Feature: Behind the Beard

A Look Behind the Beard: Sex, Drugs, and Jingle Bells

The Turbulent Life of Out-of-Work Actors Making Children's Christmas

Tinsel, fake snow, the screaming of children, and Mariah Carey assault the senses. It's late October, yet Christmas is alive and well in Milton Keynes. I am perched upon a comically small seat next to a comically large man. This man is none other than Santa Claus. I watch as a boy of 8 spews an incomprehensible string of questions at him from his perch on his lap.

“What’s my name? Are you really Santa? Am I on the naughty list? Is my mum on the naughty list? Where’s Rudolph? Where are the elves? Who’s he?” This last question is accompanied by a rather disgusted look in my direction.

 “Jacob, yes, no, maybe, the North Pole,” Santa rattles off, “and he is one of the elves.”

 The boy regards me with a heavy dose of skepticism, “Him?” I confess to making a rather poor Elf, my only real commitment to elvish fashion being a wilted green hat.

“Yes, him. He’s disguised as a human though. Now back to you, what would you like for Christmas?”

 “Either a Nerf gun or a PlayStation 5… please,” he announces. His mother furiously mouths "Nerf gun" at Santa behind the boy's back.

 “Well then... Nerf gun it is,” as Santa delicately inscribes "Nerf gun" on his list. The boy seems happy enough as his mother sweeps him up into her arms, but the mother is delighted, throwing enthused thumbs-ups at Santa as she backs away.

 After they’ve left the grotto, Santa turns to me and rips away his beard to reveal a ruddy face of remarkable mediocrity, its only noticeable feature being a rash at the very tip of his chin.

 “He was a bit of a gobby shite, eh?” the man grumbles at me. The magic of Christmas seemingly dies with this statement.

 The man’s name is David, and he is one of hundreds of actors in the UK that every year dress up in red and perform on the vaunted stage of a grotto.

 A recent study by Queen Mary University of London showed only 2% of actors make a living from their profession and that 90% are out of work at any one time. It is unsurprising then that some turn to more unconventional gigs for work. A story about an extremely poorly run Charlie and the Chocolate Factory experience gained great virality earlier in the year. With the actors themselves becoming the subject of both mockery and sympathy, it got me thinking about the plight of the out-of-work actor and what they do over Christmas.

 David has not had a conventional acting job for over ten years. “I’ve forgotten how to act to be completely honest with you. And I’ve been doing the Santa circuit for so long there’s very little left of a performance.”

 The man does resemble old St. Nicholas, even while debearded and puffing on a cigarette. It might be his eyes; they are small and round behind his glasses, but they radiate the warmth of good humour. Or it might be in his syntax, he speaks slowly and deeply, every word measured. Unfortunately, the content of his speech is often at odds with his delivery.

“I hate a lot of the kids though,” he muses. “When I started this gig 15 years ago kids had manners, you know. They…” he claws at the air in front of him, “they feared me, you know, or at least Santa. They wanted to impress… Now it’s just about the presents.” He accompanies this last statement with a morose shake of his head.

 Heavy is the head that wears the felt red hat. After this rather disturbing statement, we return to the grotto. Thankfully, when dealing with the kids, he restrains his hate admirably and is the picture of patience and empathy.

He recommends me another couple of grottos where the Santas might be willing to talk to me. Apparently, the community of Saint Nick actors was a surprisingly strong one. Supposedly, there are seminars where they are taught how to embody the spirit of Christmas and the art of dealing with querulous children. I would like to have seen one of these mysterious seminars; images of hundreds of plump men belly laughing comes to mind.

 My second stop is Hay’s Galleria at the center of London. A bustling market where Christmas shopping is at its most feverish. I approach the stage where Santa and a couple of elves are setting up for the afternoon. Santa immediately attempts to shoo me away.

“Not open yet,” he grunts. After explaining, he seems entirely uninterested. “Don’t have nothing to say.”

 As I dejectedly depart, I’m stopped by one of the elves. She is a bright green ball of barely restrained energy; with every sentence, she seems likely to break into song. Her name is Sarah, and she is a recent drama school graduate.

 “Sorry about him, he’s a grumpy git. Must save all his jolliness for the act. Anyway, I heard ya, and I can tell you some stuff about out-of-work actors, I am one after all. And I can tell you some stuff about him… and her.” This last sentence is accompanied by furious gesturing between grumpy Santa and the other elf.

I ask about her own acting career and those of her fellow graduates.

 “Well, it’s not great, I’m dressed as an elf. Although really, I’m one of the lucky ones. At least you could broadly class this as acting… and it’s reasonably well-paid. Most of my classmates work in retail or in a pub. I like being an elf, I like kids, and I like tights. What more could a girl want?” She punctuates this with a hop and a curtsy. “Now, do you want to know about them two?” I nod. “They’re shagging!” she almost shouts this unsurprising statement at me before slapping two hands over her mouth. Grumpy Santa glares at me from the stage, and I decide to make a quick exit.             

 My final stop is Kew Gardens. I wait in line for over half an hour, receiving worried looks from the parents around me. Although none as worried as Santa himself.

 “You’re gonna crush me, lad,” he remarks. He’s relieved when I ask for an interview and agrees to chat once his shift is over.

 I return in an hour and once again squeeze myself into a grotto to sit on a comically small seat. His name is Nick (yes, Nick), and he has been Santa for over 8 years.

 “This was not where I saw my career going when I had dreams of the stage some 30 years ago. But that was a long time ago. And a lot’s happened since.” He seems introspective.

 “This job saved me, you know. My wife had left me. I couldn’t see my kids. I was an alcoholic and a drug addict. Things, to put it lightly, were not good.” He says this last part with some amusement, but his eyes speak of darker thoughts.

 “I was in Hounslow at the time and saw a poster asking for men of the larger variety and some acting experience to help out with a Christmas ad.” He accompanies ‘larger variety’ with a healthy slap to his protruding belly.

 “I went along, and due to the fact I was one of two candidates, got the job. It was nothing special, and the pay was poor, but for a day, I wasn’t Nick the homeless man, I was Father Nicholas. The embodiment of all that is good, all that is merry.”

“This didn’t change my life overnight. In fact, I spent another two years battling addiction. But I never forgot the experience, and when I finally got my shit together, the first thing I did was apply to every Santa gig going.”

Nick is everything I was looking for in a Santa. His story is reminiscent of a Hallmark Christmas film, a tale of addiction and redemption—all through the absolving power of a white beard. His description of his life since is of the more common variety; he occasionally does other acting gigs, but is a tiler by profession.

 “Being Santa for a few months is enough acting for me. I’m no DiCaprio. Getting the opportunity to be something otherworldly, something magical, it fulfills me.”

As I leave, Nick takes a rather little toy from a rather large sack and gives it to me.

“Merry Christmas, son. I hope the story goes well.” For an out-of-work actor, there is remarkably little acting. If Santa is real, then I’m sure he’s a lot like Nick.