Last week in The Christmas Rats we saw Santa finally get the show on the road. With a workforce emboldened with a plague of rodents, thinks are looking rosy for the Barbie doll production line!

In this week’s column, Santa has taken some time off. Not that he’s lazy, he just works so hard that his copious amounts of time off balance themselves out due to his overriding success as a successful businessman.

Santa’s Relationship With Barbers Isn’t Swell

Last time Santa got a PROPER haircut it was 1983 and the Cold War. I got it cut short by a barber in preparation for the nuclear apocalypse, my reason being it’d enhance my aerodynamic performance once a nuclear blast reach my skull. I figured the blast would just sweep around my skull.

Well, and this is the thing that really pisses me off, there was no explosion and so I WASTED the £5 getting my haircut! I’ll never see that money again.

Obviously, because I live in the North-bloody-Pole, there aren’t any bloody barbers around.

Back in 1994 Santa got desperate and urged a polar bear into the factory. After draping my skull in bacon the polar bear mauled my scalp, took the bacon, and fled out into the wild. This was a fairly effective haircut that gave me a cool kind of “He’s just suffered one of the most severe head injuries in history” kind of looks. Nurse Doreen (yes, she’s worked with me for this long) then had to give me 235 stitches to reattached one part of my skull to the other bit.

All that got a bit tedious, plus it was EXTREMELY painful and no amount of brandy would remove the agony, so I decided not to do that again.

There was nothing else for it! Into the factory I flew a barber from Bolton of Greater Manchester.

Kev turned up at 11am on Wednesday morning and Markus, my head elf, led him through to my Santa office. I was naked, drunk out of my mind, and rambling about cabbage soup (a dish I heartily DETEST). Kev took one look at me, panicked, and tried to flee.

Luckily, Rudolph (out of it on heroin as usual) was there with his massive antlers to stop him. Markus (under my orders) then drew a bazooka on Kev and ordered him to get on with sorting out Father Christmas’ lovely do.

The Haircut

Between retching and battling passing out due to the stench and knits, the barber rifled through Santa’s lovely, bountiful, flowing grey hair. Because he was struggling so much to hold it together I didn’t want this dipshit screwing up the job! So, Santa ordered Markus to give the guy 17 shots of brandy to.

“IT’LL STEADY THE BASTARD OUT!” I roared.

While it calmed Kev down a bit, helped along because I got Markus (my head elf) to blast out Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s song Relax at full volume and on a loop, it also made him bold. Over confident. Arrogant, on could say. His scissor cutting was leery, almost lecherous! He made good progress on the hair but then accidentally had off with one of Santa’s eyebrows!

“Be careful, you bastard!” I snarled.

“Sorry, Santa!” Kev said.

“It’s Mr. Santa Claus to you, bastard!” I barked.

“Sorry, Mr. Father Christmas!” Kev grumbled.

I was about to rise and strike him in the face for such insubordination, but my gout made me think otherwise. But then I thought otherwise again when I demanded the barber clip Santa’s nose hair. He refused to do this due to the voluminous amount of the stuff bristling under my nostrils and caked in snot.

Markus kindly reminded Kev he was employed by me (Santa) to cut his hair.

“You are hired to cut his hair, paid to cut his hair, and you will cut his hair. Kind regards, Markus.” Markus kindly informed him.

Just then, a ringing noise sounded out. The noise continued on a loop. It sounded… it sounded a bit like someone’s mobile phone ringing over and over.

“What the bloody hell is that!?” I barked.

To my infinite fury, Kev then stopped cutting one’s hair, answered HIS phone, and then PROCEEDED to engage in a conversation with his mate Brain about their plans for that evening watching the football and drinking beer. Santa sat open mouthed and drooling. Markus couldn’t believe it either. Such an act of insubordination there has unlikely ever been on the Santa Claus premises.

“I’LL BOIL YOU ALIVE FOR THIS, YOU BUFFOON!” Santa roared.

Staggering out of my seat, I lunged at Kev with my grubby hands. I was quite drunk by this point and it took several moments for me to realise I was actually throttling Kenneth the walrus (who recently lumbered into the room) by one of his massive tusks. Kenneth just had this, sort of, bemused expression on his face.

I stood like that for some time with Kenneth’s walrus drool and vacant expression right in my mug. To escape from the stench Santa obediently sat back down in the barber stool to await my next snipping.

The Beard

After his 20 minute conversation, Kev returned to work and began snipping at my giant big, iconic Santa beard. Clip, clip, clip went the scissors. Clip. Clip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, snip, clip, CUT.

That bastard SNIPPED Santa’s earlobe…

That was the last straw…

Roaring obscenities, Santa threw off his barber bib and went to punch Kev in the face.

The rest of my memory on this is a blur of blurry. I can remember Kenneth braying like a mad walrus, Markus shouting at Rudolph about how this wasn’t an appropriate time to be shooting up, and Kev yelling about pressing charges. However, what is clear for Santa is that Santa did punch Kev in his STUPID face and broke his nose. To ensure there are no legal repercussions for this Santa has had to kidnap him.

Kev is now tied up in chains in the basement. We’ll hold him for ransom. I’m sure the barber community will fork out good money for the bastard. That’ll make up for my ear! Plus, my beard looks stupid! I’ll have to grow it all out again.

In the meantime, to ensure my Santa face looks as iconic as possible, I’m having snow from outside the factory sellotaped onto my face at 10 minute intervals. The problem is it keeps melting. Plus, it’s giving my jaw frostbite and my skin has gone black and weird. Maybe it’s scurvy? Santa doesn’t know, but I look badass!