There goes another Christmas. If you’re 10 that meant hysterics and manic shrieking about toys. If you’re 40+ you were already half drunk on Buck’s Fizz by 12. Anyway, here’s Santa’s annual report on his global present giving trek.
Christmas Day Report 2019
Another year, another nightmare. I started at 12 am precisely, with Mrs. Santa Claus faffing over me insisting I have a cup of tea before I set off.
“Dammit, woman!” I bellowed, shoving her out of the way so I could swig from a bottle of absinthe.
As I documented in my Maladies and Mobility Scooters contemplation the other day, my chronic gout means I travel via car cabin mobility scooter.
The contraption, which I call Gertrudge Jnr., arrived yesterday morning. I spent the day in it sleeping, before retiring to bed (drunk) to sleep some more, and then Mrs. Santa Claus woke me with a beaming smile at 11:30pm.
“Snuggums, it’s that special time of year again for my special dreamboat.” I heaved a retching cough and vomited violently all over the bed.
But, moments later with that absinthe in my system, I was all good to go. Sort of. I mean, I can’t move without my car cabin mobility scooter.
Mrs. Santa Claus helped me to amble into that thing, but I realised it’s different—a smaller model to the one I accidentally demolished beyond repair.
My enormous gut jammed up against the steering wheel. As I strained and grunted like crazy to get comfortable, I accidentally gave myself a hernia.
My bellows of agony pierced right down to the bowels of my factory. Thankfully, Nurse Doreen soon arrived and injected me with morphine.
Within minutes I was frothing at the mouth and hallucinating. This is an ongoing error of hers, but the daft wench injected me with chlorine by mistake. We keep the stuff next to morphine in storage.
To combat my rising hysteria, she injected me with coritsone, ketamin, and gave me a tablet of vitamin D.
Anyway, after downing a few shots of brandy, and in a total blur, I jammed the car cabin mobility scooter accelerator and floored it out of the factory, knocking Doreen over in the process and breaking her right leg in 14 places.
As she howled in agony, I howled with laughter. Dames. Can’t live with them, can’t run them over without their precious snowflake bodies breaking. Lol.
My elves spent most of Christmas Eve loading over one billion toys into the enormous sleigh outside our factory gates.
Traditionally, I waltz out of the factory, provide a speech to my hard working employees, and then head off to complete my iconic tradition—going down chimneys to give spoiled brats expensive presents they didn’t earn by themselves.
This year, a tad worse for wear, I abstained from that tradition.
Not of the most sound mind, I smashed through the factory gates in my car cabin mobility scooter and violently crashed into the sleigh.
There was a 30 minute delay after that. The elves had to weld the sleigh back together.
I then commanded them to lift me up, in my car cabin mobility scooter, and dump me into the driving seat bit. Susan, my head elf, suggested I alight from the vehicle first. I told her to cram a sock in it or face my wrath!
And so my 40 or so remaining fatigue and scurvy-stricken elves hoiked up me up in my car cabin mobility scooter and dumped me into the sleigh’s driving seat.
I then commanded Susan to open the little window on my right so I could get my chubby arm out to grab hold of the reigns. Someone has to steer the bloody thing, after all!
So, we were set. The elves stood around expectantly waiting for my speech. Instead I got out my shotgun (not a euphemism) and began firing wildly at the freeloading elves to get them hurtling back into the factory.
It’s their six month holiday ahead. But most of them will succumb to scurvy or longstanding radiation issues within a month. Lol.
I’d like to say I can remember everything that happened. Except I really can’t at all. I know I visited some houses. Two or three.
And I know some of these things happened (because my dashcam was on—plus my Go Pro Santa hat cam):
- I know I got stuck in the chimney at every house I visited. Even the ones without chimeys.
- I know I vomited over one bloke’s head in Adlington of Lancashire. I know he throttled me by the neck and yelled, “Eh!”
- I got lost over Kent and ended up delivering the posh toys for kids to some working class Glasgow suburbs.
- Getting lost after that, I careened across the North Atlantic Ocean—I visited Pitcairn Island and took a drunken swim in the water.
- Bored, I then took a beeline to Argentina just for the hell of it. But I got lost and ended up in Japan.
Santa in Japan
Okay, so this needs some explanation as things got a bit confused. In the land of Nippon, I’m called サンタさん、サンタクロース (santa-san—Mr Santa).
As it’s largely a Buddhist (whatever the hell that is) nation, they’ve only really celebrated Christmas over the last couple of decades.
In Japan, it’s not a religious holiday. Or much of a period of celebration. They view it—me—as something of a western novelty… WTF!? I demand global adoration!
The thing is, there’s a traditional Japanese gift bringer called Hoteiosho. That’s a Japanese God of good fortune.
On top of that, it turns out in Japan they don’t do Christmas dinners or whatnot. They prefer to get in a bucket from KFC.
That’s because a “Kentucky for Christmas!” (Kurisumasu ni wa kentakkii!) KFC marketing campaign in 1974 turned KFC into something of a Christmas icon.
No Santa. No chimneys. No free brandy and mince pies for Santa… as you can imagine this caused me a serious amount of narcissistic injury as I blasted around Japan’s cities getting more and more enraged at my rejection.
In previous years I was always too drunk to remember much of my trek to the East, but the cortisone injection from earlier was maintaining some sense of clarity in my addled brain.
Eventually, and perhaps inevitably, I crash-landed in Tokyo and went, drunkenly, barging about looking for this “Hoteiosho” in my car cabin mobility scooter.
After clattering about the city bellowing obscenities, I came across a large gentleman of much greater size than me.
I started a chant of, “Who ate all the pies? Who ate all the pies? You fat bastard, you bastard! Who ate all the pies?” And then I floored it and aimed my scooter at him to initiate a brawl.
Anyway, it turns out it was a leading sumo wrestler on an evening of refined conversation with friends and family. And he totally obliterated me, flipping the car on its side. He then sat on the upended door until the police arrived.
Whilst I lay there, trapped in my beloved vehicle, I roared and bellowed the most appalling invective I think I’ve ever managed to come up with.
And then I was arrested. And now I’m in jail. I contacted my head elf, Susan, to pay the parole costs. There was a silence on the phone until she said, “No. Stew in jail, you pig!” And then she hung up on me.
That… bitch! She’ll pay for that. She’s responsible for this year’s failed Christmas!
All those presents you didn’t receive that you wanted? Direct your complaints at Susan, my bitch wife, Rudolph, and all those other pathetic and inferior dunces who “work” for me!
This won’t stand! I swear!! Christmas 2020… I’ll get you all for this. You’re all going to suffer!
Christ! They even took my car cabin mobility scooter from me… woe is Santa.
[Editor: Incomprehensible gibberish followed] and that’s it for another year. I must now focus on myself for once and get out of jail, return to the North Pole, and fire everybody.
As for you lot reading this… a plague on your 2020! You’re the problem with this world. I curse you all to a year of penury and soggy Cornflakes!!