Look, it’s clear that Santa is a big drinker - every Christmas Eve he jets around the world, and he does a shot of sherry in almost every house. That’s absolute madness, that is, that’s binge-drinking on a deathly scale, irresponsibility of the highest order. Think about it: if he did the whole of the UK in about, say, nine hours, that would be around 24 million glasses of sherry alone. That’s 2,777,778 shots of sherry every hour, which is 46,296 per minute, or 771 sherries a second.
According to the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD), an online system that tracks Santa’s progress around the planet, he weighs 260lbs, and is 5ft 7 inches tall; so if he were to hock back 24 million 25ml shots of 18% ABV sherry over nine hours, his Blood Alcohol Concentration (BAC) would be 120,935.851. The lethal BAC for an average human is about 0.450, by the way - more like Santa’s blotto.
To put that in perspective, his BAC would be 3.73 after one second, so he’d be dead almost immediately, basically. Just like I was on my 18th.
But look, this is silly, because Santa works at a different speed to us lot, the humans, the proles, the kipping maggots, deep in slumber, awaiting their day of meaningless excess - he works on a different continuum, a different plane; Santa-Time, we’ll call it.
So how pissed would Mr. Claus get over the course of a normal evening, were he taking it at the speed that you or I would, if we were breaking into people’s homes and drinking their booze?
Well, here’s exactly how that particular evening may pan out:
A Festive Tale: The Almighty Bender Before Christmas
The good thing about Santa Claus is he’s a quick worker. He only needs about ten minutes in each house - that’s more than enough time to slip down the smoke tube, bung out the pressies, bite a mince pie and wolf back a gulp of sherry before moving onto the next house. In and out, just like the hokey cokey.
So after a swift, efficient dalliance with his first stop, the Big Man is merely showing an ineffectual BAC of 0.003 - a true nothing amount, he would have you agree. This Santa is just getting started, something he duly tells his reindeer, before jumping across to the neighboring roof. Tonight is gonna be great.
Five houses in and 50 minutes into his evening and he’s still only blowing a 0.016 on the breathalyser, so he’s nicely in control - maybe he’s got a bit of a warm nose, but his pants are still on. He hums ‘Last Christmas’ to himself, a spring in his step; Santa is on a roll, and he doesn’t care who knows it.
It’s not until a subsequent ten houses that old curly chops can feel it. He’s now reading a confident 0.049 on the pisster scale - as you would, of course, he’s had 15 shots in only two and a half hours, the absolute hound that he is. As such, he’s a bit wifty on his feet, there, and he’s managed to clonk his knee on the corner of a chimney.
“That’s your fault, you and your fancy antlers putting me off, Blitzen, if that is your real name,” he shouts, at Vixen.
Thankfully, he’s also been eating a mince pie in each house, too, so he’s counteracting the effect of the slosh in some way at least. But regardless of this tactic, it’s not enough to stop him from dropping a full set of Transformers off the back of his sleigh onto a concrete drive, smashing little Timmy’s dream present to Christmas Day tears. He blames it on Donner though, before wiping a strand of rogue saliva from his beard and muttering, “I’m having a sodding doner after this piece of a job, I’ll tell you that for a bag of shit.”
20 houses in, and he’s showing a BAC of 0.065, which essentially means, officially, that he should be staying clear of driving for the foreseeable future. Only thing is, Santa has to literally drive for the rest of the night, otherwise those ungrateful vultures aren’t going to get their fidget spinners on time.
“Where’s the sodding auto-pilot on this godforsaken trashcan?” Santa says to the arse of one of his reindeers, “My eyes have gone crossed and I don’t know how to get them back straight.”
Oh well, onwards and literally upwards.
We’re well into the night now, as we skip forward another ten shots. He’s fully over the legal limit, and he’s showing it - every time he comes to a skidding halt on a roof, he bangs his head on the front of the sleigh, so he’s now got a steady stream of alcohol-thinned blood dividing his face in two; a look which is sure to give a young child an early heart attack. Luckily, he gets to test this theory out when he slips on some greasy slates and smashes through a skylight into a bedroom. A startled boy yelps and sits bolt upright in bed, his eyes round with fear.
“Shhhhhh! Shhhhut up!” Santa hisses, putting his creepy, gloved hand over the terrified child’s mouth, his booze-heavy breath stinging his eyes. “Do you want your goddamn presents or not? Don’t tell your dad.”
He’s making things worse, and he’s also absolutely wrecked the cream carpet with his filthy boots, so he chucks the presents (any presents, someone else’s) onto the floor and climbs back out onto the roof.
“Drive this red slug,” he spits at Rudolph, “you big-nosed horse.” And he flies to the next estate, presents cascading off the back of his chariot into the snowy ether, on a quest to get more pissed than anyone has ever done before.
There’s no slowing down for the red-hatted wonder though, and another ten houses are soon done - he’s been swerving all over the skies for six hours and 40 minutes now. Landing on a nearby roof, Santa cracks his forehead onto the front of his sleigh once again, spraying rouge onto the white roof, before lazily dropping like an ill cow pat down the chimney.
He hocks back another sherry. “You cannot stop… the Santa man…the legendary… the… fucking hell.” Santa slumps down onto the sofa, swallowing an entire mince pie whole, before urgently banging his chest as he struggles desperately to breathe. He runs backwards into the wall in an attempt at a makeshift Heimlich, and successfully dislodges the pastry treat from his gullet, before defiantly eating it again.
“Here’s your sodding coal, you little shits,” he whelps, and empties a sack of fossil fuel onto the living room carpet. Then, instead of climbing back up the chimney, he simply takes the front path, leaving the front door swinging in the icy wind. “You’re welcome to it,” he hisses, as a fox darts into the hallway.
After yet another ten houses, Santa Claus - the lushest boozer to ever have lived - has had 50 shots of sherry, and currently holds a BAC of 0.162. Essentially, this means he is not yet blackout drunk, but is lovely and close, like an elusive, intoxicated orgasm. As such, his face is bright red, the veins on his temples pulsing on overtime to thread the sherry around his failing body, his thighs rubbing vigorously together with every clod-hopping step, a seal of snot ballooning under his nostril with every heavy breath - he is not a pretty sight.
But an even more disturbing and unfortunate sight is to greet the walls of his next house, as he careens headfirst down the chimney, presents tumbling behind him like rubbish down a garbage chute.
After a brief stop-off in the Smiths from Bolton’s’ bathroom, as his eyeballs return from looking backwards into his skull, Santa glimpses a small child standing nervously in the hallway.
“Sant-ah?” the child says, an apprehensive smile washing across his face.
“Go back to bed, you fucking tadpole,” Santa replies, spittle filling the air like sleet, “you’re not due until tomorrow.”
The child, dreams crashing about his bare feet, runs toward his parents’ bedroom, tears filling the night, the true meaning of Christmas finally being revealed to his still-developing brain.
“Uh oh, better split,” Santa says, before forcing the bathroom window off its hinges and clambering out and back onto the roof as the police are called. “I need a stiff drink.”
An hour and 40 minutes later, and yep, he’s had 60 shots now. Santa Claus has had 60 whole shots of sherry, and he is absolutely feeling no pain. He is so pissed. He has also found himself in the kitchen of a cute little semi-detached, absolutely decimating the contents of its fridge. He’s already hoofed down half a pack of pigs in blankets before even realising that they’re raw.
“Give a shit,” he loudly proclaims, as a bleary-eyed man appears in the doorway, brandishing a golf club. “Watch out, it’s Happy Gilmore,” Santa quips, and the man rushes towards him, putter held aloft.
But the makeshift weapon is no match for a liquored up Father Christmas, 60 sheets to the wind, who lunges like a pissed-up wrecking ball, swiping the homeowner’s legs from underneath him and bringing his head down onto the door of the oven with a sickening thud. As the pyjama-clad have-a-go-hero slides limply down towards the linoleum, dark blood bubbling from his damaged skull, Santa scrambles to his feet.
“Whoops,” he stutters, “butter fingers.” And wangs open the back door with a hefty kick - there’s no sticking around to check on dad, there are presents to deliver!
And deliver he does, to at least ten more houses, boasting a frankly heinous BAC of 0.227, which for the average human, would mean a comfortably unconscious state. Not for Santa Claus though, a 1,747-year-old festive chode with a powerfully thick liver - it’s business as usual, and he will resolutely not remember any of it in the morning.
Particularly because he’s just knocked himself out on an ornamental owl in the garden of his next abode. A full minute he is incapacitated, before wearily struggling to his feet, jamming a foot in a wall-mounted trellis and beginning his vertical climb to the roof to retrieve the presents. His eyes, almost fully glazed-over, swirl and spin about his sockets, his only sense of direction being informed by the smell of his trusty reindeer, guarding the stash up top.
Then, suddenly, his determined and zen ascent is rudely disturbed.
“Mum! Dad! There’s a pervert at the window!”
Santa’s eyes cease spinning, and he locks them forward - a teenager is standing, frantic, one foot in his room, one foot on the landing, beckoning for unseen backup.
“I’m… Santa… Claus…” Santa musters, his face pressed flat against the window, tongue lapping at the glass with every syllable. But it’s not enough to convince the rapidly approaching parents of his authenticity, who jam open the window, knocking him backwards, a thick crack echoing through the night as his body falls downward, but his foot remains caught in the wooden lattice he’d used as a foothold.
“Ugh, fuck,” Santa slurs, as he hangs upside down, before looking upwards at his violently broken ankle, a compound fracture glistening in the night sky like Rudolph’s wet nose.
But time is of the essence, and Mr. Claus must trudge on, so he yanks his useless foot from the trellis and crawls onto the grass.
“You antlered cows, pick me up! They’re gonna kick my beard in!” he shouts, as the reindeer leap from the roof and hook Santa’s elasticated waistband with the left-hand runner of his sleigh, hoisting him into the night sky, away from danger.
“More… sherry,” Santa lisps, as his ankle swings in the brisk wind like the chewed ear on a hand-me-down stuffed rabbit toy, “I need to bollocks another cup of juice to numb the pain…”
It’s tough work, but Santa somehow manages another 20 houses, and another 20 shots of sherry, bringing his total to 90. To achieve this incredible feat, he makes do with tying a rope to his trusty reindeers’ antlers, and lowering himself down the chimney, before crawling around on his belly like an newborn slow worm, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
Any normal binge-drinker would give up here, but Santa is made of sterner stuff. Back on the roof, he weakly hugs his best friend Rudolph, buries his nose deep into his neck, sniffs his mane, squints his eyes and mutters:
“It’s Christmas!” shouts nine-year-old Max, “Wake up, wake up! It’s Christmas, wake up!” As with every year, he is beside himself with excitement, his tousled mop of hair vibrating with festive cheer - this is the best day of the year, bar none.
“OK OK!” his mum shouts from the master bedroom, “we’re coming!”
But suddenly, there’s silence. This is unlike Max - normally he’s on loudspeaker all day.
“Max? Everything OK?”
“Mum, something… bad.”
“What’s happened? Are you OK, Max?” his dad shouts, both parents frantically donning their dressing gowns, rushing to the door and swinging it open with such force it shakes the walls.
Then they see it.
A red carpet of rouge, spread across the landing, leading to the top of the stairs, where little Max is standing, tears streaming down his confused face.
“Mummy, Santa…” he mumbles.
His parents hopscotch around the still wet blood on the carpet, towards Max, and slowly follow his gaze down to the bottom of the stairs, where Christmas is ruined. For there lies a most gruesome tableau below.
Santa, face down, ankle at a right angle, his entire arse hanging out of his pants, a mince pie casserole congealing by his hat.
Max looks up at his distraught parents, the hope slowly draining from his innocent eyes.
“Is that… is that, Santa?” he whimpers.
His mum glances back down to the big pale bum pointing towards the ceiling. It briefly tenses before exhaling a final aromatic sigh. Santa Claus is dead.
“It is,” she says, ruffling Max’s full head of hair. “What an absolute lightweight.”