Right, it’s the usual Santa column this week. We tend to turn a blind eye to it and not read the contents, mainly because it’s getting disturbing. Be you lot go ahead. Knock yourselves out.
Mrs. Santa Claus is off on holiday in Skegness. As soon as she left I did what any doting husband would do in this situation—threw a massive bastard of a party!
I got all me best mates over, they invited all their mates, I put some fliers out around the North Pole, and we had a 1,000+ strong rave going by sundown!
And I can’t remember a goddamn thing about it. The first thing I was aware of? Waking up stark bollock naked draped at a painful angle on Rudolph’s antlers.
I came to with a bellow of pain and awkwardly kicked my way out, flopping beer belly first onto a Rulolph’s back, before rolling over onto the floor and sneezing fitfully. And then vomiting.
It was clear I was in my quarters, but there was the most frightful din going on outside.
So I staggered out and, Jesus wept, there was a huge brawl between a load of drunk and hungover revellers.
They were just literally beating the shit out of each other with their fists. I stood there open mouthed staring at them all. It was the most thrilling thing I’ve ever witnessed.
Never have I been so proud. Santa’s factory, home to a full-scale riot. I shed tears of delight right there and as I write this for my exclusive column floods of tears continue to pour onto my laptop.
Rudolph came out of the quarters and stood by me in silent contentment. It was a special moment, tacit but delightful. We were aware of the magnitude of the occasion. It was a moment of perfection.
Later, when my elves were clearing away the dead bodies, I took many pictures of the bruised and battered survivors.
I’ll save those for posterity. In future days, I can scan through them all and have fond memories of the finest moment in my life.
I understand Santa’s factory runs under occassionally unorthodox measures, but it really baffles me why everything spends so much time on fire!
Granted, drunkenly purchasing 350 flamethrowers online last week hasn’t helped. That coincided with the above revelry.
Once all the bodies were cleared away and the survivors of the brawl went back to their daily lives, I had to figure out what to do about the inferno.
Luckily it started snowing heavily and this took care of much of the carnage outside my factory. The only reason we’ve not been burned to the ground over the years is thanks to the inclement weather.
To douse the various fires indoors I got elf teams to chuck buckets of melted snow over what were, by that stage, looking like insurmountable odds.
I sat about in my quarters waiting for them to finish, sipping gin from a straw in a litre bottle.
There were many more elf deaths, but after 12 hours it was all out. Vincent, my head elf, came into my room to announce the good news.
I clapped him across the back in congratulations and gave him a bottle of pernod as a reward.
Then I ordered him and the rest back to work. Vincent protested, stating the elves required rest and extensive medical assistance following battles with the raging fires.
Silently, I took the pernod bottle back off him. With my free hand I grabbed his throat and began bellowing mightily.
After 10 minutes of that, I let go and he rushed from my quarters in a panic. Stupid little shit. It’s easy to get those dimwits to do your bidding, you just have to put them in their place.
My wife sent me a postcard. It was slightly charred as much of my mail was obliterated in the riot.
The writing was still legible. She’d scrawled it out in blue biro in tiny little characters so she could get as much on there as possible. Stupid cow, it must have taken her an hour to write it.
So I took one look at the bloody thing and its stupid bloody opening line, “Hello snuggums, I’m very much enjoying Skegness and its various delights and preciptation.”
Into the bin with that thing, I’ll tell her Rudolph ate it in a heroin-based frenzy.
My chief reindeer’s heroin usage is most certainly getting out of hand. I staged an intervention, as I believe that’s the way those canny Americans do these things.
Basically, I knew if I confronted him about it we’d just go through the same scenario as the last 100 times. He goes for my throat with his gnashing teeth, bounces off my beer belly, and then he calms down but accuses ME of being an unstoppable alcoholic. And it’s at that point we have another one of our physical fights and don’t speak to each other for months afterward.
To avoid all that lot, I tricked him into the janitor’s closet with promises of crack cocaine.
In reality, the room was completely bare apart from a bucket, a bag of flour, and a copy of FHM from 1995. I then locked the door on him. That bastard is going cold turkey.
Or so I thought. It lasted 72 hours, after which Rudolph battered one of the walls down with his mighty antlers.
Frothing wildly at the mouth and clearly in a psychotic frenzy, by that point I was getting pretty drunk as it was 7pm. I was stationed outside with a shotgun, planning to see him through the ordeal.
He immediately clocked eyes on me. I clocked eyes on him. I threw the shotgun to one side and rushed him. He also charged and we leapt into the air to fight like that bit in The Matrix.
The next thing I knew I woke up with chef/nurse Doreen applying bandages across my body. “What the fuck happened, bitch?!” I politely enquired.
Apparently Rudolph won and has now “taken over” MY factory! I tried to stand to take the fight to that furry bastard, but even blinking resulted in agony and much bellowing.
I demanded Doreen hook my drip up to my alcohol supply. She said she’d already done that. And as I sat there soaking up the alcohol, I got merry and began to bellow lines from Black Lace’s Agadoo. Life ain’t always bad.