Exclusive Santa Claus Column: A Day in the Life of Santa

A day in the life of Santa Claus
It’s been explosive at Santa’s!

So you all understand just how horrible it is being Santa, I decided this week to make a diary of my every move throughout a singular 24 hours. The below is fairly representative of what I get up to on your average day running up to Chrimbo, although events can often spiral out of control and, consequently, incidents such as yesterday, when the sewage system backfired and effluence spewed liberally throughout the factory, don’t get chronicled. Don’t worry, kids, we’ve cleaned your presents with bleach and they’re as good as new!

A Day in the Life

Imagine, if you will, the Beatles’ song playing as you read this. It’ll make things more dramatic. I recorded this diary as the day unfolded, stopping to jot down my notes with pen and paper during the moment to fully record, for posterity, this solitary day of mine.

5 am

Awake. At least… I think I am. Am I in a lucid dream? Is it possible my mere existence is a lucid dream, propelled by a kurtosis of transmundane proportions, my qualia based understanding of reality an illusory knowledge predicated upon by… what the Hell is that noise?! STUPID GODDAMN ALARM!

5:10 AM

I am, indeed, awake, alive, everything else and, Jesus H Christ, I’ve got a raging hangover. I just threw up in the bed and Mrs. Santa Claus is shouting at me. She’s saying, “Mr. Santa Claus, this drinking thing is out of control… why are you writing all of this down?!” and I just gave her a two-fingered salute. Stupid woman. I’m getting a drink.

6 AM

Positively THRILLED to be alive!!! I feel like I could take on an empire! Even that one with Darth Vader! DAH DAH, DAH DAH DAH DAHHHH DAHH!!!

6:30 AM

Just threw up again, but there’s work to be done and I’ll make sure I see it through to midday. I’ll have another drink to ensure this eventuality.

9 AM

Not entirely sure what’s happened over the last few hours, there’s no information available from my brain. Now I’m drinking nothing but Red Bull and harsh black coffee to up my game. I’m personally overseeing the finalisation of a range of Barbie dolls in our R&D department, although my prior insistence Barbie have a grimace on her face and her solitary speech function be “It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again” (with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice) appears ill-advised, given these are marketed at clueless little girls.

10 AM

Barbie is go! She’s hit the production line – my elves are working overtime, there are 10 million of them to create by midday. AHAHAHAHAHA!!!!


Slight mishap. I ordered “full steam ahead”, like the Titanic captain, in order to ensure this batch was finished, but the overworked Barbie doll machine began hissing and kicking up a load of steam. Like Quint onboard the Orca, I was insistent we plough on ahead. Even after it caught fire and my elves began panicking, I fired my shotgun into the air and started singing lines from Spanish Ladies, the British naval song. That’s my rallying cry to keep everyone working, regardless of the circumstances. Unfortunately, as the out-of-control inferno is kicking up temperatures akin to the Sun, I recognise a problem is afoot and, as hysteria has swept over us all, everyone is running for their lives. I’d better stop writing this then, otherwise I co [this entry abruptly ends here].

8:01 pm

Not really sure what happened after the above. One of my elves told me I retired to my drinking room and let everyone else take care of the situation. I’ve just come to now and I’m covered in vomit, which I presume is someone else’s as why would I puke on myself? I feel a bit weird.

8:30 PM

Okay, so, apparently, half of my factory has been destroyed in the raging inferno, including the elves’ sleeping quarters. They’re all complaining about not having anywhere to sleep. I’m more concerned my shipment of Barbie dolls has been incinerated.

8:50 PM

The Barbie dolls are definitely gone. Why do bad things happen at Christmas time?

8:55 PM

I just had a little cry about the Barbie dolls. Those poor things…

9:00 PM

Just realised my beard has been burnt from my face. I’ll get a fake one and glue it on.

10 PM

Property damage has been estimated at 30 million… Jesus fu [edited by Professional Moron – he enters a 500 word swear-a-thon which you really don’t want to read].

10:20 PM

I’m going to have a couple of drinks to cope with this disaster.

1 AM

Being naked is great!! Just chilling with my elves by the big bonfire in my factory.

3 AM

OIHoihkklkdvkdvlvkddf. PJef ehehe…. nowt that it takes them. Goaarghh. Sandwiches.

5 AM

Am I awake or does, in fact, my reality consist only of fragmentary moments of pernicious remonstrations? God, I’m hungover. Why is there puke everywhere? I’m going to have a drink to find equilibrium, then I shall tackle the day!

[Diary End]


  1. Poor drunken sot! You have really reached a new low with the senseless murder of the Barbies.
    Well, you’ve been around forever, so maybe you have some “Chatty Cathy” dolls left over from the 1960’s? This could be the moment to dump them!
    Okay, I know Bukowski was a drunkard, who wrote while under the influence. Although you are drunken and writing, you, Santa, are no Bukowski.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Hey, this has nothing to do with us. Santa is to blame. Direct blame at Santa. Thanks.

      As for Bukowski… perhaps he bucked to the ow and went skiing. Just an idea, even if it didn’t come to complete fruition.


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