Another week, another newsletter. After Santa’s last outing with death bats, we’re pleased this week to see he’s discussing lovely Christmas jumpers.
Excellent! That’s much more wholesome and fabulous. Christmas jumpers spread considerable joy across the world and it’s superb to see Santa finally embrace the Christmas spirit.
An Evening of Sophistication
My stupid wife was on my case saying I’m not “sophisticated”. I got my head elf, Markus, into my quarters and told him to get a wine tasting evening together.
He said, “Sir, we don’t have any wine.”
I gave the little bastard a withering look. “WELL BLOODY WELL GET SOME, THEN!” Stupid little git! Sick of this attitude!
But it turns out he was right. The alcohol I have at the Santa factory? Whiskey, gin, absinthe, and vodka. No wine is allowed because it’s not a proper drink and only snowflake communist liberals go near the stuff.
As such, my wine tasting evening turned into a hardcore spirits drinking evening! I don’t remember much about it, to be honest. I do know I found this note the next morning from the daft bint that is my wife.
Sweetie, I know you will be very hungover this morning. Last night you belched a moving rendition of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Whilst it moved several of the reindeer to tears, I must say it was not quite what I had in mind when it comes to sophistication.
We have not spent any time together in almost 12 months. Please can you look to conduct yourself in a manner befitting of your status as Father Christmas? I had to clean up a lot of your vomit again last night and it is beginning to make me question my commitment to this annual tradition.
Yours, Mrs. Santa Claus
I had the note destroyed by Markus. Like, properly destroyed. I insisted he take it out into the icy wasteland of the North Pole and detonate it with 500 pounds of Semtex.
The wife was there to see it, of course, I was drunk and dragged her up to the roof so we could watch the explosion together. That’s romantic, right? Chicks dig massive explosions!
But she didn’t appreciate the sentiment. She just gave me a disapproving stare. She was close to tears. Waving a bottle of vodka in her face I jeered, “HERE COME THE WATER WORKS AGAIN!” And I belched exuberantly, fouled myself vociferously, and rugby tackled the elf nearest to the ground.
That action crushed the stupid little git to death. Annoyed, I demanded his corpse be dragged off and used as food in the canteen.
Mrs. Santa Claus stalked off at that point to the tune of me drunkenly jeering more abuse at her and calling her a, “Nagging bitch!” She just wants attention so this was expertly handled by me. It’ll shut her up for a bit.
Santa’s Lovely Christmas Jumpers
At some point in my drunken mania I’d designed a new Christmas jumper range and had 13,000 of the things ordered and delivered. I have no recollection of any of that. Markus filled me in on the details:
“It was last month. You were drunk and naked and threatening to kill everyone with a kettle of partially boiled water. You started chasing us outside the factory and that’s when you got hypothermia, so you said you wanted these Christmas jumpers so, next time, you wouldn’t almost freeze to death.”
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer presented me with one of the jumpers.
Unfortunately, I was going through quite severe delirium tremens at the time and believed the Christmas jumper to be the zombie reincarnation of commie bastard Vladimir Ilʹich Lenin.
And I thought Rudolph was Rasputin.
The result of this was I tried to smother Rasputin (aka Rudolph) with the jumper. That merely served to infuriate Rasputin/Rudolph, despite it being some 12 months since my last murder attempt on him.
The tempestuous SOB went to spear me in the gonads with his antlers!
Luckily, he was so out of it on cocaine, heroin, and Red Bull he missed my trouser department. Instead, his right antler merely went right into, and through to the other side, of my right thigh.
My screams were heard outside of the factory.
So, it was another spell in the medical unit with Chef/Nurse Doreen. She gazed impassively at the gaping wound in my leg. “JUST STITCH IT UP, WOMAN!” I bellowed. She did just that, to the tune of my relentless high-pitched screaming.
She then gave me some instant noodles and a shot of brandy as a post-operation kind of… meal. It was then I realised I should probably hire someone to be a chef. I asked Doreen if that would be useful. She nodded her head and curled up on the floor in a ball and wept.
“Stupid bitch…” I muttered.
I got up and went to walk to my office, but my leg gave in and the wound opened up violently again. That led to more bellowing.
Markus, my head elf, turned up to help and I belaboured him mercilessly as he helped me back onto the operating table. Nurse Doreen, through fitful tears and sobs, stitched the wound back together. Markus suggested adding some superglue and sellotape to hold the thing together.
I was quite high on brandy by then, so went a step further.
Demanding Markus go and get a welding kit from factory unit one, I DEMANDED he weld my leg back together.
Naturally, that was agonising.
My bellows of anguish shattered the glass windows in the operating theatre. Chef/Nurse Doreen was left with a severe headache and a burst eardrum. Markus had to lie down for half an hour. My negligent wife even turned up to find out what the commotion was all about. I glared at her ferociously and pointed a big chubby finger at my leg, “SEE WHAT YOUR DEIGNS OF SOPHISTICATION HAVE DONE TO ME, WOMAN!?”
I grabbed a scalpel off a nearby table and tried to charge her in a rage, but I just fell drunkenly over and lay there in a heap.
Looking at my leg, everything had opened up again and the wound was quite bare and gaping. “FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!” I bellowed.
“YOU… WOMAN! GET ME BACK ON THAT OPERATING TABLE!”
Chef/Nurse Doreen took one look at it and refused. I went red through indignation, “GET ME BACK ON THAT OPERATING TABLE! NOW!”
She shook her head and kept backing away. I wasn’t sure how to handle employee dissent so I just kept bellowing “NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW!” over and over and over. And that was long after Doreen had backed out of the room and cleared off for the day.
Long story short, I hit the bottle and Markus called for an air ambulance.
There was a snowstorm outside and the first one had a fireball crash into the icy tundra near to the factory, killing everyone onboard in a hellish, fiery inferno.
To the sound of my roaring “FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!” Markus called for another one.
This one landed outside the factory, but a very stoned Rudolph and his revelling reindeer mates thought the factory was under attack. They stampeded the helicopter and its crew. The pilot, naturally panicking at the sight of a frenzied, drug addled batch of reindeer, took off. But, alas, he too crashed into the icy tundra.
Ironically, it was only about 20ft away from the other one. Again, everyone onboard was blown to smithereens in the hellish inferno. That was except for one paramedic whose body was blown clear of the explosion in a moment of great happenstance.
We tried to call for a third air ambulance, but they REFUSED. I lodged an immediate complaint and threatened to blow up their hospital with a gun.
Meanwhile, Markus found the sole survivor of the crash. He was laying prone on the floor groaning with shattered legs and serious burns. He clearly needed immediate medical assistance. At gunpoint, Markus forced him to treat my leg which he did through anguished sobs.
While he worked I demanded he join my workforce as Head Chef. He said he already had a job as a paramedic. He soon changed his mind once I brandished a bazooka in his stupid, sobbing face.
“What’s your name, employee?!” I sneered at him.
“Colin…” He whimpered back.
I really didn’t like that name. So! I had Markus drag Colin away and dump him off a cliff into an icy expanse of water. Bit of business advice for you—never hire anyone called Colin.
On the Mend
Once my leg mends I really need to get on with Christmas 2022.
So far, we’re way behind schedule and have completed 0% of the expected quota for this year’s Christmas run. That isn’t encouraging.
Depressed, I hit the bottle.
When I came to the next day I found my leg wound had bloody well opened up AGAIN! Markus said it was because I’d been dancing the can-can, while stark bollock naked, to annoy my stupid wife. Really jamming my massive beer gut in her face and everything and mocking her about “sophistication”.
Well, my leg wound had gone a funny colour and was real smelly.
Nurse Doreen turned up again and was almost physically sick. I threatened her with a pay cut unless she sort it out, so she poured a bottle of vodka onto the wound and then cauterised it with a flamethrower blast and wrapping clingfilm around the leg.
I was then ordered to not move for “at least” three days to let the thing heal properly.
So what did I do? I hit the bottle. The wife tutted and rolled her eyeballs and I screamed abuse at her in a tantrum.
I was going to get up, but Rudolph and his reindeer cronies turned up, pinned me down, and fitted me with a straitjacket. I was stuck. A prisoner in my own factory! I spent the next 72 hours bellowing abuse at all and sundry as the withdrawal kicked in the mania took over.
My only company? Aqrabuamelu the Scorpion Man returned with wise words on recovering, returning stronger than ever, and instigating a business-wide belt whipping rampage.
I gritted my teeth and fought my way through. But only after I fouled myself half a dozen times. Naturally.