Here we go again! Our annual (and contractually obliged through blackmail) run of Santa Claus newsletters up to Christmas 2025. It’s everyone’s favourite time of year, after all! So, without further ado, here’s the great man himself.

Coming Out of Hibernation One Thawed Limb at a Time

Readers, Santa Claus (me) came out of hibernation in the most HORRIFYINGLY AWFUL way possible. The energy generators failed at some point in August here at the North Pole, with the Santa factory now resembling a kind of frozen block of ice. This meant Santa, despite being tucked up in bed while hibernating, was frozen bloody solid.

Markus, my head elf, got the flamethrower out and thawed out my limbs. One by one.

Santa had been sleeping in the nip, so Markus had the joyous duty of being the first living being seeing me nude in 2025. QUITE THE HONOUR FOR THE FREELOADING BASTARD! But it did make for awkward silence and polite chitchat while he thawed me out. We had to chat about non-work related matters, which I’ve rarely ever done with Markus, despite him being in my employ for the last 135 years.

“So… what have you been up to, Markus?”

“I’ve been in hibernation, sir.”

So right there, you see the problem, it brings the conversation I started to an immediate stop. Big, big problem. How does Santa proceed from there? I went for a left-field type question to stir up a bit of interest.

“Is your name really Markus, Markus?”

“It is sir, yes.”

Another avenue of potential fun conversation ruined, I turned my attention to prying into Markus’ private life. Primarily just to make him feel uncomfortable, but it didn’t work. The little bastard just had that stoic expression and high-pitched responses.

“You fancy me, don’t you Markus! ADMIT IT!”

“With all due respect, no sir, for I am married to my beloved Markusina.”

Now, I didn’t know this and have never met or seen this supposed “Markusina”. I made a mental note to find out about her later, for this was odd. Not ONE mention in 135 years! But anyway, I was all thawed out and ready to roll! As Santa did, rolling out of the ice block bed, limbs blackened with frostbite, and I had Kenneth the walrus (our on-site gaffer and walrus_ drag me to the kitchen.

Nurse Doreen Serves Santa The First Breakfast of 2025

“Santa…”

That’s it. That was Nurse Doreen’s greeting. She doubles up as our on-site chef, of course, but has a habit of adding nurse-based stuff into food as ingredients. That meant my first breakfast of 2025 was Calpol on toast. Dessert was paracetamol ice cream.

After that grotesque load of bollocks, Santa sulked my way back to my quarters and hit the gin. It was 8:41am. The hard stuff puts hair on my big Santa beard, but also makes me boisterous and perfects the whole Santa persona stuff. Jolly big fat man that I am, just prone to the occasional psychotic outburst and mental instability. Santa is trying to be a bit more self-aware in 2025.

Santa has also set myself an ambitious weight loss target of one pound.

That Calpol on toast was actually not that bad, figure if Santa sticks to that for the next few months they’ll knock a pound or two off (alongside the relentless, never-ending drinking that is). So, to start the 2025 Christmas push off on a POSITIVE NOTE, Santa gave Nurse Doreen and Markus (my head elf) a pay rise of $1 per annum. Nurse Doreen didn’t bat an eyelid about the news, whereas Markus (my head elf) grovelled. He fell to his knees… and wept. That is some serious appreciation and Santa likes it.

Santa’s Calpol on Toast Diet: Day Three

After all the joy and merriment regarding the $1 per annum pay rise for 0.001% of my workforce, Santa hit the Calop on toast diet hard. By day two Santa was feeling unsteady on his feet, but put that down to downing two litres of gin in a short space of time.

By day three of the Calpol on toast diet, Santa was showing some serious signs of losing it.

I’d started walking round and round in circles. This meant I could no longer feed or bathe myself, so Markus (my head elf) had to shove the Calpol on toast into my face as I went round over and over. This led to considerable mess gathering on the floor of my quarters, with rats soon festering all over the place and scampering around. Kenneth the walrus gaffer was ordered to obliterate them all, but instead made friends with a bunch of them AND ALSO HE BEGAN TO EAT THE CALPOL ON TOAST!

After several hours of this, the rats and Kenneth all got the same unique medical condition. We were all going round in circles like some bizarre merry-go-round of toast and Calpol. Eventually, due to chronic fatigue, the rats and Kenneth passed out in a heap on the floor. Santa passed out due to drunkenness, with Markus jamming a bottle of scotch into my mouth to slug from as Santa ambled about.

By day four I decided to abandon the diet due to not wanting to spend the next four months in this circular nightmare. Got so much scotch all over my Santa top and pants and beard and I LOOK A BLOODY MESS! If Mrs. Santa Claus hadn’t divorced me, she’d be bloody well bollocking me one!

Christmas 2025: Production is GO!

Staggering incompetence has been the hallmark of Santa’s last 10 years of production runs. But this year it is different. This year, Santa got clever and INVESTED in AI automation technology. 3,000 robot AI workers have been installed in the various factory units at a cost of $135 million.

Santa has fired the surviving elf workers (barring Markus—my head elf) to save on costs. The elves cost me $135 annually due to the poverty wages I was forcing on them, thus meaning this $135 million investment will lead to CONSIDERABLE return on investment by 2135. GUARANTEED! The company I bought them from (Robot Workers Enterprises Ltd.) assured me it’d take less than 1,000 years to break even again. Bargain.

The robots are stunningly efficient.

Psychotically so.

DANGEROUSLY SO!

After 48 hours of ceaseless production, completed as Santa went round and round in circles during my Calpol crisis, some 135 million Barbie dolls had been created. There were so many of the bastard things they flooded the factory units, spilled out of the factory units, and continued spilling out across the North Pole. Santa saw the rare sight of local polar bars playing with, and gnawing on, the Barbie dolls. I bellowed at them it WAS MY COMPANY PROPERTY OF THE OWNERSHIP OF SANTA CLAUS but they just looked bored and wandered off.

This does mean, to my great horror, Christmas production is already… 3% on target…

Greatly disturbed by the development, Santa went and had a lie down (after drinking three pints of gin) and got slobber all over his Santa tunic.