After his battles with a 300-strong Santa Watch elf army, Father Christmas is now back and has a problem with corduroy (the coarse British fabric hailing from the 17th century). Indeed. Makes for a curious time of it…

CHRISTMAS CORDUROY

With the elf Santa Watch all slammed out in Nurse Doreen’s medical ward (they have acuate radiation sickness), Santa was free again to do my dastardly business (and that’s exactly what I ruddy well did). With a new lease of Father Freedom, I drank half a litre of gin, then put on my finest corduroy clothing I had left over from the 1970s. It was a tight squeeze. Santa has gained weight since 1977 it is sad to see… but it is only a small amount!

I got Markus (my head elf) to help me squeeze on into the pants. He saw my testicles. He grimaced (he’ll get a pay cut for that).

The clothes all split in various places, put with a bit of sellotape and glue Santa was strapped in snugly to the buggers and I started strutting my stuff down the factory corridors. I was pretty drunk. That gin went right to my head and I soon staggered around and passed out.

But when Santa woke up it hit me. Corduroy. The slogan sells itself!

Christmas Corduroy! The Best a Van Can Get…

I thought about changing “van” to “man”, but that seemed inappropriate. It was only when Markus, my head elf, stated vans have no means with which to buy corduroy clothing that I realised, by Jove, the little bastard was right! I’m in it to make money, so the slogan was updated!

Christmas Corduroy! The Best a Man Can Gut!!

Markus, my head elf, pointed out “gut” had various “unpleasant connotations”, and I punched him in the face and bellowed at him that I am not, nor ever will be, a communist.

Deader Than Corduroy

To celebrate my latest business genius moment, Santa went ahead and ordered 135 billion tonnes of corduroy clothing for the factory. Because of my longstanding track record for aerial deliveries ending in bedlam and destruction, the US distributor demanded they be shipped over. Santa bellowed down the phone at them that that was not acceptable and they must be delivered via helicopter immediately. The distributor flat out refused. Santa bellowed some more. The distributor threatened to hang up on Santa. Santa threatened to take my business somewhere else. The distributor stated no one else on planet Earth has what Santa needs. Santa bellowed some more.

Eventually, after three hours of arguing, we reached a compromise.

ONE tonne of corduroy would be delivered via helicopter as a “gesture of good will”, the rest would be delivered by boat. This was not the deal Santa wanted, but it’d have to do. Santa agreed to the proposal and got drunk that night on gin, cheesy dips, and vodka.

The next morning, when the helicopter delivery arrived, Santa was hungover and paranoid. I accidentally shot the bastard down out of the sky with a volley of bazooka shots. The chopper plunged into the ground like a dart, blew up, and the shipment of corduroy was burned to the ground. Luckily for the pilot, he was thrown clear during the crash and survived with only two dislocated shoulder blades and broken nose. I had Markus (my head elf), drag him by the scruff of his neck to Nurse Doreen’s ward. She put him into a medically induced coma and has him on a drip filled with Sudocrem and Listerine.

She’s doing God’s work, that woman…

The Pilot Hits the Catwalk

I had Markus (my head elf) and his elves sift through the wreckage and they found a total of 14 garments that hadn’t been entirely incinerated. Good news! They were a bit singed and smelled like petrol, but who gives a bastard? Plus, the pilot had come to in the early hours of the morning. Nurse Doreen reported to me he:

• Panicked
• Puked
• Passed out

The three Ps. Never a good sign. Santa ordered he be placed back into a medically induced coma. Nurse Doreen told me that was “not the right thing to do”. I suggested he have a lobotomy instead. Nurse Doreen refused. Bored of the conversation, Santa instead had a moment of genius. That SOB could step in and act as a model for all the corduroy Santa has ordered! I can’t do it because I’d split the lot with my massive manly beer belly.

Santa proposed the idea to the half-lucid pilot.

The pilot refused.

Santa began bellowing furiously and grabbed the pilot by the scruff of the neck. The pilot protested angrily, but Santa’s bellowing and booze breath were enough to cave him in. Markus, my head elf, frogmarched him (drip still attached to his skull) off to factory unit 3. There Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, looking hungover to all hell, and Kenneth the gaffer walrus created a makeshift catwalk out of three rotting polar bear corpses and some planks of wood yanked from the abandoned factory unit (where all the radiation still is).

The catwalk began immediately. Staggering up and down the radioactive plank, the pilot soon got into his stride and began loving it a little bit too much for Santa’s liking. He was trying on trousers, tops, shirts, hats… all of MY singed corduroy that I had ordered by myself for Christmas 2026! Outraged, Santa barged up onto the catwalk and began parading around to gain maximum attention away from the pilot. The pilot got defensive in return and started strutting and upping the flamboyance factor, flaunting that corduroy in the most shameful fashion imaginable. At one point he even… flaunted some chest hair! Santa had seen enough!!! A brawl commenced and the pilot was knocked over by my manly big beer belly. He crashed off the catwalk and landed on a pile of broken old barbie dolls, shattering his pelvis.

Santa had Markus, my head elf, rip all the corduroy off the bastard. He was then airlifted home in an air ambulance. Before he left, Santa informed the pilot that, as he’d been SO VERY, VERY NAUGHTY, he wouldn’t be getting any Christmas presents this year.

Testing Out the New Santa Factory Alarm System

The next day, the shipment arrived. Boats. Boats, everywhere! As far as the eyes could see!! Now, for 2026 Santa has had installed a special Super Panic Siren that my doting AI wife, B2C AI Wife Production Centre Service Solution Platform Generator Ltd., created with her technical wizardry.

It is the loudest siren on Earth and sounds out hard and long at 150 dB. It can be heard over 35 miles away.

When Santa saw the boats, and admittedly hungover, I had a bit of a panic and triggered the alarm. This was the first time the new factory alarm was triggered. The wailing began the moment I whacked the button. Within seconds, the noise was so deafening and destructive the roof above me caved in and the walls crumbled. The collective screams of agony from everyone on-site was met with the manic braying of Kenneth the walrus.

The corduroy boats, on hearing the blaring alarm, panicked and tried to flee the scene. Many collided with each other, burst into flames, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Santa watched it all play out with my very eyes.

It is only now, Monday morn as I type this report (and the alarm has stopped), that I know the full extent of the devastation. All but THREE corduroy shops weren’t destroyed and sunk. And they all sailed back to the distributor, whom sent Santa a very angry email this morning, too.

Santa feels this all backfired a tad. Sorry to report, but you shan’t be getting any corduroy for Christmas 2026. No matter how nice you’ve been.