All I want for Christmas is for the football club I own to stop being shite and get promoted back to the big league in which our superior local rivals play. Any advice on how to get Santa to deliver this present would be greatly appreciated.
S. Thompson, Tannadice.
Hiya Stephen Thompson! Hiya pal!
As much as eh despise baldy-heided dirty Arab bastards like yerself, Stephen, eh’m gonnae gie ye the time o’ day here because eh kent yer auld man and thought well o’ him. Eh wiz a frequent shoplifter at meh local branch o’ Morning, Noon and Night. Yer auld boy didnae prosecute once in spite o’ me stealing several thousand pounds worth o’ porno mags, Tartan Special and corned beef on a near daily basis. RIP Eddie, ya big ride.
Dinnae be pinning yer hopes on Santa delivering the goods this Christmas, Stevie boy. Santa’s a fuck up. Eh ken this because eh met him aine time.
It wiz efter the Fairmuir Christmas Eve perty. It wiz some night, aye. Daft Punk did a live set and wurnae happy when their helmets got pinched and cunts yaesed them as potties fur takin’ tenner ecto shites in on the dancefloor. Tam McGinty went on efter them and played a banging techno set wearin’ aine o’ the shite-filled helmets. The bingo went well tae.
Eh got hame and prepared fur Santa’s arrival. Eh put oot a tin o’ Special, a couple o’ lines o’ ching and a carrot fur that red-nosed reindeer cunt Rudolph. Eh hid behind the settee and waited. A wee while later this fat boy wi’ a beard drapped doon the chimney and wiz like that, “Fucking yasss man, aboot time some cunt left iz a decent present. Fuckin’ seek o’ mince pehs and sherry.”
Santa wiz in aboot the bevvy and ching like aine o’ the boys fae Daft Punk wiz in aboot Bert McPherson’s dong at the Fairmuir gloryhole. Eh decided tae introduce mehself.
“HIYA SANTA! HIYA PAL! WHA’S IN FUCKIN’ CHERGE HERE YA LAPLAND YOUNG TEAM CUNT?”
Auld Santa Claus aboot shat his teckle red troosers.
“Fuck sake you! What are ye daein up? A’ cunt’s meant tae be in bed fur me rocking doon the chimney!”
Eh telt Santa tae shut his pus, racked up mair ching and asked whaur meh presents where. Santa whipped his sack oot. Eh telt him tae put his hairy ba’s the fuck away and tae make haste wi’ the presents. Big Jocky sent his letter tae Santa sometime around April and wouldnae tolerate any shite wi’ no’ getting what eh asked fur.
“Let’s see now, Jocky fae the Ferry…”
Santa unravelled a giant scroll o’ paper, a long list o’ abody’s presents, and snorted back the ching stuck in his beak.
“Very decent gear, Jock,” mumbled auld St Nick as he looked doon the list.
Fuckin’ ken it is, Santa. Wha’s in cherge here?
He found meh entry and whipped out meh Christmas present. It wiz the holy grail o’ Scottish futba folklore…
Dougie Donnelly’s sex tape.
It wiz an auld VHS copy. Dougie recorded it back in the day before DVD and digital shite, ken? Eh’d been keeping a video player on the go baith as a “fuckin’ good aine” tae technological advancements and specifically in the hope that eh’d one day acquire a copy o’ the film Dougie allegedly made when he wiz shagging.
Eh loaded the tape intae the machine and drapped meh trackie bottoms, cock already manoeuvred intae a semi withoot even touching it. The screen o’ the telly burst intae life and the Sportscene theme tune blared oot.
Meh hardon wilted. What the fuck is this? It’s just an auld episode o’ that shitey highlights programme Dougie yaesed tae present, there’s nae shagging in this!
Eh turned tae remonstrate wi’ Santa. The cunt wiz bolting up the chimney shouting “Ho ho ho!” The fucking rip-aff bastarding cunt. Eh sent that letter in April. April! Plenty time fur the elves tae source the goods, aye!
As Dougie Donnelly started introducing a gemme between Motherwell and Hibs eh strapped on the jetpack, ran ootside and took tae the sky tae give chase. Nae fuckin’ danger he wiz getting’ awa’ wi’ that. It wiz punch-in-the-fuckin’-pus time fur the man wha crucified Jesus tae win the Battle o’ Christmas.
Santa wiz movin’ at pace but eh caught up wi’ him nae bather.
“THAT WIZNAE THE DOUGIE DONNELLY PORNO YA FUCKIN’ CUNT! FLEET RULE!”
Eh pulled alongside the sleigh. Rudolph wiz like that, “A’right Jock, how goes it mate?” No’ bad, pal. Eh kent him and the rest o’ the reindeer lads fae the Fairmuir, they were a’ sound. Blitzen’s some dominoes player.
As eh swooped in swinging punches and what wiz left o’ meh deeply disappointed erection at Santa, Rudolph went, “Jocky! Leave it, mate, he’s no’ worth it! Pints on me if ye let wiz deliver presents tae the rest o’ the world’s children instead o’ booting fuck oot cunto here!”
Jocky didnae want tae disappoint the world’s children, and eh’ll never turn doon a pint, so eh let it be.
The reindeers started singing “One team in Dundee”. Eh joined in, winked at Rudolph, and flew awa’ hame tae watch an auld Motherwell v Hibs gemme on the telly.
Fuck Santa Claus. Fuck you tae, Thompson, ye dirty Arab bastard.
Tae abody else? Merry Christmas, ya cunts. Hae a prosperous new year tae.