Ho ho ho! Santa is back for his second diary entry, glad you could drop in and catch up on me again. Well, I was in a pretty good mood last week but that has gone after a mere seven days back in the job. All I can say is f*** this s***. I hate being Santa. I HATE IT!

Sad Santa

Naturally, my worker elves fear me when I’m in such a foul mood. To try and cheer myself up, I placed Slade’s infectious hit Merry Christmas Everybody on a 24/7 loop to ensure the factory is merry at all times. Unfortunately, this appears to have brought out psychotic episodes amongst many of us here. After hearing it for the 500th time in a row at 4am, I stripped naked and ran through the factory screaming and setting off fire extinguishers. I was extraordinarily drunk, too, which may have added to the problem.

Whilst nursing a hangover from Satan the next day, I thought about the issue properly. On my drunken rampage, I had obliterated the jukebox system with an anvil, so the Slade music is no more. Concerned about this lack of cultural stuff, I hired the local busking tramp, Bill, to blast out some choral Christmas music. I have been moved to tears by his rendition of Silent Night, which sounds quite beautiful due to his gruff, croaky tenor, interspersed by repulsive spells of hacking, coughing, and gobbing up spit onto the floor.

Whilst Bill is a welcome new addition to the factory, he’s also something of a kleptomaniac. I would like some semblance of normality in the build up to Christmas this year, so Bill’s habit of stealing my wallet and going on drunken binges (he also flirts outrageously with my reindeer) is not welcome. I like his singing, but if he keeps this up I shall have to bump him off (i.e. chloroform him, wrap his body in a carpet, and dump him on a stray iceberg).

Factory Entertainment

To facilitate Christmas cheer for 2017, I purchased a Pac-Man arcade unit to keep the little elf worker bastards entertained. Unfortunately, as they’re so short, they can’t actually play the game unless several of them get on top of each other (not in that way, you perverts).

Unfortunately, on one occasion, as they tottered on top of each others’ shoulders they, unfortunately, brought the whole contraption crashing down on a group of them waiting their turn – this was unfortunate. Unfortunately, this led to their beings being, unfortunately, put out of service (i.e. they are dead).

The Pac Man unit was still working despite being splattered with blood and entrails – I had a proper go last night but didn’t do very well. In fact, I was killed by what looked like a bleeping and blooping smiley emoji within 20 seconds. Utterly enraged, I drew forth my chainsaw (this isn’t as unusual as it sounds, I carry this around with me often in order to cut down Christmas trees or to sever the limbs off any invading hoodlums) and demolished the unit in a display of bad temper. Embarrassed, I have since ordered a new unit one off eBay.

“Father” Christmas

Finally, I just want to address this “father” Christmas s*** – Mrs. Claus and I have never been with child. Why? Well, frankly, I find children exceptionally irritating, although Mrs. Claus has pestered me for a child for decades – I’m the man of the house and my last word is final! No kids! Hundreds of elves running around speaking in their stupid voices is more than enough.

This doesn’t explain why everyone calls me Father Christmas, though. I am no father. Alas, I feel as if, were I to parent a sprog, the whole ordeal would be an ordeal. I appreciate I am seen as the father of the Christmas period, as opposed to being a father of children, but this moniker is simply pissing me off. So, stop it! My name is Santa, you will call me that, or you will only be receiving a bucket of reindeer excrement under your tree this Christmas. You got that? WELL!? Good. You don’t want to deal with an angry Santa, mofo.