Dear Santa Claus, Me Old Cock-Sparra, Salt-of-the-Earth, Working-Class Fella
I’ll tell you straight, it’s been a rough ‘n’ tumble couple of weeks.
(Shouting) I said eight spoons of sugar. Can you not fucking count?
There I was, flying high with two hit shows on the telly. I’d just finished exploring the work of a fish finger factory And I didn’t even know that fish didn’t ‘ave fingers. Until a researcher told me.
And, suddenly, I am persona non-grata. All thanks to a small group of several hundred middle-aged, middle-class women who can’t take a joke. Or think that borderline sexual assault is wrong. What is it with you people? I’m a working-class boy and that’s how we do things!
(Shouting) I said pan au chocolat. Are you fucking deaf?
Fortunately, there are people who respect my abilities and can see past the narrow-minded views of f... people. And I will be taking up a new position as a culinary guru. I just hope this bloke I’m working for likes potato-based meals. I love a potato. In all its forms: chips, mash, jackets, roasties, French fries, croquets, gratin… That sort of stuff. Lovely.
I hope my new employer loves it, too. He’s called Andrew Duke York something…
So thank you, Santa. For nothing. You red-suit-wearing slag.
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