After Santa’s outing with Scotch (and hopscotch), Father Christmas has been wallowing in self-pity and desiring for nothing more than Christmas to be over for another year.
Well, tough. He’s still got a few more weeks to wade through. And he’s not taking that realisation particularly well…
Santa’s Anti-Christmas Carol Policy
I associate Christmas carols with the end of days. That sickly sweet singing? Repugnant to me. I hate it so much it makes me puke! Thus, that is what I did. All over Markus, my head elf, when he burst into my quarters one morning full of the joys of XMas.
“Oh, joy! Oh, joy!” He squeaked in that stupid high-pitched voice of his. “Sir! Sir! Christmas carol singers are here!”
And I vomited over his stupid head. Serves the little bastard right.
I was hungover. Badly. And it turns out this particularly dedicated batch of Christmas carol singers had been flown in via helicopter especially to sing for me. Kind of like a goodwill thing for Santa’s efforts.
What they didn’t bargain on was to see me, bloodshot eyes and stark bollock naked, bursting out of the factory gates wielding my double-barrelled shotgun and bellowing sweet bloody murder as I charged straight at the bastards unloading my deadly weapon.
No. No they did not bargain on that.
So began a game of cat-and-mouse, with me chasing after the crowd of 10 or so singers while I was gargling, frothing at the mouth, stumbling about, and ranting about blowing them to smithereens.
Fair to say it took the Christmas cheer out of them.
Markus had to chase after me on the snow dozer yelling at me to think of the “negative newspaper columns” if I slaughtered yet another batch of Christmas carol singers.
Something twinged inside of me. Remorse? To be honest, it felt more like wandering bladder, as my urine was flowing freely from my trouser department with gusto.
I stood there staring at it. Markus caught up with me. I pointed at him, shotgun barrel jabbing right into his squinty elf face.
“What’s what, sir?”
“This piss coming out of me non-stop, you dimwit!”
“Erm… sir, I think it’s urination due to excessive drin…”
“EXCESSIVE WHAT NOW?!?!?!”
“Excessive… hard work that means you’re stressed and you may have an unattached gallbladder right now, sir. You should go and see Nurse Doreen, sir.”
That I did. I was bored of those stupid carol singers anyway.
Later, Markus informed me they all froze to death out on the icy tundra and wouldn’t be bothering me again. As a mark of respect, I demanded Markus head back out there and sing a moving elf rendition of God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen over the corpses (before blowing them up with Semtex),
Got to hide the evidence, you know?
A Beautiful Christmas Carol Duet
To deal with my bladder problem, Nurse Doreen loaded me up with many drugs and I was as high as a kite. My good friend Aqrabuamelu the Scorpion Man returned to me during these pressing times.
He’s such a dear friend. He was very concerned, pacing around the medical clinic and furrowing his brow in dismay over my potential for survival.
“Fear not, Aqrabuamelu, I shall pull through!” I wheezed heroically.
Nurse Doreen turned to look at me funny.
“What are you bloody staring at, woman!?” I snapped.
“Just… who are you talking to, sir?”
“Aqrabuamelu, you daft bitch!!”
She looked very confused. She left the clinic soon after to go and cook up instant noodles and gravy for the elf workforce’s dinner (Nurse Doreen is also our official, and only, cook).
Aqrabuamelu and I had a good catch up during that time. He discussed his various global conquests, namely to slay all the centipedes of the world and dine on them at a giant banquet in honour of scorpion kind to be held for the King of the Scorpions.
“Terrific!” I bellowed as the diazepam kicked in and I took a big, long slug out of my hipflask full of gin.
Aqrabuamelu said I was more important than his entire species and it was essential to see me pull through my wandering bladder ailment. He proposed we sing a beautiful and uplifting Christmas carol he’d penned while slaying the 120,000 strong Centipede army of the Saharan desert. He said it goes by the name of We Wish You a Wandering Bladder and he wanted to sing it with me as a duet immediately.
I asked to see the lyrics. These were easy enough to learn:
“Good tidings we bring,
To you and your gin;
Good tidings for Christmas,
And a happy new gallbladder!
We wish you a wandering bladder,
We wish you a wandering bladder,
We wish you a wandering bladder,
And a happy new gallbladder.”
I thought it was a masterpiece. I wept for 20 minutes over that one. It was so moving Aqrabuamelu would write such a thing in mine honour!
Forgetting myself, I went to make out with Aqrabuamelu as I was compelled with euphoria. But then I remembered:
- I’m already married.
- He’s a giant scorpion and there’s no real way to do that properly.
- His species is as irrationally and idiotically homophobic as I am.
We settled on performing the duet instead. Drinking my finest whiskey, Aqrabuamelu sung with a fine baritone shrieking, hysterical whistle. Scorpion men have a distinct way of singing some would describe as “disturbing” and/or a “hellish nightmare”.
Certainly, it’s a distinguished taste.
But my baritone bellowing made up for Aqrabuamelu’s shortcomings as a singer. Although my efforts were frequently curtailed by the searing agony of my wandering bladder shifting painfully around inside of me. As such, my singing was frequently accompanied by screams of anguish.
The harmony we were creating became so enticing, Markus, my stupid wife, Rudolph, and Nurse Doreen burst into the clinic in a frantic panic. They arrived just as I performed a hip-shaking waltz Elvis would’ve been proud of as I nailed down the dance moves to go with a sure-fire Christmas #1.
The wife just stared at me and squeaked, “What is that fearful noise, dear!?”
Incandescent with rage I bellowed, “THAT… IS… IT! For too long you have held me back, woman! Aqrabuamelu! Slay her immediately and we shall marry and move to Bermuda together to live out our days beholden to true love!”
It’s around that point the drugs started to wear off and I began to feel godawful because I’d been mixing alcohol in with the diazepam.
Suddenly, Aqrabuamelu was gone.
“Where the fuck is Aqrabuamelu!?” I bellowed, lurching forward to grab Markus by the neck, but missing and falling over in a jumbled heap. I passed out soon after.
The Reality Check
The next day I came to covered in vomit and with the worst hangover of my life. I knew it was too late to save Christmas. I was hooked up to at least 12 drips in the canteen, next to the daft bitch Nurse Doreen as she chopped onions for the elves’ gruel that morning.
I knew less than 4% of the toy quota was complete for 2022. I knew at least three billion kids on the planet would be going without their Barbie dolls. I knew I’d be getting angry letters from angry parents (again). I belched exuberantly.
I turned to look at Nurse Doreen. She gave me a look of disdain.
I knew I’d buggered things up a bit.
Now was the time to find a scapegoat. Who in the name of Jesus H Christ could I blame on this disaster? It came to me in a hangover twitch of my kidneys—Aqrabuamelu!
“Yes. YES! YES!!! YESSS!!” I bellowed.
Nurse Doreen started chopping onions faster to drown out my bellowing. “WILL YOU CUT THAT OUT, BITCH!” I roared at her. She scuttled out of the kitchen.
It was masterful! Those dumb bastard tabloid readers around the world would lap it up! All I had to do now was prepare the devious plot… and unleash it… on the world.