Okay, with Santa’s plague outbreak and a dilapidated factory concerns, Christmas 2023 really isn’t getting off the ground this year.

Last week he got Bob’s Barmy Builders in for essential factory repairs.

But with business rival Glorious Gift Land looking to steal marketplace from Santa, he’s up against it. But, he’s up against many things these days since he hired a bunch of obstinate builders to fix up his gaff.

Getting Belligerent With the Builders

At first it was like a dream. One of those dreams where you’re eating nothing but instant noodles, packet after packet, enjoying the tasty, nutritionless garbage as it slakes Santa’s desire for ultra-processed chemicals.

The builders did up the factory like a dream!

Yes! Santa was suitably inspired by Bob’s Barmy Builders! What an impressive bunch! It was a marvel what they’d achieved at the Santa factory! They’d done rapid work, fixing up the joint to resemble something that looked like a fully functioning business!

Chuffed to bits, I puked onto the factory floor as a hangover caught up with me, slugged from a bottle of gin stashed in my Santa pants, and went around congratulating the builder crew.

Some of them gave me funny looks.

Bob’s wife, Barbara, was hellbent on steering WELL clear of me and kept giving me the evils. She’s playing difficult to get. Drunk, I rushed up to her for a hug and she backed away like I had the plague. And that’s because I do have plague. My whole factory does, actually! But that shouldn’t stop true romance!

“Don’t play so hard to get!” I wheezed at Barbara. Bob said he wanted quadruple pay if I kept flirting with his wife so I backed down after that.

Bob… my business nemesis. Yeah, that’s Jeremy Windfellow of Glorious Gift Land, too, but then now there’s also Bob. I didn’t like him. Didn’t like him one bit…

He was in factory unit 2 fixing up the Barbie doll machine (the one my new hire Kenneth the walrus clobbered). I lumbered over to him chortling about all his good factory repair work and gave him a HEARTY punch to the shoulder for his sterling efforts. “WELL DONE!” I bellowed at him.

That punch would prove somewhat contentious. Because Bob hit the floor like a sack of shite and was out cold.

His crew turned to see what the commotion was about and saw me, Santa, standing there waving my fist at Bob’s prone body while bellowing obscenities.

Barbara had one of those hysterical fits women are prone to. The type that make me glad my wife, Mrs. Santa Claus, divorced me. She (Barbara) shrieked across at her sons, “Eh! Bob junior! Frank! Bobby! That bloody bastard Santa just ‘it our Bob! GET ‘IM!!”

They surged at me bellowing “BLOODY BASTARD!!!!” while waving copies of The Daily Express and wielding Greggs sausage rolls.

Of course, and unbeknownst to them, Santa has fearsome weaponry about his person! Plus, 110% bullet proof booze breath that’d stop a charging walrus in its tracks (as Kenneth knows full well).

Simply by wheezing heavily and wielding my bazooka, whipped furiously out of my Santa pants, Bob’s Barmy Builders didn’t prove to be barmy at all! The charge came to a halt. The builders stood watching me in uncertain terror, while Markus, my head elf, moved up behind me with nunchuks and Rudolph homed into view with his antlers aimed at their gonads.

“Back up, you builder bastards!” I warned them.

Frank saw the crazy in my eyes.

He saw the elves behind me lining up orderly ready to batter the builders senseless with their elf hats, bells chiming merrily, the obvious signs of plague all over their putrid exteriors.

Further behind even them there was Kenneth the walrus. He was busy having a kip, splayed out snoring next to his favourite contraption—the Barbie doll making machine.

But the builders knew if he came to, and then could be bothered lumbering over to join in on the ruckus, there would be hell to pay for!

Frank did not want that fate.

“You know, Santa Claus… our business is called Bob’s Barmy Builders. But I reckon it’s YOU what’s the barmy one!” Frank quipped.

Santa eyeballed him haughtily. How dare he. How bloody dare he! I was busy thinking of an ideal retort, but the moment dragged on exponentially for 60 seconds with an awkward silence. It was getting a bit embarrassing and that only ramped my rage up further.

On and on went the silence. Probably about 90 seconds now…

Really, it lingered in quite appalling fashion as I huffed and wheezed in an attempt to formulate some clever rebuttal that didn’t rely on bellowing swear words.

In the end I just needed to fire something back, so I went for the most awful, upsetting, and cruel response I could muster.

“You’re not getting any Christmas presents this year, Frank!”

He looked very upset by this statement. Santa chortled to myself. Good. Sometimes you’ve got to go below the belt with these jibes.

The Tense Santa Standoff

A tense standoff commenced. It was tense.

Because tense standoffs always are. It’s in the nature of tense standoffs and Santa has had plenty over the centuries I can assure you.

But this one was super tense! This was made worse because I realised I badly needed to pee and simply wetting myself in front of these weirdos would make me look a bit incompetent. I’d have to hold it in… for now, at least, and be a brave little soldier about it.

Because on my side we surrounded Bob the boss who lay prone on the floor.

On their side they stood with Daily Expresses and sausage rolls at the ready.

Others were also already armed with cups of freshly boiled builder’s brews, milk and three sugars, probably hot enough to scald quite badly. It was some tense crap going down!

“What do you want!?” I barked.

“GIVE US BOB BACK!!!” Barbara screamed.

“WHAT?!” I barked.

“GIVE… US… BOB… BACK!!!” She screamed again, her face bright right through exertion… or maybe that was just down to one too many Jammie Dodgers over the years.

“You and who’s army, lady?!” I bellowed.

“Give us Bob back and this’ll all go away!” Frank roared.

Yet the upper hand was mine. I had Bob. They had nothing but builder’s brews and Daily Express soundbites such as whinging about the good old days. I was taking command here! I pushed out my chest, coughed violently for 20 seconds, and then wheezed it out.

“Here’s the deal! You lot finish this goddamn work on this goddamn factory… then you get this goddamn fat sack back. Unharmed. I promise you goddamn that. I’m pretty sure he’s just got a mild goddamn concussion based on how his lips have gone goddamn blue. But you’ll get him goddamn back and no one will accidentally set him on goddamn fire or anything. My goddamn promise!”

The builders shifted uncomfortably on the spot. Bobby, the eldest son, was armed with two builder’s brews, one in each hand, and looked like he was spoiling for a fight. I trained my bazooka on Bob’s blotchy red fat face where he lay down on the ground.

“You there! Bobby! STAND DOWN! Stand… down!! Believe me, son, I’ll think nothing of blowing us all to smithereens. So, you tip those builder’s brews onto the floor right… now… and get on with patching up the Barbie doll machine. We got a deal!?”

Bobby gritted his teeth and seethed.

“DO WE GOT A DEAL!?”

“YOU FAT BASTARD!” He roared in anguish.

I clicked the bazooka hard and made as if to fire. Barbara jumped right in to try and appeal for calm.

“OKAY!!! We got a deal, Santa Claus! We got a deal. Just… er… they’re fresh brews, you know?! Don’t wanna waste a good brew when me lads can ‘ave ’em.”

The builders murmured agreement. Typical builders! They didn’t want their builder’s brews to go to waste. That was clear to Santa. I was in two minds on it and mulled things over. Should I show them leniency? Should I let them enjoy their builder’s brews as a sign of mercy, or rule with an iron fist and have those beverages destroyed? This situation was very difficult to navigate and it was getting on my nerves.

“Jesus H Christ… really? I mean, just… it’s tea! Go and brew another one later!” I barked.

“Santa, we don’t waste good brews back ‘ome!” Says Frank.

“You’re saying to me here, Santa Claus, on your life, you never make a brew, forget about it, and then you come back to the aforementioned brew and it’s gone cold, thus necessitating the need to tip it down the sink?!”

“Well… okay, yes, that does happen from time to time” Says Barbara, “But only when I’m not in the house to keep track of every beverage.”

“Santa isn’t buying this, you’re stalling. I think I should blow those brews to bits!”

The builders became very upset about this and were actually snivelling! Their lower lips were wobbling and tears streaked down their faces.

“PLEASE! Not the builder’s brews, Father Christmas! Show us mercy!”

Well, I mulled it over. Frankly, Santa badly needed to urinate and holding it in was getting mega painful by now. So it was best to use this is a sign of mercy, when in actuality it was because I needed to relieve myself.

Santa nodded the universal signal of “you may drink the brew”.

Bobby slugged one down in an instant and stood there beaming, looking all refreshed. Bobby Jr. downed two in less than 15 seconds. Then that posh twat Archibald chipped in and downed his. Barbara and Frank gulped multiple down, too, and they all wiped their gobs with their sleeves.

The builders appeared satisfied with this beverage development and the tension in the air died down a bit.

With that bollocks out of the way, Santa smugly rejoiced over how my cunning and guile had forced the builders to continue on with the reconstructions.

And all because I needed to take a whizz!

Later, as the builders worked under duress, guarded by a herd of AK47 wielding reindeer, the elves kept shifts. Markus, my head elf, was looking like a tiny psychopath when waddling about with my spare bazooka.

Kenneth kept rampaging around in the background chomping on fresh clams. He seemed a bit out of it today, to be honest, I’d better have a word with him.

But the builders knew it for real—any fightback and Bob’d get it one!

They had no choice but to complete the repairs under my psychotic rule (while drinking their brews). I have never felt so dastardly.

To rub their noses in my superiority, Santa stripped stark bollock naked and, as they went about their forced labour, paraded around flaunting my enormous beer gut while brandishing my bazooka in their faces and cackling.

No one messes with Santa.

No one.