Following the Santa tinned tuna fiasco last week, this week he’s taken his Environmental, Social, and Governance game up a notch by getting a pet fish. Yes. End statement.

The Fish

Santa had The Fish flown in from a pet shop in Bolton of Greater Manchester. It was a long flight for the little monster. That was all I’d ordered and the cost was $60,000 for the helicopter fuel and $5 for The Fish. Santa was very, very, very excited about getting this pet because there’s something about a goldfish that strikes me as awesome. Probably the gold bit. They’re as inherently wealthy as me.

The Fish arrived and, in customary Santa factory fashion, the helicopter crash landed at the entrance to the factory. Kenneth my walrus gaffer took The Fish from the delivery men, most of whom were crushed beyond repair in the crash. The helicopter blew up dramatically as Kenneth shuffled into the factory with The Fish in a plastic bag filled with water. Inside The Fish floated.

Bob.

Bob.

Bob.

It went. Markus, my head elf, suggested I call The Fish “Bob” and I gave him a $1 pay cut for such insubordination! BUT THIS WAS MADE WORSE BECAUSE NURSE DOREEN SAID “BOB” WAS AN EXCELLENT NAME. My bellowing continued for some time and The Fish is what the pet is definitively called.

Santa has a lovely fishbowl for The Fish and plopped it on in there. It floated around and swam some more. Santa fed the little bastard and it looked silent and happy.

Belching exuberantly, Santa patted myself on the shoulder for a job well done. A happy pet is an excellent pet.

Disease Outbreak

The next day, there was a major disease outbreak. Normally it’s the plague or scurvy, or that time when there was widespread acute radiation syndrome and all the skin was peeling off everyone’s bodies.

Instead, Santa was DISGUSTED to discover the most horrifying of all outbreaks had struck the Santa factory. So dastardly, so cruel in its contempt for wellbeing, that Santa wept Santa tears that very morning and I screeched, on my knees, to the Gods to get us out of this hellish nightmare.

The common cold had struck.

We all had it. Me (Santa). Markus (my head elf). Nurse Doreen (also our chef). All the goddamn bastard elves as well, they all had it. All of them. Everyone was going around sniffling, sneezing, grumbling, feeling lethargic. To get around the issue I had everyone snort a giant line of cocaine from my private stash. Then I had them all down a giant can of maximum sugar energy drink each and sent them on their, respective, ways. 17 elves had collapsed with cardiac arrest by midday… THAT IS HOW DEADLY THE COMMON COLD IS.

Santa was terrified.

To take my mind off the horror, I went to visit The Fish. While staring at it and waving hysterically, it suddenly struck me that The Fish had arrived and then the common cold pandemic had begun. Chance? I THINK NOT! Santa bolted for the factory’s emergency alarm, pelted it with all my might, and as the mighty din kicked in the elves arrived and we had that no good SOB The Fish arrested!!

Interrogating The Fish

The Fish was immediately sent to The Interrogation Unit (TIU), an underground bunker located a mile underneath the shed next to factory unit three. It’s top secret. The code on the door to get in is 1234. We spent half an hour standing outside because I couldn’t remember the code, I kept putting 4321 and then bellowing abuse at the security door for not opening. SOB!

Anyway, once we were in we contained the specimen.

Looking all sweet and innocent in its little bowl, Santa had 13 elves standing with bazookas and shotguns trained on the bowl in case The Fish tried anything funny.

“GIMME ANSWERS, YA BASTARD!” I bellowed at it.

No answer. Silence (apart from my relentless wheezing due to a devastated cardiovascular system). Santa knew this goldfish was going to be one tough SOB to crack. Slugging from a bottle of Pernod, Santa stalked around The Fish’s bowl, my enormous beer belly wobbling around as I did so. I gave it the evils, my very best haughty stare of superiority complex disdain, but it continued with the whole Bob thing.

“ENOUGH OF YOUR LIES, FISH!” I roared.

That meant straight to the torture devices, so I stumbled over to the music player contraption and rifled through the assortment of torture CDs:

• Katy Perry’s Greatest Hits
• Taylor Swift’s entire music catalogue
• Rap music
• The Foo Fighters
• Ed Sheeran’s Perfect

That was it. THAT WAS THE ONE! Ed Sheeran’s Perfect is the most abhorrent, repugnant, tortuous, wince-inducing, vomit-inducing bollocks any human ears have ever had to listen to. No, Santa is not “just jealous” of his musical prowess either, Ed Sheeran fandom, the SONG MAKES ME VERY, VERY ANGRY. Thus, on it went at full volume on a three hour continuous loop of horror.

By the end of the three hours, all 13 bazooka sporting elves had collapsed frothing at the mouth. Brain haemorrhages for all of them. As for Santa, the song had caused me to suffer:

• A broken leg
• A sprained ankle
• Diphtheria
• Gangrene
• A dislocated shoulder
• PTSD
• Three concussions

Markus, my head elf, had to get Kenneth the walrus to batter the security door down to retrieve me. I was lugged off to Nurse Doreen who gave me a pint of instant noodle juice and then put me into a medically induced coma.

The Fish?

Unaffected.

I got the news when Nurse Doreen brought me to in the medical ward. I calmed myself by drinking three pints of instant noodle juice. Then Nurse Doreen got me hooked up to a Pernod drip. Because Santa dare say, that limbless cold-blooded vertebrate with gills could well be the greatest nemesis Father Christmas has ever had to deal with.

There was nothing else for it…

With Pernod coursing through my veins, Santa steeled my nerves to the highest degree of bravery known to man (or woman) and did what only the hardiest and most brilliant of souls ever could accomplish.

Santa had The Fish SENT BACK to the pet store! And that was that.