After last week’s issues Santa had getting out the builders this time it’s… well, it’s really hit the fan. But, rest assured…

Rest assured, Father Christmas informs us XMas 2023 will be back on track in the aftermath of this issue with the big hairy builders. Onward and upward!

“They’re coming to get you, Santa Claus!“

Please note, the following true story involves many descriptions of builder's brews. For those NOT in the know, a builder's brew is a STRONG cup of tea favoured by British builders. It has about half a cup of tea with the remaining contents being whole milk and about 17 tablespoons of sugar. Why? Because MANLY!!! ☕

Right you ungrateful swines, here’s a recap! Santa (me) held the big hairy builders hostage last week while they finished up the factory repairs. THE DEAL WAS SIMPLE:

• They finish the factory stuff.
• They get their boss Bob (of Bob’s Barmy Builders) back.
• Then they could all clear off back home to Bolton of Greater Manchester to eat some pies and watch the football.

Sound plan, right?

One of the problems is I started drinking very heavily and lost track of those steps. For a start, Santa kept forgetting all their hostages’ names so I had Markus, my head elf, jot them all down on a piece of paper:

Bob (and his kids Bob Jr., Bobby, and Archibald – he’s the posh one)

Bob’s wife Barbara (get in there she has the hots for Santa)

Frank (the gaffer)

Frank’s son Frank Jr.

Not that confusing, right? Well, I couldn’t remember who was which one so I just guessed whenever going to speak to them. Barbara was the most confusing. I kept calling her Bob. Not a great flirting tactic to forget the dame’s name. So I reverted back to “sweetheart” after a bit because that’s dead charming.

But Bob was one belligerent bastard about the whole hostage situation.

“You bastard… my lot’ll get you for this. They’re coming to get you!”

I shoved a bazooka right into his face and eyeballed him hard. But he just eyeballed me back and wheezed with the breath of a 100-a-day cigarette and beer consumer, “They’re coming to get you, Santa Claus!”

I eyeballed him back until, a bit drunk, I began to find his blotchy red face strangely handsome. Disturbed with myself, I waddled off to drink heavily.

Later, Santa frogmarched Frank out front of the factory. The rest of the Bob’s Barmy Builders crew were out by the gate getting their equipment, my reindeer with the AK47’s trained hard on them.

With the factory repairs 80% done I figured that was enough. Time to send the SOBs home and get them and their pesky builder’s brew drinking labourers out of my big Santa beard.

But never in my life…

Maybe it was a rat in my workforce sending a telegram back to Bolton of Greater Manchester.

Maybe it was God.

Maybe it was aliens.

Maybe it was telepathy!

Whatever it was… Bob’s Barmy Bolton clan made it over to the North Pole and were ready to shred limb-from-limb in the name of getting Bob’s hairy backside back to Bolton while teaching Santa a lesson. It was…

The Battle of the Big Hairy Builders

Santa should have taken Bob out when I had the chance.

Kenneth my walrus gaffer type employee had been out braying at penguins when he’d spotted Bob’s Barmy Army emerge from the icy wasteland of the North Pole wielding builder’s brews, sausage rolls, and copies of The Sun tabloid.

Kenneth lumbered at speed back to the factory to report the news.

Then I lumbered over to Bob and pointed a shaky alcohol withdrawal finger at him. He had this smug grin on his face.

“What’s this, you bald headed bastard!?” I bellowed.

Bob grinned smug as anything. In the background I could hear the chanting. At first it was just this roaring noise off in the distance… indistinguishable. Then out on the icy tundra of the North Pole wasteland:

“Bob’s Barmy Army! Bob’s Barmy Army! Bob’s Barmy Army!”

That was followed by:

“Santa is a wanker! Santa is a wanker! Santa is a wanker!”

“I am NOT a wanker!” I announced loudly so everyone could hear me.

Markus, my head elf, stormed over to confirm the news of a 10,000 strong army of Boltoners here to lay waste to Father Christmas!

Massively outnumbered, Santa did at least know we’d put up the good fight! My elves? Trained in basic combat! Me? A dab hand with a bazooka! The reindeer? Out of it on drugs and a force to be reckoned with! The wife? She divorced me! Nurse Doreen? Ready and waiting to perform mercy killings!

“TRIGGERED THE FARM!” I bellowed, already half drunk on gin.

Markus, my head elf, is fluent in my drunken jabbering and rushed to trigger the alarm. While the alarm wailed, there was mayhem in the factory as 500 plague-stricken elves dashed out into the freezing cold of the North Pole night to take battle stations.

It was heroic.

I belched exuberantly to commemorate such a moving spectacle. Then I turned to Bob. I pointed at him and barked, “Get him and his kind into the Santa basement and lock them in! Bob’s Barmy Builders will have to be pried away from Santa’s delirium tremens sweaty, shaky grip before I admit defeat!”

The rest of us moved inside the factory, with the gates of the perimeter walls slamming up shut and bolted behind us with a satisfying clunk. We meant business! Santa scaled the ramparts and gazed out over the icy wasteland, our floodlights beaming out across the snow and ice to locate the Boltoners.

We searched. The floodlight traced and the snowstorm picking up its fervour while I slugged away at the stashed tequila bottle up on the battlements. Kenneth, meanwhile, stampeded across the wilderness chasing after seals.

“KENNETH, YOU IDIOT, GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!” I bellowed down to the walrus, who totally ignored me.

Braying manically, he eventually submerged into a belt of water and was gone.

All was quiet.

Markus, my head elf, emerged up alongside me to whisper with urgency.

“Sir!”

I ignored him to stare intently out into the wilderness, my Santa buttocks near frozen in the cold. I took a slug of gin from my hip flask to get some extra warmth.

“Sir!”

“What!?” I barked.

“Nurse Doreen would like to know if you’d like a mug of hot chocolate?”

I stared at the elf in disbelief.

“WHAT?!” I bellowed.

“Nurse Doreen would like to know if you’d…”

“YES I HEARD YOU! For the love of God! Now is not the time!”

Markus looked uncertain and hovered momentarily as if he was awaiting instructions. Then he blurted it out in a whisper.

“Sir, she insists! She says you’ll catch your cold up here and should have a mug of hot chocolate!”

Santa grabbed hold of Markus and heaved him off the ramparts. He went soaring and landed safely 20ft off into the elves’ cesspit for safe keeping.

Silence again.

Surveying the landscape. The chanting had stopped from Bob’s Barmy Army. I presumed they’d accepted, with good cheer, I was, indeed, not at all a wanker and, instead, vastly superior to them as a successful, handsome, and wealthy businessman.

But then…

There they were! The Boltoners broke ranks and emerged from the snowstorm charging and roaring as they stormed across the icy tundra.

“LOOK SHARP, UNDERPAID UNDERLINGS! THIS IS A FIGHT TO THE DEATH!!!” I bellowed over the snowstorm and rising winds, before taking another slug from the bottle of gin stashed in my Santa pants.

Bob’s Barmy Army stormed across the icy wasteland towards us, armed to the teeth with cement mixers, petrol bombs, screwdrivers, copies of The Sun and The Daily Express, drills, hammers, disc cutters, pork pies, pneumatic drills, builder’s brews, tabloids, and one of them even had a copy of The Bolton Evening News.

“WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!” The elf next to me squeaked hysterically.

I was going to bellow abuse at him when he got a big mug of fresh builder’s brew right into his face, leaving him with two singed eyebrows.

Truth be told, after seeing that, I was shitting it! My hands started shaking and my brow burst out in the sweats. But this was no attack of delirium tremens, it was bowel-loosening fear what got me. Bob’s Barmy Army all had traffic cones on their heads, which must be some sort of builder battle ritual. They were roaring obscenities and chants as they let rip, using a makeshift catapult built out of rubber bands and long discarded Pot Noodle containers to launch their projectiles at us.

That gave me impetus! I knew now what had to be done!

“OPEN FIRE! ATTACK ANYTHING THAT HAS A STRONG NORTHERN ACCENT!!”

My lot started firing wildly in the general vicinity of the builders. We’re pretty tooled up with high-tech weaponry here, including laser beams, bazookas, and air-to-surface missile launchers, so the advantage was firmly on my side. Lasers are more than a match for pork pies and builder’s brews!

Despite being 10,000 strong, I was confident of an extreme victory!

With great obstinacy they continued to storm towards the gates in waves, builder’s brews launching in a perpetual stream over the factory walls. One smashed on the rampart in front of me, covering my Santa beard in milky, sugary brew. It got into my eyes, too. A war wound!

I turned to Markus as he clambered out of the cesspit and bellowed down at him over the din of battle, “A war wound, Markus! I shall receive a Nobel Peace Prize for this!”

The Boltoners began the chanting again.

“SANTA IS A WANKER! SANTA IS A WANKER! SANTA IS A WANKER!”

“FOR THE LAST TIME, YOU WORKING CLASS SCUMBAGS! I AM NOT A WANKER!”

Enraged, I began firing wildly and bellowing with relish as I blew up whatever I could see before me. That’s when it struck me. My own chant! I slugged from the bottle of gin and began bellowing at once.

“IF YOU’RE POOR YOU SHOULD WORK HARDER!”

It became my war cry. It became OUR war cry! The elves joined in in unison. Kenneth reappeared out of an ice floe munching on fresh clams and began braying some sort of walrus equivalent.

It was a matter of great beauty that made me weep and drink simultaneously. Right up until Santa got a particularly potent builder’s brew projectile right in the mush.

The Drunkenness of Victory

When I came to Nurse Doreen was holding a mug of hot chocolate in front of my aching and bruised face. I eyeballed her hard.

“It’s got whiskey in it.” She said.

I gulped the lot in an instant and lay back on the floor gasping. In the background I could hear the cry of victory over and over, “IF YOU’RE POOR YOU SHOULD WORK HARDER!” I also saw Kenneth the walrus rampaging around munching on fresh clams while oblivious to the carnage and destruction around him.

Nurse Doreen filled me in on the details.

While I was passed out due to builder’s brew-based concussion, Markus (my head elf) had panicked and the elves all did a runner. Honestly, I’ll dock their pay on that for A MONTH to punish the cowardly bastards!

Luckily! The ferocious blizzard intensified and swept across the icy tundra and froze the Boltoners in their tracks. And thus, at precisely 11:30pm to the backdrop of a furious snowstorm, victory was declared for Father Christmas!

The remaining Boltoners are all frozen solid in place, effing and jeffing from within their icy prison, waiting to be thawed out when the storm passes. After that we’ll send them packing home (after confiscating their phones, wallets, and other supplies mwahhaaahahhaha).

With the army immobilised, I’d won!

Sure, it was victory by default. But every victory counts and, in time, Santa would embellish the story to make himself sound like the heroic mad bastard. Like The President of America in that 1996 film Independence Day when he saves the entire world. That’ll be me.

As for Bob’s Barmy Builders…

A day later, when I was drunk and nestled snugly in my Santa office quarters, Markus (my head elf) brought Bob in. There I levelled it to him in a document I’ve called The Treaty of Builder’s Brews. It states, verbatim:

CONFISCATION OF ALL BUILDER’S BREWS, TABLOIDS, PIES.

NO PAYMENT FOR THE FACTORY REPAIRS.

AND A NEGATIVE BUSINESS REVIEW LEFT ON TRUSTPILOT: “0/5 SHOULD DO BETTER INCOMPETENT COWBOYS!”

Santa forced Bob to sign the document, thus ending the war between Santa and the Big Hairy Builders of Bolton, Greater Manchester.

Santa is delighted to report Bob of Bob’s Barmy Builders signed the treaty and blubbed as he was led out of the office by Markus (my head elf).

As Santa drank from a bottle of vodka, I called Markus back into the office.

“Sir?”

“I’m going to write a great novel about this heroic ordeal, Markus!”

“An excellent idea, sir!” He squeaked, “What shall you call this book?”

I thought long and hard about that. It needed some considerable grandeur and portent behind it to signify the importance of Santa Claus and the glorious victory I had honed through sheer superiority out here on the North Pole. I looked down haughtily at Markus, an elf too stupid to understand my very stable genius.

“I shall call it… BASTARD!”

Markus nodded and left the room. Santa then scratched his big fat itchy Santa butt and locked himself in his office for an evening of binge watching Sex and the City.