As you may have spotted, you didn’t get the Barbie dolls you wanted this most recent Christmas Day (the other day). This was either due to:

• Your being VERY BLOODY NAUGHTY INDEED this year
• Santa’s catastrophic incompetence

After reading his rambling Santa column on Christmas Steve, we do believe it may be point two on the list there. Controversial as it may seem. Anyway, Santa hasn’t let any of it bother him.

Santa’s Christmas Day Disaster (and why Santa don’t want to talk about it)

The less said about the Christmas Day deliveries the better. Santa had had one too many tipples. The first port of call on Santa’s checklist was Bolton of Greater Manchester, but with my double vision I ended up in Bognor Regis, then Bristol, the Brighton, then Birmingham, then Bangladesh. I got increasingly furious in my hunt for Bolton of Greater Manchester, delivering the dilapidated toys my PATHETIC FACTORY WORKERS had cobbled together in a malnourished, scurvy-ridden frenzy.

It took SEVEN HOURS, but eventually I made my way back to Bolton. That was after a mishap in Barbados, where I went skinny dipping on a beach but ended up getting stung by a jellyfish. Santa urinated on myself to try and take the bellowing agony off the sting, but turns out that urination thing is a myth. Because all I could do was bellow in agony.

That meant for the final tour of the world delivering presents, Santa’s continuous bellows of agony woke (WOKE!!!) all and sundry up.

I’m not apologised. Why should I?

You should be GRATEFUL that you got anything at all this year given how NAUGHTY and WOKE everyone has been. All you deserve are the putrid things I turfed under your pathetic Christmas trees.

“Enjoy” you bunch of soft, snowflake, namby pamby pricks!!

The Letting it All Hang Out Party

Once we got back to the factory at 8am on Christmas Day, Markus (my head elf) criticised my “negative” attitude through the whole ordeal.

Santa pointed to the jellyfish sting and howled sweet effing murder. Because the factory is in the North Pole (and I was still naked after skinny dipping), the area that was stung rapidly froze solid and frostbite set in. That took the edge off the pain, further numbed by the Drambuie Santa was slugging straight from the bottle.

The factory gaffer, Kenneth the walrus, came rampaging over to us braying inanely. It appears he was celebrating out return. Rudolph was with him with that familiar, glazed expression dead set in his eyes… goddamn junkie!

Hobbling into the factory, then into my office, Santa immediately demanded a meeting.

“Markus!” I barked.

“Yes, sir?”

“That was a disaster and I never want to do that again!” I snarled.

“With respect, sir, you’ve said that every year since 1923.”

“But in 1923 the Earth’s population wasn’t 8 billion, you little bastard!” Santa belched exuberantly, aware I was making a most splendid point.

“Well, sir, that is correct.”

“Markus… I am correct about everything! I OWN MANY ACRES OF LAND!!”

“You do, sir.”

“YES!”

“…”

There was a long and somewhat awkward silence, broken only by Santa’s chronic bouts of belching and flatulence. Markus shifted uneasily on the spot. Santa looked at him, then at the bottle of Drambuie on my office table, then back at Markus, then I belched again, then I scratched my big hairy arse, then I took a slug from the Drambuie bottle.

“Markus?”

“Yes, sir?”

I offered him a slug from the Drambuie bottle. That was the first time I had ever done such a thing. Markus has been in my employ since 1963, during which time I’ve given him many pay cuts and demotions, followed by a promotion to head elf (which was generously complemented by another pay cut).

“Sir…” Markus looked confused.

“Take a hit, you little bastard! Or I’ll give you a pay cut!”

It seemed like a supremely generous thing to do. Problem is, Santa always forgets the elves are small little bastards and can’t handle their liqueur. While I watched Markus tepidly sipping from the bottle, Santa broke out the absinthe and Pernod—with Christmas dead for another year, it was party time.

Santa wasn’t exactly in a party mood, but I was certain if I drank enough I’d get into the Christmas spirit.

Thus, There Was a Joyous Party…

It was a big old party with much yelling, whooping, fisticuffs, and Santa even hugged someone. I’m not at liberty to say who, exactly, because Santa does not wish that information to be made available to the public domain. But I do believe it highlights one thing most clearly…

Santa is getting soft and I need to switch to lager and lay off the Drambuie.

Before my blackout kicked in, Santa did have time to remember a few things. I jotted them down on some paper and read my thoughts the next day when too hungover to walk. These are my musings.

“HEY! EY! EY EY EY! MACHO MACHO MAAAAAN… SANTA WANT TO BUMBLE BEE… A MACHO MAN! YMCA! IT FUN TO STAY AT… YMCA!!!! I LOVE YOU, NEW YORK, YOU’VE BEEN A GREAT AUDIENCE! GOONIGHT… BASTARDS!”

Santa does remember an enormous amount of ’70s disco music playing, not least the Village People, and me strutting my funky stuff all over the place. I remember dancing with Rudolph, singing karaoke with Kenneth, and then trying to hit on Nurse Doreen only to get another slap to the face from her. In terror, I promised to give her a pay rise. This I did hastily the next day, giving my elves a hearty pay cut to bump up her wage so she’ll please stop slapping me one.

Other than that… NO MEMORY! Nothing else stuck.

The Running Out of Napkins Incident

Santa was surprised to find factory unit four on fire on Boxing Day. Perhaps that was linked to the merriment. It’s unclear. Markus later told me it was because I fired a bazooka at the unit because we’d run out of napkins for the party.

While laying on the canteen floor covered in my own filth, Santa berated the bastard for such disgusting misinformation.

“How dare you spread such DISGUSTING misinformation, you little bastard!”

“Sir, it is, unfortunately, very true. Nurse Doreen noted we had run out of napkins. You immediately began challenging everyone to a fight.”

“Ridiculous! That doesn’t sound like me at all, Markus! I am sick of your lies.”

Markus then handed me a love poem I’d drunkenly scrawled out to Nurse Doreen. Reading over it when hungover was enough to make my big beer belly turn over. Sickly sweet or what!?

Nuss Doorean my luv 4 u is true,
It is like the colour off poo,
Not like Winney the Pooh,
But wot you do in the loo.

Markus suggested I enter it into a 2025 poetry competition. I gather he was mocking me, but Santa doesn’t like being mocked! I took him up on the challenge and immediately emailed my beautiful poem to as many poetry publications as I could, part hungover/drunk (I was on the Drambuie again).

By the end of the day I was getting emails in response lambasting my poem.

Drunk and enraged, Santa began sending threatening and volatile drunken emails back in response. There are several court cases for defamation of character and harassment now lined up for me in time for January 2025. Little do they know Santa goes into hibernation! Good luck trying to sue me when I’m more out of it than after drink three pints of absinthe.

This is Santa Claus, last survivor of Christmas, signing off.