Last week it was a briefly sober Santa Claus. This week he steps the Christmas push up a notch. Because at the previous rate, no one was getting presents…

The Christmas Push

Okay. I must admit, this Christmas run hasn’t gone great so far. And with November just around the corner the only solution I could see was to start drinking more heavily and get on with things. That’s exactly what I’ve done.

Executive decision EXECUTED to perfection.

And to get things moving, I sent a love letter to Sigourney Weaver. I did that with the utmost discretion. But I know Sigourney can get the job done! This is the letter.

Dear Signourney Weaver.

I am Santa Clause. I love you very very much. Please come to the North Pole and you can attach a facehugger to me any time you feel like it, baby!

You’res, Father XXX-Mas

P.S. Send me you’re number baby!!

I showed the letter to my wife before I sent it, so she could correct my spelling (I was drunk when I wrote it). She wasn’t impressed with me…

Well, the spelling isn’t that bad.

Anyway, I’m waiting for Sigourney’s response. Naturally, she’s going to be interested in someone as wealthy, successful, and brilliant as I am.

The next day I got drunk again and wanted to write another love letter to Sigourney Weaver. This time I called my wife into the room to help me write it properly, but she just put the paper through the paper shredder.

“BITCH!!” I bellowed.

Markus told me the next day I then passed out on the spot and wet myself. Hah. Classic Santa charisma.

A Random What?

The following day, and on a casual random impulse, I decided to set fire to the factory.

I’m not sure why. It just made perfect sense. So (and I was drunk, yes) I doused the whole factory with petrol and lit the bastard up like a mother.

It’s fair to say this caused a lot of bother.

And it’s also fair to say it probably didn’t help the Christmas push.

The general problem with my decision was this:

• Fire is very hot
• Fire can do quite a lot of damage to property

You’ve got the flames, smoke inhalation, more flames, buildings falling over, my memory loss, whatever the hell Markus my head elf is. That stuff.

And when I called Markus into my quarters, this being at peak fire time with everything burning merrily away like a hellish nightmare, I casually asked him how the Christmas production run was going.

In hysterics, in that daft high-pitched elf voice of his, he screeched about the factory being on fire and stuff.

“Shut up, elf cretin!” I bellowed at him. “Santa has noted the fire. There is nothing to be concerned about!”

At that point an enormous steel beam, that was on fire (naturally) smashed through the roof of my quarters and landed mere inches away from me.

Of course, I’d been drinking heavily by that point and felt a bit queasy. Really, the fire and the destruction didn’t bother me all that much. Instead, I heaved up all over the floor after one-too-many tipples. Oopsie.

Unbeknownst to me, I had also caught fire. I guess my eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be. I am getting older, after all! All I knew was my pants were on fire and it was creating a stinging sensation. At first, I waved it off. But then my beard caught fire and that also created a stinging sensation. “YOU CAN’T GET THE FUCKING STAFF THESE DAYS!” I bellowed as Markus, Rudolph, and my wife dragged me out of the premises.

We watched it burn.

The factory burned. It continued burning. It didn’t stop burning. The burning was relentless. We all had to camp outside the factory while the burning continued. I quipped, “Burning, eh!?” And then I belched violently and fouled myself.

Luckily, a snowstorm turned up and put all of that out after only 10 hours of solid inferno. But the damage to the factory was pretty extensive. Oh well. Shit happens. A nifty pay cut for my elves will cover that off from the budget.

Also, Markus, my head elf, the day after The Great Fire got to the elf survivors, who were gathered outside the smouldering factory shivering in the freezing temperatures. Markus said.

“The factory was on fire. But WE are not on fire. That is only a good thing.”

My thunderous applause was matched only by one thunderous belch. I never knew Markus had such a way with words!

But the other elves didn’t look very impressed. And Rudolph actually flipped the bird at Markus. I thought that was incredibly rude!

In a drunken rage, I yanked out my shotgun (not a euphemism)… but in the seconds that took the action to end, my drunken memory loss had kicked in. I had no idea why I was angry and why I’d yanked the shotgun out.

So I fired a few rounds off wildly into the air. Just for the hell of it. I passed out soon after that, I believe. I mean, I think I did.

The Igloo

I woke up in an igloo and then the confusion just got more confusing. In my igloo I sat there naked, hungover, belching, and confused. I sat there waiting for answers.

Mrs. Santa Claus slid in and explained the elves had built igloos for everyone to stay in while the factory is repaired. “Whatever…” I grunted.

Then Markus turned up after a bit and explained the extent of the damage to the factory. Two weeks of solid repairs were in order with a bill of $50 million to get the SOB shipshape again.

My obscenities drowned the bastard out. To ease my stress, I began drinking some more.

I lapsed into a lucid dream. In it, I saw myself 337 years in the future. All was confusing and there was much snow. When I came to, drenched in sweat, I went to find my wife. She was baking some cookies outside the igloo on a portable oven thing. I approached my wife and said, “Hello. I am Father Christmas. I come in peace.” And she said, “Well, that’s nice, dear!”

I decided to set fire to everything around me.

There were many complaints about that. The wife. Markus. Fuck face (Rudolph). They all made it clear I shouldn’t do that and, once I yanked out my flamethrower (not a euphemism) and a carton of petrol they hurled themselves on me. “GET OFF ME, YOU BASTARDS!” I bellowed.

My bellowing continued. But there were no more fires. I had a long sulk about that one and refused to speak to anyone for the next 48 hours. Right up until the builders arrived.

Getting to Know the Builders

A team of 30 builders turned up via helicopter to begin the factory repairs. I greeted their gaffer, Mr. Jones, in my customary fashion.

I was severely hungover, stark bollock naked, and had nasty frostbite up the right side of my leg. When he went to shake my hand I just stared at him funny and then vomited over it.

He wasn’t best pleased with that.

And I wasn’t best pleased he was displeased. So I yanked out my flamethrower (not a euphemism) and lit the bastard’s pants on fire.

This caused much chaos, with the other builders running about in a panic. And the gaffer, Mr. Jones, was on fire all right. I mean, he burned to the ground. Screaming in agony, too. It was hilarious!

Markus stood beside me as we watched him running around in circles screaming. “Sir… I think he’s in pain…”

“He is indeed, Markus!” I then belched violently and began my drinking for the day.

Anyway, Rudolph rounded up the other builders and, despite their protestations about my “murder” they got on with work. Basically, because I told them I’d gun the bastards to the ground if they refused.

They’ve also agreed to a 20% cut on the end bill for being such pathetic sissy wissies.

You see? A bit of brutal violence and terror can go a long way in the business world! With that in mind, I returned to my igloo to get drunk. All this stress was making me hit the bottle hard, but seeing as I could now barely remember anything it didn’t matter.

I sat there, naked, down from a bottle of gin with my buttocks frozen and my beard singed from my face. “I’m a multi-millionaire!” I announced to myself. Then I wet myself.