise, Claus dropped some young and some seasoned, savvy, beneath, basted with reason.
Just for emergency, Claus ordered a batch, complete Standing Orders. Signed: “Catch! Lotsa Luv - House Speaker Jags.”
Santa pulled Rudolph outta the line, inspecting more closely Rude Boy this time. He realised then he coulda ended up dead.” Put SPF 300 on that nose, Dawg, it too (bleeping) red!’
Claus smoothened his mashup yellow shorts. He’d promised himself no paranging anybody’s house. With stand-your-ground law, he knew all too well, he ent singing (or touching) Spanish ‘coz Kams go make him ketch hell.
He was humming the latest seasonal jam “Persada Non Grata,” wondering how it sounds on pan.
Forget it, Claus thought, my fete days dem gone. No more, Lara Stadium, no Woodbrook venue on.
“C’mon!” he commanded, “Let’s get cracking! US MSRT go start rappelling down galvanise instead of we. Do de job before dem people retrench me.
“Checked radar control, night vision scope aire.”
Whistled to himself feeling quite proud. He expected no fireworks - knew 2026 noise would be just as loud.
Santa buckled up, said with a sigh, “Happy Christmas to all, gonna be a rough ride. Pray like hell you and I don’t get kinetic strike fried.”
