Harefield isn’t really a town. It’s a village. A magical village where wonderful people live and enchanted events occur. Stretching from Springwell Lock on the Grand Union Canal in the North to the Breakspear Arms and Tile Kiln Lane in the East, from West Hyde which means the western part in Anglo-Saxon and was mentioned in the Domesday Book, down to parts of Ickenham in the South which come within the parish boundaries but there be dragons and you really don’t want to go there. Harefield’s oldest resident is known as Hairspring and is said to be over two hundred years old. He patrols the village borders daily on his trusty penny farthing Shergar, sometimes accompanied by his acolyte Dicky Jives, casting magical spells to protect the village from outsiders and marauders. Some say he learnt his craft directly from Merlin The Magician but then again some say he taught Merlin himself.

The true villagers of Harefield are said to be directly descended from hobbits. You can tell them by counting their toes. Any more or less than the prescribed five on each foot and you’re looking at a true Harefieldian. When pregnant, Harefield women are said to be expecting the patter of tiny webbed feet. Harefield has the highest birth rate of twins in the country. This because Harefield men’s sperm is twice as potent as normal spunk due to the magical properties of the local ale, Old Bedwetter, which has been brewed in the Village Malt House for centuries.

Harefield enjoys its own micro-climate which is different to the surrounding areas. In December Uxbridge was being lashed by gales, the River Colne had broken its banks and flooded Rickmansworth, Ruislip was snowed in by fifteen foot drifts, fallen trees had cut off Northwood from the outside world and in Denham the retired publicans of the garden village had formed a vigilante group to stop looters from Maple Cross from ransacking the local shops after the forest flash fires. Meanwhile Harefield was enjoying an Indian summer. Shoppers strolled the High Street in shorts and flip flops, thirsty drinkers sought shade in pub beer gardens, cats basked lazily on doorsteps in the afternoon sun and the local bobby PC Brigade sweated on points duty at the crossroads in shirt sleeves. On the allotment gardeners feverishly watered their crops before spending the afternoons slapping on sunscreen and reclining in deck chairs. Old Pete who could regale you with tales of his times as a cabin boy under Lord Nelson organised a game of allotment croquet between the cabbages. Hoppy the Geordie was dispensing refeshments from his shed in the form of sprout wine and asparagus brandy, whilst keeping his private secret stash of sloe rum to himself. On the village green children played rounders and the village pond was all but dried up. The Co Op had run out of ice cream and lemonade while the landlord of the Spotted Dalmation  public house, Mr.Jolly, was passing free halves of shandy to dehydrated ramblers along the Breakspear Road.

In Harefield the villagers would celebrate November the fifth by burning an effigy of Margaret Thatcher on the site of Marks’ Garage where once stood petrol pumps. The Cricket Club would put on an impressive firework display where the barlord Mr.Fingers would charge members a miserly eight pounds to watch and would close the curtains inside so nobody could observe for free. Astute villagers would enjoy the spectacle gratis by viewing from the adjoining Footbal Club’s patio where the club chairman Mr.Dhont Dhillydhally doled out complimentary curried jacket potatoes and chips. This event in the calendar over, the villagers wouldn’t even think about preparing for Christmas until at least Christmas Eve, unlike the rest of the country who are consumed with Christmas fever from August onward.

On the twenty-fourth of December the temperature dropped. Jordan Sprog the second hand car salesman set up a stall selling Christmas trees in the Kings Arms car park. In the Harefield Inn beer garden the licensee Mr.Ho Ho Ho was roasting horse chestnuts for passengers waiting at the adjacent bus stop. The Village bakery was open all night preparing mince pies, yule logs and Christmas pudding. Extra staff had been drafted in to help with the rush and old Moulder was being liberal with the Christmas cake brandy in a one-for-me, one-for-you fashion. Villagers started and finished their shopping in the High Street because here on sale was all you could ever wish for. Exotic spices and perfumes from Sumner’s Chemists, fine art from the Amberley Gallery, all manner of luxury goods from CJs Emporium next to the bakers, the latest fashions from Fanny’s Frocks, the tastiest viands from Bob the Butcher and of course all types of fine wines and champagne from Costcutters.

By midday all the business was done, the shops were all but sold out and closed until January. Children went Carol singing from door to door, the local land owner Lord Cameltoe distributed turkeys to the poor and needy and those without a loving family at home repaired to the pubs. As dusk approached local celebrity Russell Gayboy switched on the magnificent illuminations on the High Street lamp posts and the sixty foot tall Christmas tree on the common that was sent to Harefield from the people of Australia annually in thanks for Harefield sending out the very first convicts to settle down under. A local Freemason Mr.Smudger dressed up as Santa and was pulled along the High Street in a sleigh by the gypsy’s ponies disguised as reindeer. He threw out sweets and chocolates to the cheering children until he drunkenly hit a post outside the Kings Arms and abandoned his sleigh heading for the Spotted Dalmation for a pint of Freemasons Alibi Ale.

Night began to fall and as it did the first snowflakes descended from the heavens. The Reverend Killjoy led St.Marys Church Choir carol singing around the village hostelries. They received a special warm welcome in the Spotted Dalmation where Mr.Jolly dished out mince pies to all. In the Kings Arms legendary Harefield band The Sweet reformed for a one-off Christmas special. The Harefield Inn hosted a Christmas karaoke night with Mr.Ho Ho Ho dressed as Father Christmas and the delectable barmaids dolled up as sexy elves. The members of the Harefield Amateur Dramatics Society initiated a game of charades in the saloon bar of the Harefield Inn until Hoppy the Geordie spoiled things by climbing a supporting pillar and pulling the ceiling down whilst enacting King Kong. The church choir finished their rounds off at last in the Harefield Inn where the Reverend Killjoy entered into the Christmas spirit by climbing onto the piano and dancing the Macarena until he was defrocked by an elf.

The snow came down heavier as the evening wore on. At closing time two wide boys Julius Maximus and his sidekick Splashly built a magnificent twelve feet tall snow penis with rather large snow testicles outside the Bombay Garden Curry House. A few drunken revelers made their way down Church Hill in the snow for midnight mass, throwing snowballs at passing police cars en route.

By one o’ clock Christmas morning the village was sound asleep. Not a creature was stirring, not even a burglar. Children had hung their Harefield United football stockings by the mantlepieces and left out a glass of port and a mince pie for Santa and a carrot for Rudolph, except on the upmarket Dovedale estate where the children would leave old Saint Nick a rather fat spliff. In the distance you could hear the faint skittering of reindeer hooves on roof tops and sleigh bells jingling.

“Ho ho ho!” said Santa. “Is that you Santa? You’ve come early” dreamily replied the landlord of the Harefield Inn.

“Merry Christmas everyone. Merry Christmas”.