It’s been balls to the wall time and 2017, even by the mayhem set by 2016’s standards, has seen the type of apocalyptic carnage I wouldn’t wish on even my enemies.

Due to the global population surge over the last 12 months, there are more presents to deliver than ever.

My dilemma has been exacerbated after I detonated all my incendiary materials in one mega-explosion following law and enforcement demands.

This left 91% of my factory equipment devastated. Hasty repairs were in order to keep Christmas on track.

Santa’s Factory Repairs

I hired in some dodgy workmen. You know the type, cheap but potentially good enough to get the job done.

Bob is the boss – it’s called Bob’s Barmy Builders (BBB on the side of the vans – that’s an acronym you won’t forget) – and his sons Bob Jr. and Bobby assisted him.

There was also a motley crew of barely human looking oddballs. One of them, the gaffer, is called Frank and he stank of body odour throughout the repairs.

His son, Frank Jr., also stank. Bob’s wife, Deirdre, was also present and fussed about the builders offering cups of tea every 25 seconds (as is stipulated in her contract, she was keen to point out).

They got to it and I paid them double to work in long shifts. To my surprise, they had 40% of the factory up and running within 48 hours!

I gave Bob a hearty slap on the back for his sterling efforts, which Deirdre, unfortunately, believed to be an act of violence and roared, “Eh! Bob Jr.! That fat fucking shit Santa just hit our Bob! GET HIM!” and everything descended into an enormous brawl.

Getting Undressed for Duress

Now, unbeknownst to them, Santa has a load of pretty fearsome weaponry about his person, plus 101% proof booze breath which would stop a charging walrus in its tracks.

Simply by wheezing heavily and wielding my shotgun, Bob’s Barmy Builders didn’t prove to be barmy at all.

Indeed, Bob later said to me: “You know, Santa, my business is called Bob’s Barmy Builders, but I reckon it’s you who is the barmy one!” I jammed the butt of my shotgun into his crotch for that one. Witty that man ain’t.

Anyway, BBB was then forced to work under duress and guarded by my AK47 wielding reindeer, with the elves also keeping shifts – my head elf, Simon, looked particularly lean and mean waddling about with my spare bazooka.

The terrified and miserable builders had no choice but to complete the repairs under my psychotic rule. I have never felt so dastardly!

To rub their noses in my superiority, I stripped naked and, as they went about their forced labour, paraded around flaunting my enormous gut whilst brandishing my shotgun in their faces and cackling. Juvenile, I know, but no one messes with Santa. No one.

More Problems

After they’d completed their work, I stripped their bill down to 0.10%, which meant for a week of forced manual labour Bob’s Barmy Builders received £100.

Hey, I was in a generous mood as 95% of my factory was back in working order and the presents were being churned out at full capacity.

We are severely behind schedule, so I simply decided to cut third world countries out of my Christmas run this year – they’re poor, they won’t notice. It’s the rich shits who get in my face if anything goes wrong.

I sent the builders packing home, but kidnapped the gaffer Frank to use as a bargaining chip – I thought: “I’m not having Bob’s Barmy Builders returning home to Rochdale, amassing his kind, and returning with an army of builders wielding cement mixers and screwdrivers” – Frank was there to ensure they wouldn’t bloody dare.

Anyway, I soon found out why BBB was so cheap, as they have a business model similar to mine – cut corners where possible to save time and money.

On Thursday 14th, the plastic food making machine got clogged with fake pizzas and blew up. It was pretty hilarious seeing a batch of my elves walking about, severely injured, with bits of fake tomato and cheese stuck to them.

I had a good laugh, kept the shotgun pointed at Frank, and made him fix the thing. But then it hit the fan…

Attack! Attack! Attack!

I should have taken Bob out when I had the chance! On the 16th December, out of the midst of a snowstorm, his army emerged.

My lookout elf Larry triggered the alarm at 6am and battle stations were taken (my factory is surrounded by a 1 mile by 1 mile perimeter wall in the event of invasions) – there was mayhem in the factory as a thousand sleepy elves dashed about in their underwear, running out into the freezing cold of the North Pole to take battle stations. It was heroic.

There they were – Bob’s Barmy Builders and his cohorts hurtling across the icy wasteland, armed to the teeth with (as expected) cement mixers, petrol bombs, screwdrivers, drills, hammers, disc cutters, pneumatic drills, and one of them even had a combine harvester.

They all had traffic cones on their heads, too, which must be some sort of builder battle ritual – they were roaring obscenities and chants such as “BOB’S BARMY ARMY!” as they let rip, using a makeshift catapult made out of rubber bands and long discarded Pot Noodle containers to launch equally long discarded old kebab dinners over my walls.

I would not stand for such an insult! At my signal, my elves unleashed hell. We’re pretty tooled up with high-tech weaponry here, including laser beams, bazookas, and air-to-surface missile launchers, so the advantage was firmly on my side.

My only concern was Bob had amassed at least 10,000 builders from his community in the Greater Manchester area of England and they were pretty infuriated in the way only Northerners can get – obstinate, determined, self-assured, yet so redundantly and erroneously so.

This sheer bloody-minded determination ensured it was a tough old battle.

Retreat & Victory!

Despite their, admittedly, valiant efforts, the builders really were not prepared for the ferocity of Santa’s defence mechanisms.

With thousands of mutilated hairy builder corpses littering the snowy plains of the North Pole, I roared with laughter as, their forces decimated and their leader Bob slain, the builders fled in retreat. Victory was mine!

With the battle wrapped up, I immediately ordered my elves back to the factory to get on with the production of Barbie dolls, PS4s, and Buzz Lightyear action figures.

Everything is ticking along nicely now and we’re 75% on course for Christmas Day. I like that figure. I also like seeing Barmy Bob’s skull stuck atop the factory Christmas tree as a chilling reminder to visitors I’m not to be messed with!

Of course, there’s one pathetic wastrel left as a remnant after all of the above – Frank. I’ve tied him up and locked him in a cupboard for now.

Come the New Year, I’ll send him packing across the icy wasteland, past the frozen corpses of his peers, in the hope he’ll find the nearest town 20 miles away and inform the world Santa is, indeed, merciful.