Last time out Santa tried to rebrand (disastrously). That didn’t go so well and, this week, he’s had to purge his system of traits such as empathy, compassion, consideration, and thoughtfulness.

Santa has had an empathy exorcism. We had no idea what that was, but after reading Father Christmas’ notes on it this time out… it’s not something we’re going to get anytime soon.

Angry About Nurse Doreen’s Porridge

Hello, Santa here. While waiting for my empathy exorcism Santa went down to the canteen for breakfast. Nurse Doreen, for whatever insane reason, had decided to brew up several huge vats of porridge. She was stirring one giant batch of the stuff in a cauldron, looking like some demented Christmas witch.

The elves were happy to eat the stuff. They look pretty deflated and stupid. Maybe because we’ve only produced 1% of 2024’s Christmas quote of presents. That’s pretty good going, IMO, because I’m an optimist and confident in my staggering genius to get this one over the line.

That’s right up until I ate some of the porridge.

The porridge was bland and tasteless. Maybe the gin has demolished my tastebuds or something, but Santa COULD NOT taste the oats. I slathered them with tobacco and took my boots and socks off and dipped my rancid Santa man feet in there. Nothing. Couldn’t taste jack!

Slugging from a bottle of vodka, Santa belaboured Nurse Doreen for her dismal cooking abilities. Then I staggered off to sulk in the reception. The REAL Santa would’ve FIRED everyone (including the battle axe woman) for this porridge disaster!

This version of Santa? Soft… weak… woke.

The sooner the Empathy Exorcist gets here the better!

THE EMPATHY EXORCIST ARRIVES!!!

The Empathy Exorcist (EE) arrived via helicopter. Rudolph (the red-nosed reindeer) had picked up the EE, but was off his antlers on heroin. Thus, in a delirious high, he cannoned the helicopter into the side of factory unit four, slammed into the ground, and everything was blown to smithereens. Thankfully, Rudolph was thrown clear of the explosion, landed on a polar bear, started a fight with the polar bear, won, then went off to score another hit.

The Empathy Exorcist wasn’t so lucky and suffered singed eyebrows, a badly sprained ankle, a dislocated shoulder, scurvy, and conjunctivitis.

He was dragged off to the infirmary and Nurse Doreen put him into an emergency, medically induced coma (despite his protestations that he was “ok”).

While he was slammed out of it, Santa had a good old-fashioned rummage through his stuff. The stuff that survived the inferno, anyway.

What Santa found wasn’t encouraging:

• A bottle of empty gin (the bastard better not have stolen that from me! Probably not, the brand reeks of “working class scumbag” cheapness)
• His passport, explaining on it his real name is NOT the Empathy Exorcist but, instead, he goes by the name of HARRY. What a lying, fiendish, bastard of a man!
• Spare underwear… wtf!?
• A picture of his wife and kids and Harry on holiday somewhere (it looked like Bolton of Greater Manchester)
• Cigarettes

Santa grabbed the gin bottle and slugged the drips and dregs left at the bottom, then lit up several of Harry’s cigarettes. While puffing away, I ordered Nurse Doreen to bring Harry OUT of the medically induced coma and IN to the exorcism room. Santa had this room set up especially for such an occasion. Right at the start of 1974, to be precise, because I’d just watched The Exorcist in 1973 and was in a state of near hysterics about that damn film!

The Empathy Exorcism

The exorcism room is next to a utility closet near to factory unit three. Santa was in there drinking gin (my stash) when Harry… SORRY! I mean The Empathy Exorcist staggered through the door with Markus, my head elf, behind him clutching a flipchart. Harry looked really the worse for wear and was clutching at his cranium. He immediately accused me of “endangering” his “life” by “forcing” him into a “pointless coma”. I reminded him he was on MY property and needed to behave himself or I’d offer him a cup of tea and polite chitchat.

I had to think that over for a moment. Then I bellowed, “CUP OF TEA AND POLITE CHITCHA!? Come on man, SAVE ME!”

I offered to pay Harry millions to get the WOKE out of me ASAP. Santa was in a brave enough mood, all that gin was making realise compassion and empathy are for chumps. Seriously, why be like this when you can screw people over, put zero effort in, be nasty, and all that jazz? It isn’t lazy and obnoxious, it’s just common sense!

Anyway, on hearing the bonus news of extra pay The Empathy Exorcist got on with it! He disrobed and stood there very naked. Me, Markus (my head elf), and Kenneth the walrus gaffer (who randomly turned up for no discernible reason other than his perpetual, annoying, irritating, vexing upbeat and enthusiastic personality disorder), stood staring at him in stock silence. This was most awkward.

“Do you want to put some clothes on, mate?!” I barked at him.

“NO, SAH!” He roared, making us all jump, “FOR THE EMPATHY EXORCIST, I, LORD HARRY III OF ROCHDALE, DOTH PARTAKE IN ONLY NUDE EMPATHY EXORCISMS, SAH!”

Markus piped up about how that wasn’t listed on Harry’s website. The exorcist man bloke was annoyed by that claim.

“No, elf, it’s there on the website. Here, let me show you.”

Markus pulled his smartphone out and he and Harry then had a discussion about small print, legal disclaimers, and the wider aspects of Harry’s professional (often nude) services. To cut a long story short, what it meant was the guy insisted on being naked (for some reason) even though it didn’t make any sense. Granted, this is something Santa does all the time anyway… BUT I HAVE A REASON FOR IT! That’s to cause disgust, contempt, hatred, and wanting to get the bloody hell away from me. Emotions I revel in when not plagued by a sense of good will.

Anyway, Harry got on with it and did the exorcism. Finally! It went like this:

• He requested I lie on my back on the floor
• Harry then began jumping up and down on Santa’s massive beer belly
• Whilst jumping, Harry began wailing disjointed lyrics from Kum ba yah

That was it. That went on for some 15 minutes. At the end of the allotted period, which I’d agreed to spend millions of dollars on, all that had happened was I’d puked up a load of gin and that porridge I’d eaten earlier. Santa began roaring obscenities to register my distress. Needless to say, I had Markus and Kenneth beat the living crap out of Harry for such an incompetent service.

Half an hour later, though, it dawned on Santa…

That familiar twinge of inexplicable anger and rage had returned. Harry, who by then was back in a coma (not medically induced, just Kenneth had knocked him out stone cold), was some sort of metaphysical, transmundane genius. Clearly. All this “nonsense”… was part of his grand plan as an empathy obliterator! I left strict instructions that, should he ever awake from the coma, he be knighted and become Santa’s Vice President and heir to my vast fortune.

Unfortunately, a day after the exorcism, there was a power cut. Plus, Nurse Doreen accidentally spilled a vat of boiling porridge over him (she was attempting to administer care while cooking again), and then the medical unit exploded during the night because of an errant bazooka shot Santa fired off when drunk. So, yeah, he’s dead.

On the plus side, Santa gets to take all my fortune with me to my grave!