Okay, Santa’s Christmas day report 2022 revealed a more alcoholic, disorderly side to Santa than, perhaps, many were expecting.

For his last post of 2022, there’s still some exciting news! Hollywood wants to turn his mental year into a movie! Huzzah!

Santa at the Movies

I don’t watch films because it’s leftist propaganda. Last one I saw was Citizen Kane in 1941 and it was so socialist I detonated the screen, in the movie theatre, right there and then, with an outraged bazooka shot.

I’ve been banned from cinemas ever since.

But after all this “4.3% toy delivery failure” fiasco crap, the press hounding me day-in, day-out for answers, I was feeling a bit seething and goddamn furiously insane. I’ve locked myself in my quarters for the last week drinking heavily and refusing to speak to anyone.

That is until I got a letter from a director over in America.

Markus, my head elf, delivered it to me. I drunkenly tore open the letter, ripping it in half by accident, bellowing obscenities at Markus for being such a clumsy dipshit, and then was too drunk to read the letter. Markus read it out for me. By the time he’d finished reading I’d:

• Wet myself
• Fouled myself
• Popped the blood vessels in my eyes
• Ruptured a kidney

“They want to make a film about me…” I wheezed. “Quite right! About bastard time!!” To celebrate, I cracked open two bottles of champagne and drank them both within 10 minutes while Markus watched me.

“Erm… sir?”

“What?!”

“Is… they want a meeting with you now, sir. Over Skype. It’s probably wise to put some clo…”

“I’LL DECIDE WHAT IS AND WHAT IS NOT WISE, YOU IGNOMONIOUS SWINE!!”

“Okay, sir!”

Eyeballing the little bastard haughtily, I figured he may be talking a modicum of sense. I was just in my heavily soiled underpants. So I threw a t-shirt over my delightful frame to cover up some of my modesty.

Santa’s Semi-Naked Meeting

The director, a woman (not sure how I feel about that), introduced herself over Skype. Shaved head (not sure how I feel about that), wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt (pretty sure how I feel about that!!), and talking in an American accent (just… yeah, okay).

I mean, I was really pissed by that point and slouching heavily onto my table while she talked. Markus was doing his best to keep me propped up while I listened to her prattling on about the project.

“The goal is to represent you, Mr. Claus, and tell your story from the side of a capitalistic entity pertaining to the original thought within your organisation. Themes abounding will include your capacity to maintain this business model in an era of…”

“WHO THE FUCK!? Is going to play… ME?!” I interjected.

Silence on her side. Then my tight t-shirt split from all the gargantuan gut within and my enormous beer belly spilled out like a tidal wave of flab.

“Christ! Please, can you put some clothes on?!”

“You’ll take me for who I am, bitch!”

“Mr. Claus?! Please, can we be civil?”

“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you, baby!?”

I then vomited and passed out. I woke up three hours later draped over the laptop (which was now covered in slobber and had short circuited). Markus was standing obediently beside me and updated me on the details.

The director thought I was “repugnant”, but “exceptional” source material and I’d make for an “excellent” film. Too fucking right I would! To celebrate, I started slugging from a bottle of gin and lumbered into the bathroom to wipe all the coagulated filth out of my Santa beard.

The Pre-Production Visit

The director was flown in by helicopter that night to examine the site, wanting an “ultra-realistic” film shot on the very location the disaster went down.

I was in my office, in a bit of a state, when she arrived. Markus led her in. I was totally naked, apart from a new pair of already soiled underpants. But I heroically propped myself up and ambled over to shake her hand (massive beer gut swaying around as I approached her).

“Jesus Christ! Can you put some clothes on, please?!”

I stared at her. Bossy bitch! I was about to bellow abuse at her, but she began barking out orders into a walkie talkie. The crew members with her were all running around measuring everything and taking pictures. I was trembling with rage at this point, but my professionalism took sway and the meeting began.

The meeting did not go well.

She criticised me for being “highly abusive” while I accused her of being an “annoying bitch”. But the main sticking point, THE MOST IMPORTANT POINT, regarded who was going to play me. I have lofty expectations from this and had a list ready of candidates:

• Robert Redford
• Clark Gable
• Peter O’Toole
• Elvis Presley
• Marlon Brando (the 1950s version of Brando)
• James Dean

“Get me Elvis. If there’s no Elvis then Brando will do.”

“Both are dead. In fact, everyone on your list is dead apart from Robert Redford. But he’s not a good bit of casting for you. We need someone who resembles you. But these are the finer details to be worked out la…”

“GET ME ELVIS, DAMMIT! Get him on the phone… NOW!”

She looked genuinely disturbed at this point, with her mouth opening and shutting but with no words coming out. Markus came over to whisper in my air.

“Sir, Elvis Presley died over forty five years ago.”

I seized him by the neck with my chubby hands and hurled him across the room in a rage. He bounced off a wall and landed upside down in a heap. By this point Santa was into an alcoholic blackout, so my wife had to recount events to me later. It went down like this:

• In a furious rage, I tipped over the table in my quarters.
• Then I began a bellowing chant regarding Elvis Presley.
• I then began pretending to be Elvis, throwing some shapes and singing about being “all shook up” and “Uh huh huh” over and over. This went on for many hours.

The director tried to (quietly) back out of the room during my long and spectacular performance (which Nurse Doreen later described as, “Pretty much a psychotic episode”), but she neglected to factor in one thing…

I wanted a dancing partner!

As Markus was sprawled out unconscious on the floor, she’d have to do. So, I swooped in and we began perambulating around the room with her, the director’s feet never touching the floor as she hung off my enormous beer belly. All while I belted out Elvis’ biggest hits like Always on my Blinds, Suspicious Fines, Blue Shades & Brews, and Swagger Jagger.

She turned out to be an excellent dance partner, just grimly hanging on and repeatedly muttering in a monotonous voice, “Please, Mr. Claus, can you put me down?” And I eventually did after 20 minutes of solid waltzing around in circles. But I was knackered after that so put her back down and asked her out on a date.

She declined. Cold-hearted bitch broke my heart…

The Movie is Aborted

The stupid woman then flew back to America. The next day she sent me this email:

“Dear Mr. Claus,

Thank you for allowing the time in your busy schedule for my team and I to visit your premises. I regret to inform we will not be pursuing the project any further.

Yours sincerely, [female director’s name, which I’ve removed here because I’m not giving that WENCH any free advertising of her shitty movies!!]

I’d hit the bottle by this point and sent her this email back:

“BITCH!!! yew come hear and yew waist my thyme like that… fuck you and your army!!!”

While she didn’t respond to that, she did post on her social media channels that the Santa film was called off. Santa is banned from all social media accounts so couldn’t fume further… I simply drank myself into a stupor, went out back, and belly flopped into the elves’ cesspit.

It’s just been that kind of year.