After last week’s Santa leadership special, Christmas Day is fast approaching. Are you looking forward to opening all those presents!? Well, maybe wait to see what the results of Santa’s medical are first.

Because without Santa on top form, he’s not getting around the world to complete any Christmas Day run. So, no PS5 for you, granddad, unless it’s 100% sure Father Christmas doesn’t have malaria.

Santa’s Magical and Melodious Medical

I woke up one morning and spent 30 minutes vomiting into the bucket next to the bed. Then I hit the bottle and was too drunk to move by 8am.

I woke up at 3pm and began the cycle of vomiting again. I started drinking and passed out, waking up at 6pm with The Queen of England standing over me. “What the fuck do you want?!” I snarled.

The Queen of England began breakdancing and, appalled by her performance, I drank myself to sleep again.

The next day the cycle repeated. Vomiting. Passing out. Coming to. This time Stalin and Rasputin visited and performed together a moving rendition of B-52’s hit single Love Shack.

The next day, with the cycle repeating, the stupid wife said to me, “Dear, I think you need to get a medical check.” I glared at her, “WHAT!?”

She wouldn’t take no for an answer and got the reindeer to manhandle me down to the infirmary, with me bellowing obscenities, between bouts of vomiting, all the way.

I was too drunk to move so accepted my lot, greeting nurse Doreen with highly charged invective and cutting putdowns.

“And it’s nice to see you, too!” She chirped. “BITCH!” I roared.

“Okay, well we need a stool sample first. So, can you…”

And before she’d finished I obliged, staggering to my feet, squatting down, and defecating straight onto the floor.

She was shocked by that, but I gather they were still able to get medical checks from it.

I passed out soon after, but apparently they all got my blood checks done and all that other crap they need to do.

Santa’s Happy Medical Results

The next day, when I was still with it enough to take in certain information (i.e. it was 7am and I could just about prop myself up), the reindeer dragged me back to the infirmary.

Nurse Doreen looked at me funny and said, “The blood tests for your liver are back.” I glared back at her, “SO?!”

She looked at the chart, then at me, then back at the chart, then back at me again. “Santa…” – “THAT’S MR. FATHER CHRISTMAS TO YOU!” – “Mr. Father Christmas… have you been drinking quite heavily recently?”

Glaring ferociously at her, I threw the near empty bottle of whiskey straight for her head. It missed by a mile and smashed harmlessly through the infirmary window, smacking a passing elf by pure coincidence and knocking him out stone cold.

Doreen was not disturbed, “Mr. Father Christmas…” – “THAT’S SANTA CLAUS TO YOU, BITCH!” – “Santa Claus, based on these blood test results, you’re going to have to stop drinking for a while.”

This information did not compute.

“Like… no more coffee?” She looked at her chart again, “No, I mean no more alcohol.”

Santa looked at the chart, then at Doreen, then at the chart, then at Doreen, then Santa belched exuberantly.

Doreen wasn’t impressed, “You need to diet. And you need to stop drinking! This is the list of everything I found wrong with you.” And she read out the list:

• Gout
• Scurvy
• Conjunctivitis
• Asbestosis
• Atopic eczema
• Cellulitis
• Chilblains
• Chickenpox
• Rabies
• Dehydration
• Dry mouth
• Earache
• Malaria
• Food poisoning
• Chronic flatulence
• Fungal nail infection
• Gallstones
• Piles
• Hay fever
• Headlice and nits
• Ingrowing toenails
• Insomnia
• Itching
• Itchy bottom
• Leg cramps
• Liver, kidney, and heart defects
• Malnutrition
• Menopause
• Migraine
• Restless legs syndrome
• Sore throat
• Sunburn
• Frostbite
• Tinnitus
• A gammy knee
• Toothache
• Rotting teeth
• Vertigo
• A cold
• Probable narcissistic personality disorder

I couldn’t quite believe this impertinence!

“Santa Claus…” – “THAT’S SIR FATHER CHRISTMAS TO YOU, DEVIL WOMAN!” – “Sir Father Christmas, no more alcohol for three months!” – “BULLSHIT!” I roared and I staggered up to my feet and grabbed the list from her.

“THIS IS WHAT I THINK OF YOUR LIST!” I frogmarched her outside into the freezing temperatures and threw the list onto the snow. Then I whipped out my bazooka (not a euphemism) and shot the list dead and to smithereens.

As debris rained down around us I glared at Doreen furiously while slugging repeatedly from a bottle of absinthe.

“I’m just doing my job!” She said. “BITCH!” I bellowed. And that’s the last thing I remember from that day.

Something of a concerning omen ahead of Christmas Day.