In a generous turn Father Christmas, whom I met recently whilst travelling in East Didsbury, Manchester. It turns out he was on holiday, staying at the Travelodge in Parrs Wood.
The one next to that absurd junction where everyone tries to kill each other at rush hour), and after a bit of persuasion I managed to get him to agree a world exclusive for me! So here it’s—a weekly column from Father Christmas himself!
By the way, due to Santa’s inadequate grammar a lot of this extract was edited by myself to make it coherent.
Also, due to his unexpectedly profane language, we’ve had to use an array of symbols to denote letters. We apologise for his behaviour in this column, and have asked him to calm down for his next instalment.
Santa Column #1
Yeah, I’m Santa you stupid little bastards! The time I spend wasting my days making these presents for you all, only to have one shit day every year to deliver it?
And why only one day? Because of those bastard at the UN, who have said it’s “inappropriate” for me to go on a “rave” more than once a year.
They said that because of all the free brandy I get from each house my deliveries get a bit “sporadic” with each passing hour.
This is total shit and they can get fucked! This is all because last year I accidentally crushed the box with the guinea pig in it so that the kid who opened it on Christmas morning got nothing but a decapitated mess. Well, I tried to fucking defend myself!
I says to them that you have to expect some collateral damage each year. Cos I have to transport so many gifts (roughly about 17 billion in all) I need one fucking enormous sled, and 13,000 reindeer just to pull it all across the bastard sky. As you can imagine this makes quite some spectacle, and draws in a lot of attention.
Now I’m drifting here, getting away from all the dead animals that get crushed in the sled, but that can’t be helped.
These stupid little shits shouldn’t fucking ask for animals in their pathetic, simpering bastard cards if they want a guaranteed living/working thing turning up.
It reminds of that other kid who asked for a giraffe… well we came under this low bridge on the way and torn the thing’s fucking head off! After that I says to my elves, “Right! Anyone more of these fuckers asks for a giraffe you can tell them to piss off!”
And then Noddy, at that point my Head Elf (we later had him executed for refusing to accept my beard is well ace), says to me, he does, “Tell ‘em yourself, fatty!” and all the other Elves starts this nasty laughin’ business.
Well fuck me did I go mental! I admit on this occasion I lost me rag in a way I didn’t know I fucking well could! Wham!
Within minutes ten Elves were dead! Luckily I were a bit p@#*&d on brandy at that point and I soon blacked out entirely.
When everything became clearer I was strapped tightly into my bed, where I was kept for 4 days whilst I rid myself of chronic DTs. Gah, the pressure I have to deal with, I tell you.