Exclusive Santa Column: Dandelion & Burdock (and space)

A collection of cartoon space rockets and the cosmos
Santa in space!

After Santa’s mince pie eating frenzy last time out, he became the latest billionaire to enter the space race.

However, he seems distracted by dandelion and burdock. We’re sure hope that doesn’t dent the health and safety prospects of his mission.

Santa Slakes His Thirst

The mood took me at 2am. I just HAD to have some dandelion and burdock. “BITCH WIFE!” I bellowed. No response. “BITCH WIFE!?”

The wife stirred next to me in bed and sleepily asked, “Yes, snuggums?”

“Get me some dandelion and burdock. NOW!”

So off she trotted to get some of the stuff. She returned an hour later with this news, “Snuggums, we’re all very sorry but there’s no dandelion and burdock.”

Furious, I grabbed the bottle of absinthe from off my bedside cabinet and took a long swig. And that’s the last thing I remember.

My memory was filled in later by the CCTV footage of me tearing through the factory naked (obviously), covered in jam (for some reason), and screaming.

After that, the police report filled the other blanks.

My escapade escalated with me clambering into the semi-complete billion dollar space rocket my elves had been building to get me into the Earth’s orbit.

Instead, I used it to blast off and head to the nearest Kwik Save supermarket where I knew there’d be two litre bottles of low-quality dandelion and burdock at cheap, cheap prices.

Despite crash landing in a field outside of Bolton in Greater Manchester, I was able to travel into town to a Kwik Save where I bought myself 21 bottles of dandelion and burdock.

Or at least tried to. The shop assistant said I was too drunk and she wouldn’t serve me.

Apparently, that’s because I stormed into the store bellowing about “BASTARD BURDOCK!” while stark bollock naked. All while slugging my fist at anyone, with a bottle of brandy in my other hand.

Naturally, I was deeply offended about my consumer rights being upended!

The result was a 24 hour hostage situation, with me threatening to detonate the store, and everyone in it, unless I got my dandelion and burdock.

After 24 hours the police realised I wasn’t just a  drunken Bolton local dressed up in a Santa getup and it’d be quicker to just let me clear off with the beverages.

I took the troublesome shop assistant, Mary, with me just in case the police pulled a dickhead rear-guard move on me or something. I’m wise to dirty tricks!

But that was it, I returned to the ship in the field, got in, and set off back to the North Pole loaded up with dandelion and burdock.

There’s Something About Two Marys

On returning to my factory, I crash landed the spaceship into the side of factory unit 3. This, unfortunately, flattened 37 elves and also led to a gas leak.

The leak caught fire and the whole of factory unit 3 went up in a blaze.

Mary, that stupid shop assistant I’d kidnapped, was quite panic-stricken about the inferno. I bellowed at her it was perfectly normal and to cram a sock in it.

I then introduced Mary to Mary, my head elf, who’d rushed out to find out what the explosion was about this time.

“Mary, this is Mary.” I said. The elf stood there confused.

“But I’m Mary.”

“Yes. And so is she.” I pointed at the other Mary. She was also confused.

“Yeah, but, I’m Mary, mister.”

“Yes! Well, there are two Marys now! It’s not confusing.” However, they didn’t look convinced by my assured words.

My wife then arrived on the scene and tried to greet me with a peck on the cheek. Unfortunately, I was feeling quite nauseous and vomited all over the floor, stopping the romantic gesture before it reached fruition.

“That’s disgusting, mister!” Said Mary.

I eyeballed her angrily. “SHUT UP!” I roared. Then I introduced Mary to Mrs. Santa Claus. She chastised me lightly, “Oh, snuggums, but we already have a Mary at the factory! It’ll get confusing, dear!”


And I left it at that, with the fire brigade sirens wailing off in the distance as they tore towards the blazing inferno of factory unit 3.

Santa’s Space Press Conference

A day later, and with my recent escapade to Bolton of Greater Manchester, the press had caught on I was the latest billionaire to enter the space race.

With high demand for me to explain my actions as a superior business owner and wannabe astronaut, I called Mary (the head elf) into my office to arrange a press conference.

She arrived looking the worse for wear. I called her out on her unprofessionalism. “Sir, I don’t feel so good.” She squeaked.

She hadn’t eaten anything in days, it turned out, due to food shortages. With all the generosity in the world, I poured her a glass of dandelion and burdock and pelted the glass at her head.

Unfortunately, this had the effect of knocking Mary out and she fell into a coma.

I was getting pretty drunk by that point because it was 9am, so found the other Mary eased my confusion and growing delirium on matters.

“Jesus, Santa, you’re a mess!” She said when she entered the office.

I tried to shoot her dead with my bazooka but could not find the bazooka nor my clothing. I resorted to bellowing obscenities at her.

I did so until she burst into tears. I jeered and laughed at her at that point. Then my stupid wife walked into the office, “Dear, the world media is here and waiting to start the press conference.”

WHAT THE ACTUAL BASTARD?!” I bellowed After checking my emails, I realised I’d arranged it all drunkenly the night before!

Unable to find my clothing, drunk, and covered in vomit, it dawned on me I was in poor condition to attend the press conference. And with Mary, the elf, on life support in the infirmary, I wasn’t sure if I could get through the thing without some sort of hiccup.

“You, Mary!” I shouted and pointed at the shop assistant. “You’re going to dress up as Santa and do the press conference for me!”

She refused to do this, even when I threatened to find my bazooka and annihilate her.

Well, there was nothing else for it. I did the press conference as I was—baring my soul to the outside world as a noble gesture of my vulnerability.

Not that the press saw it like that. Bastards. Here are some of the headlines they ran with:

  • Psycho Santa Causes Press Conference Riot
  • Naked Santa Slobbers His Way Into Space Race
  • Invective, Ire, Rioting, And Madness: Is Santa Out of Control?
  • Father Christmas’ mental health in question after crazed press conference

On and on they went. The general impression being I’d “disgraced” myself and was doing the space race purely for egotistical purposes.

Furious, I got REALLY drunk that night and decided to issue a press release to put out my side of the story. It simply read:


Unfortunately, this did little to quell the press frenzy surrounding me. So I decided to lay low for a few days and went on an outrageous drinking spree.

By Sunday I found Mary, the shop assistant, was gone.

She made a heroic trek across the icy tundra of the North Pole to safety. She reached the press today (Monday) and has provided a scathing account of her time with me.

This has further stoked the flames!

To try and offset the balance I launched another press release announcing I was donating money to a homeless charity.

However, my submission of a $10 cheque was met with considerable scorn, again, from the international press. Goddamn communist bastards!


  1. What is dandelion and burdock drink?

    I’m glad Mary made it to safety. I was getting confused with all the Marys around.

    So, Santa in Space! I like it! It’s quite an accomplishment, and the Press should be more respectful.
    Tell Santa just to keep his bazooka by his bed, always. That way he’ll have it when he needs it!

    Liked by 1 person

Dispense with some gibberish!

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