After the Christmas Day disaster of 2023, Father Christmas has been arrested. Sorry to report this as we know many of you hold him in such high esteem.

From his jail cell in solitary confinement, where he survives off just 35 mince pies a day, he was able to procure a pen and paper. And he lovingly scrawled out his exclusive final column of the year for us! Aw. That’s nice, huh?

Santa’s Notes From Prison

Ballpoint pens aren’t what Santa normally chooses to write with, BUT I DO NOT HAVE ANY CHOICE! If the guards find me writing this they’ll confiscate everything and restrict my alcohol and mince pie intake.

Because Santa is famous I get SPECIAL treatment in jail.

And that’s right, I’m in jail…

It’s just a temporary thing! A diversionary tactic by me to distract from the catastrophic business failures I oversaw this year.

So, to get myself in jail I called King Charles of England a “fuddy-duddy”. This remark made it to the press, caused nationwide riots across the nationalistic sect of English folks, and then I was arrested for sedition! Now, technically I’m from the North Pole and not at all English. But I was arrested anyway.

What’s jail like?

Well, really, it’s more like staying in a shite hotel than being locked up behind bars. But I am in jail. A caged Father Christmas is like a caged giraffe—it’s just plain wrong, that is, and and bad for everyone. What about Christmas 2024!? If I’m still in jail this time next year then NOBODY gets Christmas!

Granted, I screwed up 2023 as well and no one got anything from me other than chunks of recently detonated bits of plastic.

But that wasn’t my fault! Feminism did that. My wife, Mrs. Santa Claus, leaving me a year ago ruined everything and that’s your fault, too, reader! But never mind… I’m in the slammer so need to adapt to the routine.

A Diary of Santa’s Life in Jail

Because jail is all about routine, Santa has to begin the day following the routine of jail. Problem is, routine isn’t something I’m that arsed about really and so I make almost zero effort to have any discipline.

What are the guards gonna do? This isn’t Midnight Express! It’s not Papillon!

They’re not gonna take Santa out back and thrash me with belts or something. No, this is the WOKE MOB era of jail where everyone gets treated like precious little daffodils. And I exploit that to all my might, demanding bottles of gin for breakfast and the blasting at full volume of the my favourite ’70s disco music.

I share a cell with a petty criminal from Lancashire, England, called Frank. He’s bald, fat, has loads of tattoos, and hates disco music.

Tough crap bags!

He doesn’t get any alcohol, of course, because he’s not famous and successful and important like I am. So, he has to watch Santa getting wasted at 7am while strutting my funky stuff to Stayin’ Alive by The Bee Gees. Then I hit ABBA like a SOB and Frank starts getting very violent because he wants to listen to Def Leppard and I think they suck!

Each morning there’s a violent altercation between me and Frank because he calls The Bee Gees “rubbish” and I call Def Leppard “a stain on humanity, just like you, Frank!” And we come to blows and then the guards come in and separate us.

Santa usually passes out soon after anyway and I’m out for the count until the afternoon.

The prison guards are kind of okay with that bit. It means they don’t have to give a damn about what I do until around 3pm, when I rouse myself with my snoring and demand more alcohol.

Really, it makes me think prisons should just keep inmates drunk and unconscious so they can spend less time making sure everyone isn’t trying to escape. Speaking of that…

Santa’s Jail Escape Attempt

One evening Santa had a crack at escaping. It’s a week into my incarceration but, to be honest, I’m kind of enjoying it. I get free alcohol and don’t have to bother doing anything except having scuffles with the dickheads in jail.

But, the other day I was drunk…

And a drunk Santa will try anything on. That meant I tried to scale the 100ft perimeter concrete wall of the jail, topped with spikey fencing, using my bare hands and a mop and a bucket. Oh yeah, Santa was stark bollock naked during this assault, too!

It took about 35 seconds, but once the guards spotted me I was tasered to the ground and dragged off to solitary confinement (all while bellowing obscenities and bouts of Bee Gees lyrics).

Santa’s Solitary Confinement

Solitary confinement was very boring! I got bored within five minutes and began bellowing. The bellowing continued for many hours and, in my small little solitary confinement room, had Santa’s ears ringing.

But the bellowing did not stop! I bellowed in the name of Christmas!

Eventually, the guards got so fed up listening to my bellows of effing and jeffing they stuffed several bottles of gin into he room and began blasting ABBA hits into the room. There Santa did start to truly dance like a Queen and positively OWN solitary confinement!

Easiest time Santa ever did, that. Drunk dancing and shaking my big hairy Santa butt to Mamma Mia. Hick. Hick, indeed.

Reducing Santa’s Sentence, Parole, and Rehabilitation Into Society

Santa didn’t stay too long in jail. As always. It’s always the same! Within a week they’re sick to death of me, annoyed to bleedin’ hell and back, and want done with me.

They had to bloody well drag me out this time!

Santa was having none of it! Really enjoying the stay, I was, what with the free drinks and all my favourite disco beats. Jive Talkin’ and all that. With all the dancing I was doing I even managed to lose a few pounds! Santa’s massive beer belly has never looked so trim and attractive!

But then the prison boss got a court order up to “eject” me from the property for being a “nuisance” and “just as big a problem to society in jail as out of it” and I can’t help but feel a bit proud of such a statement.

The judge agreed to release Santa on grounds of I agree to the strict societal rehabilitation expectations of:

• Attending Alcoholics Anonymous to engage in long-term sobriety.
• Attending anger management classes.
• Seeing a psychiatrist for assistance with an “obvious case of narcissistic personality disorder” (all slander and lies, that!).
• Enhancing my musical preferences beyond ’70s disco classics.

Santa didn’t agree to the parole list and, thus, remained in jail. The prison boss pleaded with the judge to reduce the harshness of the parole claims and, thus, they were reduced down to:

• Must attended one Alcoholic’s Anonymous session.

This I did while very, very, very drunk indeed and continued to drink my way through the session until I passed out. Santa later found out I’m banned from any further AA meetings due to “triggering conduct”.

Bloody wokey, snowflake lefty commies!

Whatever. I’m now out of jail again and as I scrawl this column out with pen and paper I’m setting my sights on Get Christmas Done. That’s my mantra. Clever, right? Get it done! Not:

• Get Christmas Undone.
• Don’t Get Christmas Done.
• Don’t Bother With Christmas.
• Christmas Failure is Inevitable.

No! No half glass full sort of statements, in fact quite the opposite!

Get Christmas Done!

As Santa slugs from a bottle of gin I’m assured in myself next year will be a triumphant success! As if to confirm the inevitable bounce to my bulging bank balance, Santa realised I’d just wet myself. THAT! Is the true sign of success.