We could all do with a little extra cash at this time of year, and fortunately there’s plenty of seasonal work around. With that in mind, I committed to an honest week’s festive graft, doing ultra-Christmassy jobs from sprout-picking to reindeer-wrangling. I mean, how hard can it be?
Monday, sprout farmer
It’s 9am and I’m standing in a sprout field in Lincolnshire. At 9am. I’m surprised I’m out of bed, standing anywhere; 57-year-old Martin Tate, of Lincolnshire Field Products, is less impressed. He’s been up since his usual 3am.
Tate farms 16,000 acres, 550 of which are taken up by sprouts. He bought the business in 1997 with two colleagues and grows brassicas – cauliflower, broccoli, cabbages, sprouts. He’s somewhat the Brassica Godfather. “There’s not many of us left,” he tells me during the drive from my hotel, steering his battered old Defender the entire way with one palm. Isn’t he worried I could be a spy from one of his competitors? “Nothing we do is a trade secret; I can’t see much industrial espionage going on,” he says.
Exhausting … a day in the sprout fields.
There’s a Christmas shortage of broccoli and cauliflower thanks to October’s floods. A sprout’s enemy is frost. Tate is optimistic. The farm normally packs 2,500 trays of sprouts a week. Christmas week, it works 24 hours a day to pack 55,000 trays, or 700 tonnes. The farm supplies Asda, Ocado and Amazon. Is there any difference between a Lidl and an M&S sprout, I ask? “No. The sprouts are grown in the same fields and packed on the same production line,” he says. “The only thing that might change is the size at which they are graded. Some retailers may require an exact diameter. You might see, say, a tighter sprout in M&S than in Aldi. But they’re still the same sprouts.”
The senior harvest manager, John, sets me to work picking sprouts off their stalks. At best, I manage a rubbish three-a-minute. A fancy four-man sprout-harvesting machine whizzes past. Can I have a go on that? Apparently not, in case it cuts my feet off as well. Inside the vaguely warmer sprout barn, the operations manager, Steve, puts me on the conveyor belt wheedling out the bad sprouts and packing the bags of Asda sprouts into trays. But if anyone’s the bad sprout here, it’s me. I’m knackered and it’s not even midday. I hope all my jobs aren’t this exhausting …
Score: two sprouts out of five
Tuesday, charity Santa
“Excuse me, Santa,” says Vanessa Feltz, squeezing past my enormous inflatable Santa arse. Feltz has come down to the Action for Children winter cabin at the swanky Hay’s Galleria shopping centre by London Bridge to help the charity sell magical baubles to the public. So have I. Every sale will help provide warm clothes, a hot meal or a special present to a vulnerable child or young person in the UK. It’s a worthwhile cause, so I’m on my best, most helpful behaviour.
Not-so-secret Santa … at the Action for Children winter cabin. (From left) Larry Lamb, Alex Jones, Harry Redknapp, Kelsey Parker, Luca Bish and Louise Boyce. Photograph: Jill Mead/the Guardian
Larry Lamb from EastEnders, The One Show’s Alex Jones, vlogger Kelsey Parker and football manager Harry Redknapp are also on hand to act as not-so-secret Santas. I’m not a famous Santa, but join in with the celebrity Santa photo call anyway, as I’m certainly the fattest. I’m also the clumsiest. I stumble through the crowds, have my selfie taken with parents “for their kids”, and scare small children into wondering why Santa has eaten all the mince pies, Christmas cakes and, it would seem, reindeer. My giant inflatable belly means I can’t get close enough to potential customers to sell any baubles. After nearly knocking down the Christmas tree, Redknapp has had enough of my Santa shenanigans and helpfully kicks me out for good.
Score: two Santas
Wednesday, Snowman high-flier
The stage adaptation of The Snowman – based on the 1982 animated film of Raymond Briggs’s 1978 picture book – celebrates its 30th anniversary this year. It is on at the Peacock theatre in London until 30 December. I’m here to be a stagehand. At least, that’s what I thought. My duties also include testing out the contraption that soars the snowman and the boy high above the stage. Eek. I have a terrible head for heights.
Walking in the air. Photograph: Alicia Canter/the Guardian
Ten-year-old Raphael Korniets from London is on hand to give me some flying advice. He shares the role of the boy with another young actor. “Keep your back straight and your head up,” he advises. I’ve added a ginger wig for extra Raymond Briggs authenticity. “If you start spinning, grab hold of the snowman.” The snowman is 30-year-old Bristolian Callum Andrew-Sterling. There’s just time for some last-minute choreographing before takeoff. “Right leg, swing your arm, left leg, right, left, right. Bend your legs and plié …”
You what now? A plié, from the French for “bent”, means to bend the knees outwards in ballet. There’s no time to consult a dictionary as I’m winched into the sky to recreate the first flying number from the show. I grab the snowman’s hand for dear life, but it’s not half as bad as I’d feared. I walk in the air to Walking in the Air by Aled Jones and find that back on terra firma, walking is boring.
Score: four Snowmen
Thursday, reindeer handler
I’m at Hobbledown Heath theme park in Hounslow to look after the reindeer. Reindeer don’t live in Lapland; they live in a theme park in west London. There’s bad news: Dancer has got diarrhoea. “Reindeer have extremely delicate digestive systems,” explains the keeper, Maisy. Good job I’ve remembered my wellies. And my antlers.
Mucking out at Hobbledown Heath. Photograph: Graeme Robertson/the Guardian
All the gang are here: Dancer, Blitzen, Todd, Chopper and Rudi. “They’re very friendly,” says keeper Sam. Two-year-old Chopper is the youngest, and Maisy’s favourite. Chopper appeared on the 2022 Strictly Christmas special. He hasn’t let the fame go to his head and lets me feed him lichen without having to speak to his agent.
“Reindeer are nosy animals,” says Maisy. “If you’re doing something nearby, like giving the cows a vaccine, the reindeer will be stood along the fence having a look.” Reindeer may be nosy and poor at taxonomy. But that doesn’t mean their poo doesn’t stink. There’s plenty to shovel. Or, in the case of Dancer: slop.
“People think the clicking noise reindeer make when they walk is arthritis,” says Maisy, doing her best David Attenborough. “It’s actually the ligament tendons pulling over the bone so they can hear each other in blizzards and snowstorms.” Clever. It’s nice, we agree, that kids can meet reindeer face to face in parks like this. The Guardian’s photographer, Graeme, is more worried about me getting reindeer poo all over his nice car. I stash my wellies in the boot.
Score: three reindeer
Friday, Dickens expert
I’m not a well-read man. During lockdown, I erected a bookshelf behind my desk to appear more intelligent during Zoom calls. The only person who’s ever commented is Pete Doherty, who asked what I was reading. The three books I plucked at random were: Roger Mellie’s Profanisaurus, I, Partridge by Alan Partridge and Ant and Dec: the unofficial biography. Says it all.
Light reading as a Dickens expert.
So I’m hardly qualified to work alongside the rare books expert Angus Robb at Shapero Rare Books in central London, where, this year, there is a Dickensian wreath-making, shopping and feasting pop-up downstairs. But I’m eager to learn. What makes a rare book, I ask?
“It’s all in the rarity and the demand,” explains Robb. “A book can be very old but not worth very much at all. It just depends what is deemed as desirable. Books and authors also come in and out of fashion.”
I learn, for example, that a first print of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which incorrectly says “11 owls” instead of “10 owls” on page 99, is worth £250.
I pretend to know a lot more about Dickens than I really do. He wrote five Christmas books – obviously – but his first, A Christmas Carol, is his greatest Christmas hit. I’ve seen Blackadder’s Christmas Carol, so I know the gist. Does the bookshop have a rare edition of A Christmas Carol I can look at? They did have an original first edition, first impression from 1843 listed for £19,500, but it sold last week. Bah, humbug.
Score: two top hats
Saturday, mystery elf shopper
Depending on your cinematic taste, it’s not Christmas until you’ve watched It’s a Wonderful Life, Die Hard or 2003’s Elf featuring Will Ferrell.
As Papa Elf tells us, there are only three jobs available to an elf. The first is making shoes at night while the old cobbler sleeps. Or you can bake cookies in a tree. Or the third job, that every elf aspires to, is to build toys in Santa’s workshop.
‘My yellow tights scare everyone away’ … an elf stacking shelves. Photograph: Jill Mead/the Guardian
I check some job websites, but fail to find open positions for any of the above. But you can apply to be a Christmas elf in Hamleys, the famous toyshop in Regent Street, London. “Seeking talented, fun-loving performers to join the entertainment team as elves this Christmas,” runs the ad. Duties including welcoming customers, entertaining children and helping to maintain the grotto. I could do that!
I fill out the application form with my very best, joined-up handwriting, but after four weeks I still haven’t heard back. Turns out, being an elf is highly competitive. Except … I’m being a total cotton-headed ninnymuggins! In the film, Ferrell’s Buddy the Elf just walks into a department store in New York and gets a job, after being mistaken for a hired elf. Maybe I should just do that?
I wander around Hamleys in full Buddy the Elf gear. No one bats an eyelid. Or gives me any work to do. I decide to get out of there before they do. Perhaps I’d be more useful somewhere lower-key? I try standing around my local 24-hour Tesco, seeing if any shoppers would like any help, but my bright yellow tights scare everyone away, rather than getting anyone in the festive spirit.
Score: two elves
Sunday, ride tester
Not cut out for this … officially the worst ride tester in the world.
Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park, London, has entertained more than 15 million visitors since 2005. The Magical Ice Kingdom features five-metre-high sculptures of Norse gods and goddesses at -10C (don’t forget your coat). There’s a daredevil circus, a live singalong with Mr Tumble and the UK’s biggest open-air ice rink, plus plenty of places to eat fondue and Scandinavian barbecue, and drink litres of beer and glasses of mulled wine to put hairs on your chest.
The Wonderland also boasts more than 100 rides including an ice slide, the 370-metre Euro coaster and the Munich Looping rollercoaster with five loops that reaches speeds of … hang on. There’s no way I’m going on that.
I’ve been employed as an official Winter Wonderland ride tester. My job is to test the rides before they open to the public at 10am. I’m already in danger of bringing up my Frosties. I ride the Blizzard, which spins me 360 degrees, 65 metres above Hyde Park. My eyes feel like they’re going to pop out of my head. The XXL swings me 47 metres high, rotates me 15 times a minute, and makes me go green. The aptly named Hangover drops me 85 metres in seconds.
Even the Helter Skelter makes me feel queasy. I’m officially the worst ride tester in the world. Not surprising, as I’m also the worst sprout farmer, Santa, snowman, reindeer handler, Dickens expert and elf.
Score: one helter skelter
Monday, Christmas Grinch
Worse still, my Grinch outfit is too small. Photograph: Jill Mead/the Guardian
My week of Christmas jobs has left me utterly exhausted. Worse still, my Grinch outfit is too small. Plus, I forgot to ask for any money. Oh well. Merry Christmas!
