Sprained ankle and fuzzy brain: A perfect SantaCon

There were about 60 drunken Santas rampaging down the street, with one catching piggyback rides on other St Nicks' backs.

The inebriated Kris Kringle imposter with the sprained ankle being lugged around on the backs of generous friends - that was me.

I had joined Beijing's SantaCon 2009 to shake myself out of winter hibernation. Like many living in the capital, I tend to burrow deep into the warm refuge of my apartment when polar winds blast the city.

Life was becoming as stale as last year's gingerbread cookies, and I thought SantaCon provided a good chance to do something different, to step out of my skin and into a St Nick suit.

As the event's website puts it: "SantaCon is a non-profit, non-political, non-religious and nonsensical annual Santa Claus convention, celebrating cheer, goodwill and fun. There's no particular reason to dress up in Santa suits, run around Beijing for hours, give gifts, sing songs, have strangers sit on our laps and decide who is naughty or nice. But it's a lot of fun, so Santa does it anyway."

Yes, I figured joining the mad march was a good way to go from ho-hum to "ho, ho, ho" fun for a day.

Two friends agreed, so we set off on that Saturday, a trio of slightly tipsy St Nicks, one of whom was leaning on the others as he hopped down the street.

We grabbed a cab to the first stop, a pizza bar with exceptionally cheap booze generously poured out for the invading army of Father Christmases.

The cabbie acted like there was nothing odd about picking up three fumy foreigners clad in Christmas gear. But at least a few pedestrians who caught glimpses of us though the vehicle's windows did double takes. Some appeared puzzled and smiled. Others just looked puzzled.

Before long, there were several dozen Santas gulping down tipples, crooning Christmas carols and breaking into spontaneous bouts of dancing. My buddies insisted on carrying me along the rest of the route, with the next stop being Tian'anmen.

I remember thinking about how strange it was to be boozed up midday. Then I realized I was dressed like Santa. And so were several dozen other people. And I was being carried on their backs.

Considering the entire tableau, the drinking-outside-in-early-afternoon part didn't seem so weird anymore.

But because of my injury, our trio fell behind the rest of the holly, jolly march. And perhaps because of our intoxication, we boarded the subway heading in the wrong direction.

Eventually, I had to give up; my leg just hurt too darn much. And the copious tippling and baggy Santa suit were contributing to the pre-existing difficulty of walking.

So I caught a cab home.

Because the St Nick outfit made locomotion cumbersome, I stripped it off immediately upon getting out the taxi - that is, aside from the pants.

These red trousers simply weren't going to come off unless I sat down to wrestle them from my bottom half, which there was no place to do. But they weren't going to stay up, either, since the belt had torn apart. (Fortunately, I was wearing jeans underneath).

I was hobbling along when I encountered a neighbor, who asked something to the effect of, "What happened to you?"

She kindly offered to help. It was only then that I realized why she might be concerned.

There I was painfully limping around, half drunk, with red pants around my knees.

Having found the surreal adventure I'd sought, I stumbled through the door of my apartment.

I was thankful to return to my humdrum winter hibernation - and ready for a long winter's nap.