There was a colossal emergency at the Santa factory this week. Everything else has been put on hold! The recent Kenneth vs Christmas Cracker debacle was wiped out to deal with the crisis.

With the Santa Claus factory out of milk, work ground to a halt in the first major disaster for a successful Christmas 2024 campaign. Can the legendary man stop his stock market prices plunging and get things back in order?

PANIC: When a Business Runs Out of Milk

Santa came to drenched in slobber and draped over the office desk. The office desk was also covered in my slobber. Rudolph was in the corner of my office passed out. Markus (my head elf) stood dutifully ahead of me with a serious expression on his face.

“What is it, you stupid elf git!?” Santa snarled while grabbing my bastard hangover of a head.

“Sir… we’re out of milk.”

It was like the world emptied out of my backside and the soul left my body and yet my soul was really drunk so took the good bit of drunk with it, leaving me to be really hungover and moody about things. This was the type of catastrophe the factory hadn’t seen in many centuries. The words barely even registered in Santa’s hungover skull!

Out…

Of…

Milk…

“OUT OF MILK!?” I bellowed.

“Yes, sir, out of milk.” Markus then burst into tears and collapsed in a heap on the floor sobbing uncontrollably.

Santa staggered to my feet and lurched into immediate action (that is, after a fit of dry heaving and coughing). I jammed the “panic stations” button under my desk and triggered the factory’s wailing alarm system. This seemed like a great idea, but it really didn’t do my headache any good. So I stumbled over to the drinks cabinet and began slugging from a bottle of port in there, then from a bottle of rum, then brandy, before rounding off this “hair of the dog” (as “they” say) with a sip of water as Santa knows staying hydrated is important.

Feeling slightly better, in the sense Santa could now walk in a straight line, I ambled on down to the canteen to roar obscenities at Nurse Doreen (also our factory cook).

Roaring Obscenities at the Cook

Santa stood there bellowing sweet bloody murder into the face of Nurse Doreen. But the crazy old battle axe was disinterested and not at all scared! She CLAIMS the milk thing isn’t her fault… no matter how long, or how loud, I bellowed into her stupid face about this she REFUSED to accept any fault.

Frustrated, Santa punched a hole in the nearest canteen wall.

Loads of rats then bust out of the hole and went scurrying across the kitchen. One of the little bastards even nipped Santa’s hole punching hand when it was in the wall. To ensure Santa didn’t get scabies or gangrene from the bite, I then sensibly submerged my entire arm into the vat of boiling gravy Nurse Doreen had on the go.

Although the pain was mighty intense, almost to the point I passed out, Santa was pleased to rid myself of any potential infections. However, the severe third-degree burns were also of concern. So! Nurse Doreen to the rescue (I knew there was a reason why I hired that stupid woman)! She went to a cupboard and pulled out an extra large bottle of TCP. She emptied the contents over my arm and, was my mighty loud roars of agony stopped, wrapped the arm in clingfilm. She then patted Santa on the head, said I was a “good boy”, and gave me a lollipop.

It was a strawberry lollipop. It was delicious.

After crunching through it, Santa had a new resolve—to resolve this milk crisis in a resolving kind of way! Thus, I loudly announced to Nurse Doreen, “We need as many cows as is humanly possible! Find me some!”

She reminded me we’re based in the North Pole and there are no cows, just polar bears.

Santa then remembered that time in 1928 when he’d tried to milk a polar bear. The beast was not best pleased and the subsequent mauling Santa received put him off from trying that one again.

There was nothing else for it! Santa needed to get a giant bulk milk booze cruise of long-life milk.

Long-Life Milk Booze Cruise

Being too fat and lazy to bother resolving this myself, Santa charged Markus (my head elf) with flying off to Bolton of Greater Manchester to acquire:

• 77 metric tonnes of long-life milk

That was it. The entire list of requirements. As in… NO MILK ALTERNATIVES! None of that “oat milk” and “almond milk” RUBBISH that the woke drink. No. What real men drink is this heavily processed garbage that’s guaranteed to play merry hell with my already highly unstable liver.

Santa has a helicopter for MASS BULK BUYING occasions, so Markus fired the bastard up and took 10 elves with him (loaded up with bazookas and shotguns, naturally) to storm some hapless stores in Bolton and acquire the milk. Of course, Santa won’t be paying for that stuff!

I’m providing a public service here (i.e. Christmas)! Therefore, milk is FREE.

Santa has to enforce that policy VIOLENLTY, of course, so it’s free by enforced explosions and all that. But then the kids won’t get Barbie dolls on Christmas Day unless Santa, and his pathetic assortment of massively underpaid underlings, have a half decent cop of coffee in the morning!

Automating Christmas 2024

While waiting for the dairy to turn up, Santa got a message from my stakeholders about “automating” some of the Christmas factory procedures. I had to look up what “automate” means because I thought they meant something like those Disney films with the elephant.

Turns out they mean investing in a legion of robots to make factory processes run automatically.

My stakeholders flagged up this would mean firing my elf workforce. I was initially delighted with this idea as causing misery is the whole purpose of my… I mean, because it’d mean profit margins would shoot right up like Rudolph getting his latest hit!

Then I realised, with the elves gone, I’d have no one to bellow at and feel superior around.

Lashing out at robotic AI just doesn’t have the same appeal, you know? All that… order. All that structure. It’s not how a successful business should be run! Thus, Santa told my stakeholders, and in no uncertain terms, in an email:

“GO AND BOLLOCKS YOURSELVES you bloated old farts you think your so big and clever because you think you can order ME… SANTA! Order me around!? GET BENT! GET BLOODY BENT! STUFF IT!”

Admittedly, I was pretty drunk when I sent that off.

It’s fair to say the stakeholders have threatened to withdraw financial support unless I issue a grovelling apology. I have 24 hours in which to issue this grovelling apology.

Santa has decided to wait.

Once Markus (my head elf) is back with the long-life milk that should allow me to have an EXTRA STRONG coffee to get up the nerve to respond. In the meantime, Santa will sit in my office drinking absinthe from the bottle. Leftists will sneer, but this is called PRODUCTIVITY and it’s how money is made.