It's that time of year again! Father Christmas must see out his contractual obligation to Professional Moron with weekly newsletters. All the way up until the big day itself!
The main things we've learned about Santa over the years? He's a tad moody and is prone to being extraordinarily drunk a lot of the time. Otherwise, a real charmer! What a legend.
Thus it be a joyous, merry, wonderful time of it in the the build up to Xmas 2024.
The Christmas Pudding of Doom
Hello. It's fair to say Santa is extraordinarily drunk when typing this because I've woken from my hibernation and immediately started hitting the gin and didn't stop. Did the usual Santa stuff, too, which is to get my head elf, Markus, to:
- Defrost the factories
- Wake up the other elves
- Wake up the reindeer
- Thaw out Rudolph and supply him with his fix of heroin
Just a note on last year, but I hired what turned out to be Kenneth the walrus and he's a walrus.
Kenneth presented Santa (that's me) with a concept while I sat there drunk, in my underwear, IN MY OFFICE, while slugging from a bottle of gin. Kenneth's idea is simple but dumb—a pudding for Christmas so the families of the world can enjoy a lovely treat on Christmas Day. I told the stupid SOB we already have that and it's called Christmas pudding. Kenneth began braying at this announcement and left the office seemingly satisfied. Santa took this as a clear sign! CHRISTMAS PUDDINGS MUST BE MADE BETTERER.
One is in exactly the position to do so as one is rich and famous. With my spare cash, Santa can turn the Christmas pudding into something truly, truly, truly. truly, TRULY spectacular. And I shall! Watch this space.
The Christmas Pudding of Explosions
Santa handed Markus (my head elf) the details for the exploding Christmas pudding. He called me into research and development room one (R&D1) over near the nuclear powerplant bit of the factory that melted down a while ago.
Well, shit a brick, Markus had affixed TNT into this Christmas pudding. But the radiation got "into" the pudding and overnight the damn thing took on a life of its own. Sentient! Thinking and with probable free will. It really was so disturbing I had to drink half a bottle of gin before I could go within three feet of it, because it kept spewing out invective like with that bird from The Exorcist (1973).
Once I felt in control enough I approached it. Crap bags, the little bugger can swear I tell you! It took one look at me and unloaded the most disgusting defamation about me being "fat" and "smelly" and that I was a "sad excuse for Santa Claus". I did my usual insults of how I'd blow the goddamn bastard to smithereens with a bazooka, but the Christmas pudding didn't seem overly concerned.
I went and consulted with Kenneth the walrus over the matter.
Kenneth the walrus had nothing beneficial to say. He stared at me with a blank stare portraying the overwhelming indifference of wild animals and I realised that he deserved a pay cut on the spot. I'm not hiring him as gaffer to give me blank, meaningless stares indicating the existential meaningless of the cosmos. It's Christmas FFS!
Back to the Christmas pudding I went. It had gone!
Of course, the damn thing can move and it's sprouted legs and a diddy arm (just one of them) and was running amok beating up the elves. That's my goddamn job! It's my duty, as good business practice, to smack my elves around a bit by breaching various employment laws! Indignant, I marched up to the out of control Christmas pudding and ordered it to stop its anti-social behaviour. It flipped me the goddamn bird! Then two fingers! Then kicked me in the shin.
Enough was enough! Santa took a good, long, hard slug out of the tequila bottle stashed in his underpants, then toppled over and passed out.
Hungover Retribution On a Christmas Pudding
Belching exuberantly, Santa awoke in a haze of filth. I'd fouled my pants and the Christmas pudding had stolen all my clothes. Either that or I'd stripped off naked again. Either way, Santa was nude and angry and that's a really dangerous state of affairs for Christmas.
I headed to the CCTV room where we do CCTV. From the CCTV stuff we got the below image and cripes the little bastard now has a second arm and it's got a stupid tattoo on it and is all bulging biceps. What a freak!
Santa demanded Markus distribute WANTED! posters around the Santa factory. The statement on the poster read this, verbatim:
WANTED! Dead or freshly COOKED!
There's a sentient and psychopathic Christmas pudding running amok in the factory. Upon sight of the foodstuff, murder it mercilessly! Don't hold back. Really kick its bloody shins in and send it packing!
Be warned, it's got TNT in it and it's probably very bloody dangerous. There's a 35p reward for any elf that goes and what and does do kill it one.
Cheers, Santa
Markus put up 135 of the posters. The Christmas pudding, during the night while we all slept, removed all 135 of them.
This SOB could well be my greatest nemesis yet!
In a drunken rage, Santa ordered the factory be BURNED TO THE GROUND to 100% ensure the pudding was obliterated. Markus reminded me we'd then be homeless and left to freeze to death in the sub-zero temperatures here in the North Pole. Thus, Santa relented and had another batch of posters printed for dissemination.
The Christmas Pudding and the Roasted Sprout
There seems to have been a leak from the factory unit afflicted by nuclear meltdown back in 2015, because we've got this deformed pudding and now an old roasted sprout from a long lost Christmas dinner has come to life and is in cahoots with the pudding.
Santa stumbled across the sprout at 7pm when only marginally pissed senseless.
The sprout eyeballed me, flipped me the finger, grabbed its crotch, flipped me the finger again, hesitated for a moment while considering further rude gestures, then disappeared into an old bazooka crater Santa had triggered in a drunken rage.
Markus later updated me the Christmas pudding and roasted sprout have joined forces...
To my alarm, Markus pinpointed on CCTV that various other vegetables and foodstuffs in the factory were coming to life! Santa even saw one of his bottles of gin staggering about the place wasted. What in the name of good bloody hellish crap bags is going on!? "This could derail Christmas!" I raged, before belching exuberantly and slugging from a bottle of brandy.
Markus (my head elf) bowed, apologised, and promised he'd sort the issue out.
"SWEAR ON YOUR BLOODY LIFE, MARKUS!" I bellowed at him.
"Erm..." He squeaked in that stupid elf voice, before scarpering.
Lucky for him Santa was soon drunk and I forgot all about his insubordination and unwillingness to lay his life on the line in the name of slaying sprouts.
Crisis Point: A Swarm of Christmas Foodstuffs
Santa dutifully passed out drunk last night and came to covered in dribble and filth. Most of the dribble was from Kenneth the walrus, whom stood ominously over me while drooling. He brayed like a mad bastard upon seeing my eyes slam open.
Before I could gather my senses, Markus (my head elf) approached me with a list of demands from Jeff the Christmas Pudding and his army of roasted vegetables. The statement, scrawled in dodgy handwriting on a piece of used toilet paper, read, verbatim:
oi santa we is gonna smash ur fackin hed in u bellend lol wot u gonna do about it your outnumbered 300 to 1 u is ded meet
Yours,
Jeff the Christmas Pudding
Santa read the message several times over. It was clear Jeff wasn't the smartest pudding on the shelf, so I wasn't overly scared or anything. Besides, I'd already fouled myself again.
Indeed! Instead of fearing this message, I embraced it. Thus, Santa went to hit the gin. There was none.
"Markus!" I barked, "Where are the gin bottles!?"
"They're all sentient and ready to wage war on you, sir."
The blood drained from Santa's blotchy, pockmarked, red face. No gin. No brandy, either, the bottles were all staggering about in the corridors shouting "DEATH TO *HICK* CHRISTMAS!" THIS WAS A GODDAMN EMERGENCY!
And when there's a crisis there's only one thing for it...
Santa has to use the Putrid Panic Room. If you remember that film Panic Room (2002) with Jodie Foster, it's like that. But it stinks. It's also got a ready and near endless supply of Lemsips and cheap cider. Santa staggered to his feet and lumbered off for a panic.
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