Exclusive Santa Column: Santa Sobers Up With Geese

Sober Santa surrounded by many bottles of alcohol

Last week, Santa was ranting like a sane person about Santa’s banana boat conundrum. This week, he’s had to try and sober up. Well, it’s not gone well!

Sober Santa and the Geese

I stopped drinking after I murdered one of my stakeholders. I needed TOTAL CLARITY to deal with the aftermath.

For the hell of it, I kept a diary on my pattern of withdrawal. Kind of Jack Kerouac style in Big Sur. Figured I could try and get the book published! Make a cheeky number on the side.

Day 1: The Geese

Santa spent the morning vomiting copiously and greatly annoyed by a small gathering of geese that followed me around everywhere.

I was petrified of the geese.

There were 10 of them and they pattered around behind me honking like in Untitled Goose Game and just being annoying. One of them kept biting at my shins. Another was going for my gonads.

Normally, I’d just gun those bastards down with my bazooka.

But I was shaking so badly under alcohol withdrawal I could only grip a pencil and try to stab their stupid beaks. My stupid wife, Mrs. Santa Claus, caught me jabbing away. “What are you doing, dear?”

In a hysterical, sweaty mess I screamed gibberish at her about geese.

“But there are no geese there, sweetie.”

Batshit crazy woman! The geese were there all right! I retired to my quarters, the geese honking and waddling along behind me. Using my tannoy system, I called Rudolph into my quarters. Once he turned up, I told him to stampede the geese to death. He just gave me this funny look.

Rudolph!? Are you stoned again!? Now is not the time!!

My bellowing at him intensified and Rudolph backed silently out the room. Once he left I looked down at the geese. Silent for a moment, the geese stared back at me.

Then they unleashed hell…

As they all launched their attack on me, their wings beating at me and their beaks snapping, the honking was so deafening it was like the Seventh Circle of Hell. No man has ever had to endure such an appalling onslaught of geese. I can think of no worse fate than being pecked to death by belligerent bastards!

My bellowing of horror attracted Markus, my head elf, into the room. Armed and loaded with a shotgun and ready to do business he squeaked, “Sir… what are you doing!?

GEESE!

I bellowed it repeatedly.

I bellowed it because I could.

I bellowed it because my life depended on it.

I bellowed it because the geese were trying to kill me. I bellowed it until Nurse Doreen turned up with a shot of Valium that knocked me out on the spot.

Day 2: The Duck

I came to covered in my own excrement and other filth. “CHRIST!” I bellowed, before realising I was in the Barbie doll making machine.

Scrambling out of that thing, I slid out of the unit into a heap onto the floor of factory unit one and lay there stark bollock naked.

It was clearly very early morning because the factory was empty. My elves only begin work at 4am. I rolled over onto my belly and tried to right myself…

And then I saw the duck.

It was just standing there staring at me. Then it quacked. That quack shook me to my very core, shuddering in me a primal horror I’d never experienced in my life.

My hysterical screams of dismay almost brought the factory roof down. I charged from the factory, the duck waddling along behind me quacking.

The stupid wife later found me cowering helplessly in a utility closet with the duck standing there… staring at me.

“What are you doing, honey?” My bellows of horror about the duck fell on deaf ears.

“What duck, sweetie? Have you been overworking yourself again, dear? You really should take some time off.”

I grabbed hold of a bucket next to me and hurled it at her stupid head. It missed. She tutted and closed the door behind her.

Left alone with the duck, I quaked in terror. And it quacked.

WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!?!”

My feeble warbling was pathetic enough, but I wet myself as the words trickled from my mouth in dismal fashion.

The duck stared at me.

I grabbed the mop that had accompanied the aforementioned bucket. I propped myself up and pointed the mop head at the duck. Bellowing abuse at the duck, I launched the type of Star Wars/lightsabre type of onslaught that would have made Luke Skywalker proud.

You should have seen me! Ducking (ironically), weaving, diving, thrusting. The duck didn’t stand a chance!

Well, except I misjudged one of my dramatic hip movements and smashed headfirst into the wall of the utility closet. I believe that knocked me out.

Day 3: The Hedgehog

I came to out slobbering over a bucket by the side of the factory gate. Naked, half frozen, and in a state of perpetual terror.

The duck must have dragged me out there.

Withdrawal often intensifies after 60 hours and sure enough, on the 60 hour mark my world changed forever.

I thought I had seen true immortal terror the previous two days.

Yet no duck or goose is a match for the petrifying, bowel-loosening terror that is a lone hedgehog. It was standing there staring at me, its nose twitching back and forth.

Oh my holy shit…” I groaned, aware my doom was impending.

The beast’s nose twitched some more. I began backing up, but my left leg was frozen solid. I used my big beer belly to beat at it mercilessly, trying to get some life back into the thing.

And the hedgehog took another step forward. Nose twitching.

Amidst my high-pitched shrieking of unbridled dread, Nurse Doreen suddenly homed into my vision. She said, “Friday night and the lights are low. Looking out for a place to go. Where they play the right music. Getting in the swing.”

I glared at her and bellowed, “WHAT IN THE NAME OF CHRIST ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, WOMAN?!

My stupid wife then turned up and began crooning along.

“You come to look for a king. Anybody could be that guy. Night is young and the music’s high. With a bit of rock music. Everything is fine. You’re in the mood for a dance. And when you get the chance.”

The 10 geese, the duck, and the hedgehog then suddenly formed a backing band to the ecstatic vibrancy of disco dancing as Nurse Doreen and my stupid wife hit the chorus.

“You are the dancing queen. Young and sweet. Only seventeen. Dancing queen. Feel the beat from the tambourine, oh yeah. You can dance. You can jive. Having the time of your life. Ooh, see that girl. Watch that scene. Digging the dancing queen.”

I couldn’t run, because my leg was frozen solid. All I could do was wail hysterically until I passed out due to DTs, terror, horror, hypothermia, dehydration, incredulity, confusion, irrationality, and lack of drunkenness.

Santa’s Conclusions on Sobriety

There is no fucking way in all bastard Hell am I ever going through that again.

On the fourth day, I hit the bottle with a vengeance and didn’t stop. Everything is a blur, but at least those goddamn creatures aren’t pestering me anymore. Jesus… that duck will haunt my dreams.

I caught up with my wife and demanded to know why she was suddenly indulging in ABBA hits. She just stared at me funny and told me to take a holiday.

Nurse Doreen also thought I was losing it, so gave me some black market heroin.

I don’t dabble in that shit. I’m a pure individual. So I gave it to Markus as a gift and told him it was talcum powder. I caught up with him later that day and he was unconscious on the floor, frothing at the mouth. “Stupid little wanker!” I opined.

But the previous three days made me think.

Think about things. Contemplate the nature of being. I arose on day five to behold the most beautiful sunrise across the North Pole, Santa’s factory resplendent in its majesty.

I hit the whiskey and belched exuberantly as the orange hues took away my sense of manliness.

Then my bowels shifted horribly and I realised I was done for. I fouled myself hideously and with much gusto. I belched exuberantly again and chortled at the situation. I am the master of my Universe.

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