Christmas Eve and all through the land, not a creature was stirring except for some… Skunk.
Santa made his way across the North Sea heading to Scotland. From Aberdeen to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and on to England, where he had his sights set to Middlesbrough and Michael Fisher’s Teesside Cannabis Club – otherwise known as, Club Exhale.
The small bottle of cannabis tincture Mrs. Claus slipped into his jacket pocket was frightfully low, and the bumpy ride was causing his sciatica to flare. He knew he needed to smoke soon in order to top off what little remedy he had left.
“Rudolph, to the club!” he exclaimed. “Poppa’s back won’t hold up much longer – Santa is feeling a bit knackered tonight.”
As with most cannabis clubs and markets throughout the Western world, the club was located in an industrial area – with this one on Albert Road. Santa made note of the McDonald’s nearby – wishing Mrs. Claus wouldn’t have given him the warning – “No junk food on this trip, Nic, you are already at your weight limit for the sled – and Dancer and Prancer’s backsides aren’t what they used to be!”
“Hopefully, the club will have cookies and milk,” he said aloud to his antlered crew.
As they landed on the roof of the club, Santa gingerly stepped down from the sled and was surveying the entry situation. A small group had gathered below, wide eyed, disbelieving what they were seeing.
“Shouldn’t have taken that last hit of skunk, bloke,” one man said to another, with nary a smile.
But this was no illusion. Santa noted the shock in their eyes – he’d seen it before. With a wink and a nod he called out to the stunned crowd, “Merry Christmas, ho, ho, ho! Could I bother you for a little taste of relief? I’m in a bit of hard cheese here with my lower back. Can’t seem to make the rounds like I used to and my tincture bottle is a little low.”
As mouths dropped open like cod fish, one man came forward.
“Welcome, Santa – please forgive our surprise, of course we’d love to help you,” Michael Fisher said with sincerity. “There’s a stair well down – we’ll meet you in side.”
Santa tied up the sled and gave the reindeer a bit of oats.
Once inside he made himself comfortable on a black leather couch and put his feet up on the coffee table, eyeing a bag of McDonald’s chips on the table. A young man handed him a colorful homemade paper hat, while another gave him a cup of tea.
Members cautiously made his way around him, with one young woman filling up the bowl of a bong and handing it to Santa.
“I’ve only ever left milk and cookies for you when I was a girl,” she chuckled. “Tell me, Santa, how was it you came to know this illicit weed?” she teased.
The group chuckled at her question, but they all wanted to hear, and gathered around the old man as if he were Jesus himself.
“Do tell us, old chap,” another added.
Santa took one large hit, clearing the bowl, then sat back into the cushions with a happy and content look on his face and a twinkle in his eye. He felt the warmth rise up through his back, giving him immediate relief from the pain.
“It was Mrs. Claus, actually,” he said. “She’s an Apothecary, you know.”
“Apothecary!” the young woman exclaimed. “I’ve been to the museum in London!”
The young woman looked around the room for acknowledgement. One young man joined in her enthusiasm, “So have I,” he said. “The Stabler-Leadbeater Apothecary shop. It was actually an Apothecary shop, but was closed in 1933, with all its contents intact.”
“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa laughed a heartily. “Right you are; Apothecary was how people healed, before the pharmaceutical company started making synthetic medicine – in the late 1930 in America, to be precise.”
“Right,” another joined in. “And skunk was on the menu!”
“Yes, cannabis was,” the woman said, knowingly, correcting the man’s use of slang for the beneficial herb.
There was a moment of silence in the room as the group pondered the reality of it all.
“Anyway,” Santa continued to his captivated audience. “Mrs. Claus has always made remedies from plants, but then we caught one of the Elves growing some weed in his back shed. Rather than chastise him, Mrs. Claus asked if she could make me a little tincture – much to everyone’s surprise!”
The group laughed as they continued to pass the bong around the room, while another rolled a few joints for Santa to take on his journey around the globe.
“Well, the proof is in the pudding, as they say,” Santa continued, after taking another hit off the bong. “Nothing else had come close to quelling my back pain. Not a thing. We nearly called off Christmas!
The group gasped at this realization.
Then, she began giving it to the reindeer and the Elves as each one presented with different ailments – Rudolph can pass some nasty gas on this yearly trip – and the remedy works wonders!”
Laughter ensued, as the smoking circle enjoyed Santa’s stories of healing, but they knew it had to end, as Santa rose up from the comfy couch and said his goodbyes.
“Can’t tell you how pleased I am that this club exists,” Santa said, picking up his hat and gloves. You know partaking of the herb is tribal – and you all are my tribe now.”
Everyone agreed how lucky they were, with Fisher beaming at his good fortune.
“We really must thank the local Police,” he quickly asserted. “We wouldn’t be here at all without their good graces.”
The group followed the old man up onto the roof and gathered round the sled as Santa climbed back in.
“On my way to deliver to the Palace soon,” he shared, with a wink.
“To the Queen?” someone asked, eyebrows raised, as the group gazed at Santa in anticipation.
“Of course – and the grandkids,” Santa offered. “The palace is a highlight of my stops in England – they have the finest cookies and milk in the land!”
“The Duchess of Sussex is pregnant, you know,” the young woman said. “I just read an article in Weed World about mom’s and pregnancy, and how it strengthens the immune system of both mother and child – while helping with morning sickness – she might need a bit of your tincture!”
The group chuckled at the thought, but Santa was cautious.
“We are ahead of our time, my dear friends,” he responded, with the utmost seriousness. “Believe me, if Mrs. Claus could give her a bottle of her tincture, she most certainly would, but I’m afraid it’s not in the cards tonight. Anyway, don’t you chaps have a product right here in the UK – Sativex, or some such silly name?”
“Yes,” the young women replied. “But I’m sure it’s not as effective as what your wife makes at home.”
“Right you are, nothing better than homemade,” Santa said, calling out to his crew, now lifting him up into the night sky. “To London!” he commanded.
“Merry Christmas, Santa!” the group cheered.
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a healthful night!” Santa called out as he headed south. “Long live the plant and God bless the Teesside Cannabis Club!”
