Following on from the ongoing, if a bit shaky, Santa website redesign the man himself has got his Christmas game on (finally).

With 0% of his toy production quota met, Father Christmas is aware his business rival at Glorious Gift Land is ahead of the curve.

In his attempt to get one over on his competitor, Santa has donned his charisma hat for a pleasant get-together at the nearby factory. We’re  pleased to report this meeting most swimmingly.

Dealings With a Business Bastard

It began with a message on LinkedIn. Me (Santa) fired off a polite apology to Glorious Gift Land’s SOB of a CEO. Jeremy Windfellow… a name that makes me grind my Santa teeth violently whenever I hear it!

My head elf, Markus, has insider knowledge. Glorious Gift Land is well on with its Christmas production run.

Over 40% ahead of the Santa factory!

Santa wanted to know how in the name of bastard this SOB was doing it! Yeah, I’ve been a bit drunk lately and the arrival of my new employee Kenneth the walrus has been more destructive than productive.

But even so! Never in all my years as Santa Claus has a Christmas production run been as non-existent as 2023.

So I fired off that bloody message! Sure, I was really pissed when I did it. One of those 2am after a litre of gin type LinkedIn messages:

windfellow u went 2 meat for an buisness meating tomorrow i got ideas fink we get on and can yearn from each other not in a i want 2 has you’re babies weigh moore we can earn moore money bye a superyot lol n i em knot tryin 2 screw u over pinky promise u goddamn SOB piece of goddamn bastard!!!

Probably made that a bit more malicious than I was wanting… but to Santa’s surprise (and malicious intent joy) that SOB goddamn bastard Windfellow agreed. This is his response:

Hi Father Christmas – No harm done, delighted to hear from you! I think we’d DEFINITELY benefit from each other’s industry knowledge, dear chap. Why not come round tomorrow, say 9am sharp? I know how we business types thrive off The Early Bird Catching the Worm mentality, as it were! I am sure you will be in total agreement.

Your friend Jeremy Windfellow

Problem with that is I came to at 8am covered in slobber and having wet myself, Markus (my head elf) prodding me awake with a stick, and I was too hungover to walk.

I tried to walk, but I kept chucking up whenever I got up.

At best all I could do was lie on the floor groaning, bellowing swear words, and scratching my big flabby Santa butt. But I KNEW I had to be at that business meeting. I glared across at the elf and wheezed.

“Markus…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where’s the alcohol?!”

“We’re out, sir. I appreciate that might scare you a bit, but…”

Markus’ voice faded into the background. The blood drained from Santa’s skull and I turned a deathly  pale. No alcohol. Since the divorce to my DELUSIONAL wife, I’ve not been keeping up on supplies.

Out… of… alcohol…

“Sir? Are you okay?”

“Markus…” I wheezed, “I need you to get me some supporting material on being out of alcohol…”

“Yes, sir!”

Markus dutifully scurried off and was gone for about 10 minutes, during which time I lay there suffering in the name of humanity. The type of adversity a martyr faces; thine battle to deliver Barbie dolls to spoiled brats doth take its toll…

Markus returned and handed me my wife’s DVD copy of the 1985 drama/romance film Out of Africa, starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford.

I affixed Markus with my most menacing 1,000 yard glare.

“Markus… what the bloody hell is this?!”

“You asked for something relating to being out of alcohol, sir, that’s the closest resemblance I could find.”

Elves are naïve cretins a lot of the time. It’s one of the reasons I employ them en masse so I can manipulate them at will. That strategy just has a habit of backfiring at times like this.

There was nothing else for it.

Clutching the DVD copy of Out of Africa (1985) to my enormous beer belly, Santa steeled himself and ordered Markus to drag me over to Glorious Gift Land.

Notes on a Hangover Meeting

Luckily, before we set off in the Santa helicopter, I was able to grab 17 bottles of mouthwash from Nurse Doreen. The type with alcohol in.

Santa downed the lot on the flight over.

It helped the hangover a bit (with the side effect of making my foul-smelling breath stench less like rotting corpses) but in the way of making me extremely irritable, fidgety, and easily outraged. Probably the right frame of mind for a business meeting with my arch nemesis.

On my orders, Markus crash landed the helicopter into Glorious Gift Land.

The helicopter slammed into the side of the property, bounced off the wall, walloped into the building again, and smacked into the reception area on the ground floor. With the chopper ablaze, Santa legged it one leaving Markus to fend for himself.

Windfellow burst out of the premises screaming sweet bloody murder and Santa charged that mother like a rampaging walrus. Kenneth would have been proud!

Overcoming the agony of my chronic gout, and battling through the relentless hangover, I rugby tackled the SOB and brought him crashing to the ground. There we lay, me atop of him as my physical exertion left me too exhausted to do much else.

Face to face again at last, his eyeballs almost popping from his skull because of my vast weight, he eyeballed me hard.

“Santa Claus…” He wheezed.

“Jeremy Windfellow…” Santa wheezed back.

He was taken a aback by my response and remarked on how lovely and fresh smelling by breath was! Like a “field of peppermint”, which I thanked him for profusely and commented I would be taking greater care of my teeth in future thanks to the delicious aftertaste of mouthwash.

There laying prone on the floor with the building behind us burning merrily away (and Windfellow’s employees, with Markus, running about trying to put it out) did we hold our business meeting.

It was as all business meetings should be held!

Face to face!

Man on man!

A battle of intellects from which the sharpest mind emerges with an advantage that’ll earn him if not billions, then at least millions.

Santa did nod off on several occasions, though, due to hangover fatigue. Windfellow patiently waited during these spells, incapable of doing anything as Santa slobber dribbled onto his mush. Then when I came to again we discussed some more. The key takeaway points here, with Windfellow’s notes on my entreprenurial genius:

• Barbie dolls are the future and that is why Santa has a 2023 production quota of 10 billion to meet.
  • Windfellow: “To some extent, but I would argue ten billion is a wild exaggeration and little girls are likely to be more interested in a video game console. Maybe I’m wrong, what with the success of Barbie in cinemas right now.”
• Due to ongoing socioeconomic strife, chainsaws are very much in and there is a production quota of 10 billion to meet.
  • Windfellow: “I would suggest there is no qualitative or quantitative alignment on your belief. Have you performed marker research? Synergising your sales and marketing teams is the true path to understanding your best assets.”

Those were my core points for Christmas 2023:

• Barbie dolls
• Chainsaws

Ultimately, Jeremy Windfellow disagreed strongly with my statements and suggested I should look to modernise my “market research”. Whatever the hell that bollocks is.

I told him about my new Santa webshite in production.

“My dear Father Christmas, the term is website. Not webshite, as you say it. I’m sorry but I can’t see how our two businesses align ethically or economically, as I see growth and progression for Glorious Gift Land. Whereas you represent an anachronism in action. Although, please note, I say that not meaning to be spiteful. I do wish you the best and think we could work well together should you revitalise your brand synergy with blue sky delineation.”

Santa headbutted the bastard.

Windfellow passed out. That bastard was in no position to bargain with me smothering him one! All in all, this was an excellent business meeting and Santa knew all he needed to know—Glorious Gift Land is a sham business run by a con artist.

He is doomed to failure.

Father Christmas will wipe his organisation off the face of the Earth! Looking behind at his building, by now no longer on fire (but a big chunk of the front a smouldering mess), it looked like I was 5% there already.

“MARKUS! Stop faffing about! Get here and help me up!”

The obedient little dipshit did as was bid. Santa then asked the receptionist at Glorious Gift Land if they had a spare helicopter to get Santa home.

No.

However, she was a bit of all right so Santa put his moves on her. Fluttering eyelids, breathing my fantastic new spearmint Santa breath onto her, giving a cheeky wink, and a muttering “You’re not ‘alf bad, sweetheart!”

She walked off.

Later she re-emerged with a wheelbarrow from out the back of Glorious Gift Land. Santa clambered into that, ankles throbbing to the onslaught of gout, and Markus began the long and arduous task of rolling Santa home to a, no doubt, triumphant celebration at the Santa factory.

Like Magellan returning after his heroic circumnavigation of the globe 500 years ago!

Except Magellan didn’t make it home. He started a war with tropical locals and was hacked to bits in the ensuing battle…

A bit like that then, but I was the one doing the hacking to bits.

Before Markus began wheeling me off, I ordered him to make a gesture of goodwill for when Windfellow came to.

To show there were no hard feelings, Santa left his DVD copy of Out of Africa near the rubble of the helicopter impact site. Nothing beats a good sci-fi fantasy like that when you’ve nearly been crushed to death.