Bugle 254 – Christmas Special!

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The Bugle, audio newspaper for a visual world.

Hello, buglers, and welcome to Bugle issue 254, the Bugle 2013 Christmas special.

Happy Hanukkah!

I'm a little bit late on that one, apparently.

I think we had a week off when Hanukkah was on.

Sorry, I think we had a week off because Hanukkah was on, and I was too busy with my Jewish buddies burning some quality candles.

Quality and quantity.

I am Andy Zoltzmann in London, UK, where Christmas is looming like the Wimbledon final over the early July tennis schedule.

It's soon, inevitable, and will almost certainly happen again this the same time next year.

And whilst the three wise men exactly 2013 years ago were famously following a star, I, 2013 years later, am introducing a star.

It's the newly unemployed TV and animated movie voiceover star, John Oliver.

Hello, Andy.

Hello, buglers.

It's our end of the year bugle, the final bugle of 2013.

It's been snowing here on and off for the last couple of weeks, Andy, quite a lot.

And when it snows in New York City, the whole place...

Looks like a holiday card for about 45 minutes and then resembles a graphic representation of a high-end hell.

New York in the winter, Andy, is a wonderland in that you wonder why the f you live here.

The true New York Christmas image is not Central Park in the snow.

It's not that, Andy.

It's a New Yorker stepping into the road onto what he thinks is ice, only for his foot to break through half a foot of freezing mystery slush, with the mystery liquid going up over his ankles and seeping into his shoe as the man in question shouts, f

if if you could take a photo of the moment of the F in fuck,

then you have the fairest holiday card representation of New York in the winter, Andy.

It's what Jesus would have wanted, John.

It was, as you mentioned, it was my last week at the Daily Show this week, Andy, and it was all a bit more emotional than I'm really equipped to deal with, by which I mean it was any amount of emotional.

It's not really just been a job for the last seven and a half years of my life.

It's been a home.

Lest we forget, I left an entire f ⁇ ing country for that job.

You know me, Andy.

I like to repress emotions, pushing them so far down they have a decent shot of becoming oil-covered diamonds.

But they surprised me during the show last night with a goodbye thing, and I burst into tears on camera.

Oh, John.

I guess that's what happens, Andy, if you live your life as an emotional volcano once every 17 years or so, that thing is going to blow.

I think more of the question needs to be asked is, is there actually anything left of you that is still genuinely British?

Because I know.

I don't know.

Because

you have started saying gotten quite a lot and you're now crying outside the privacy of your own attic and or dungeon.

You might as well drown your f ⁇ ing passport in Boston Harbour, John.

I just worry that I've lost my hard man of comedy image now, Andy.

I don't want buglers to think that all of a sudden this, every every week this podcast is going to resemble an episode of Dr.

Phil.

The volcano erupted once, Andy.

The lava hardened and now it's a f ⁇ ing hill again.

I was alerted to this

these tears on Twitter, John.

Oh, you were.

Oh, yeah.

The show's not being shit, doesn't get shown here until tonight, I think.

But

I know things on Twitter need to be taken with not just with a pinch of salt, but often need to be baked like a Mediterranean fish in a full salt crust.

But it turns out this one is true.

John Holliver.

I mean, this is not...

John,

this is appalling.

I mean, as you say,

you really have to bottle it up.

I mean, did we, Brits, become the most powerful nation nation in the world by being all teary and touchy-feely about things, like moving into other people's countries, giving them

diseases and stealing their natural resources?

You're right, we didn't.

You're right, Andy.

Did Charles I cry when he left his job, John, as King of England after 24 years?

That's what, three times what you've done at the Daily Show?

He did not cry, John, and he left by having his head chopped off.

I mean, he did bleed from the neck a bit, but that wasn't entirely his own fault.

So they weren't tears, though, were they?

They weren't tears, Andy.

Tears of blood.

So, John Oliver now unemployed.

That's going to hit you hard, John.

It's going to hit you hard.

Yeah, well, unemployed until January the 1st.

But you're right, it counts.

It counts.

Sign on.

Section in the bin this week, the latest reviews of some of Britain's leading nativity plays.

including the one at My Children's School, featuring my son as a frankly sensational Archangel Gabriel.

He had one line and he absolutely nailed it.

He went up to Mary, he got right in her grill and he shouted, Mary, you're going to have a baby.

You have to call him Jesus and he's a son of God.

And walked off.

Classic bit of archangelry.

Bing, bang, in, out.

No extraneous information.

Got his message across clearly and concisely.

I was impressed, John, by the volume, because it showed that he'd thought about the character.

Because when you see most nativity plays, the archangel Gabriel doesn't shout.

Many of them mumble.

Some try to sound a bit holy.

But my boy had thought about the logistics, John.

If you're an archangel, you probably spend spend a lot of time flying around pretty fast.

That's a lot of wind noise that you've got to make yourself heard over.

So, of course, Big Gabe will probably develop a bit of a shout over time.

So,

if you could put in a word for him with a Smurf franchise, I reckon he could do a job.

It was a gobby Smurf.

Top story this week.

Jingle, jingle, merrily on the manger, Andy, the silent night is lowing.

Santa Claus is coming to Bethlehem, and the three wise snowmen are riding a sleigh pulled by Rudolph the red-nosed Jesus.

It's the Bugle Christmas special

Happy Christmas everyone.

Happy, happy holiday, Christmas holiday.

It's in a move that is borderline Dickensian in its bar humbuggery.

Hammersmith and Fulham Council in London sent out Christmas cards to tenants this year warning, don't overindulge in Christmas, pay your rent.

and the decoration on the Christmas card was a pound coin physic in a glass wow Andy I mean just to start this Christmas round up I think even Scrooge might have got a head rush from that level of misanthropy even he just verbalized his contempt for the poor Andy he never went so far as to immortalize that contempt in Christmas card form

he didn't send a Christmas card to Bob Cratchit saying get to work right now with an image of a cartoon tiny Tim looking sad reading some statistics on the child mortality rate He didn't do that Andy

The council defended itself saying that the cars are part of a quotes hard-hitting campaign now

I mean there's a time and a place John for hard-hitting politics.

I mean is that really I mean I'm not sure that really chimes in with Christmas.

I'm not sure it makes too many people's lists of hardest hitting religious festivals.

I mean if if Hammersmith and Fulham Council really want to hammer a point home, well, clearly Easter far more appropriate for hammering things home but it is I mean it is definitely a hard hit Andy you can't you can't deny it if that if that's what they're looking for they got it it's like watching Mike Tyson punch a baby deer you can't deny that he landed the punch you just have to ask why the f he felt the need to do it

well I guess you know let's let's try and see it from uh from the other side John it's uh often odd to see that don't overindulge this Christmas that's just a basic health and safety tip for a country that's increasingly troubled by bad diets and obesity.

Pay your rent.

That is a message of fiscal responsibility as we emerge from the gloom of our economic troubles.

So it's all about tone of voice.

And admittedly, the pound coin dissolving in the glass of water didn't maybe suggest it was the most philanthropic of messages, but you know,

this is part of Jesus, isn't it?

You know, a lot of what he said does come down to tone of voice.

As we've discussed in a big before, pick up your bed and walk.

For example, very very different from pick up your bed and walk.

The meek shall inherit the earth.

Could easily have been sarcastic and we don't know the full what happened after that.

What he said after that, the meek shall inherit the earth and hard-working carpenter messiahs like me have to pick up the fing tab for them, said Jesus, visibly reddening.

I have to have two jobs just to make ends meet.

Imagine how much better a parable writer I'd be.

I wouldn't have to spend half my time making f ⁇ ing shells for f ⁇ ing losers.

So maybe we should give them credit.

Give them credit, John.

Understandably, many of the recipients of this card were slightly less less than thrilled uh one woman said what's made me so angry is my mum's been a tenant for 60 years she's never been behind with her rent and when we were young there wasn't any and there wasn't any money she'd pay her rent before she'd feed us and clothe us and heat the house keeping the roof over our head was more important than anything else so to get this disgusting threatening piece of literature masquerading as a Christmas greeting it's insulting and it it is Andy an absolutely brutal message to send.

You are one step away from telling children that Santa has three lists.

Children who've been nice, children who've been naughty, and children whose parents have let their rent fall into arrears with the city council.

And there's no way he comes to visit you unless your parents have a zero balance on their rental statement.

Santa is a stickler for on-time payments, Andy.

Always has been, always will be, no matter the circumstances.

Well, this is Hammersmith and Fulham in London.

It's a Tory council, a very, very Tory council.

There's a lot of wealth in the area

alongside the council tenants who need to be given a little financial chivvying.

They might as well have sent out a card saying, we are minted.

We're getting new bikes for Christmas and we don't even want them or even know how to ride them.

We'll just leave them out in the garden to rust.

You, Jackie Collins' novel from the charity shop on 20 cigarettes, thought so.

Happy fing Christmas.

My smoked salmon would be able to buy everything you own.

Councillor Andrew Johnson, the cabinet minister for housing, said this was part of an ongoing campaign saying, we want to do everything we can to stop tenants getting into rent arrears It's a very serious issue and the real issue of this double-sided postcard was to say if you're in difficulty give us a call Oh, well, that's fine then Andy.

Perhaps that phone call would lead to a Christmas miracle from the council such as a group of men in uniforms coming to your house and carrying any items of value out into a van.

The the apparently eviction proceedings begin with Hammersman City Council when a tenant is £250 in arrears and this card which was sent to around £17,000 homes, cost about £2,000 to produce.

So you could have actually given a Christmas miracle to nearly 10 families rather than putting that poison in the mail.

And I've got to say, Andy, Councillor Andrew Johnson may be getting a little visit in the next few nights from the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future.

I just don't want him to be surprised if he wakes up to sounds of ghostly chains rattling.

It might make sense.

In a possibly linked story, the homeless charity crisis says it's preparing to feed and shelter more people than ever this Christmas.

And this, Johnny, says our economy is apparently roaring back into life like an old dog waking from a medically induced coma to find that it's had its pancreas removed by a partially qualified vet.

We've got house prices rising in London, still tumescent bonuses in the city, vast profits, and yet we still, as a nation, essentially accept having thousands of homeless and thousands more relying on food banks.

The problem is it would be a bit inconvenient to sort this problem out and might make us look weak as a nation to display such economically vulnerable and politically out-of-fashion qualities as compassion and dignity at Christmas of all times of year.

But I guess as we discussed last week, letting people be homeless and hungry will only work if things are getting better and greedier at the top.

Because as we discovered last week, envy and greed are the main motivating factors in our chosen economic structure, according to Mayor of London Boris Johnson.

So the bigger the gap, the greater the envy.

The colder the winter, the more encouragement for these layabouts to become top-ranking executives at stockbroking firms.

The hungrier the stomach, the greater the incentive to earn a £150,000 Christmas bonus for doing absolutely jack shit next year.

It's simple, John.

As Aristotle said, no mouse will become a lion if you keep feeding it cheese.

And that is what keeps our economy moving.

SantaCon news now!

And well, last weekend saw the latest, largest installment of Santa Con yet, the new and yet tenaciously clingy concept where throngs of strangers dress up like Santa Claus, hit the streets, get absolutely wasted and confuse the shit out of any children they happen to come into contact with.

Daddy, why is Santa throwing up on that parks motorbike?

Oh, Daddy, why is that lady Santa getting into a fistfight with Rudolph?

Oh, and why is that other Santa taking a dump on the roof of a police car?

Daddy, Daddy, I just told Santa I wanted a puppy for Christmas and he told me to go f ⁇ myself.

What's wrong with Santa?

There were events, Santa Claus events, in 300 different cities around the world with the stated aim of spreading Christmas cheer.

In London, there were rules attached to the event, such as be jolly, be nice, and do not throw things at people or elves.

Those are sound rules for life, I think.

Ideally, that last one would be a joke.

Ideally, but sadly, there were arrests all over the world.

That was basically Jesus' message, wasn't it?

Be nice and don't throw things at elves.

It basically was.

That's a very, very condensed haiku version of the Bible.

Part two of the Bible, anyway.

That's a fest.

That's fair.

Now, in London, there were apparently three Santa arrests.

One for theft,

one for attempted robbery,

and one for disorder offences.

Many attendees partied in Trafalgar Square, apparently, despite being asked by authorities and organisers to avoid the area as it was hosting a memorial for Nelson Mandela.

Leaving many onlookers to say, hey Santa, have some f ⁇ ing respect.

Life goes.

Life goes

what Nelson would have wanted.

Is it Andy?

I guess we'll never know.

But

I would argue what Nelson Mandela's memorial did not need in its quest to bring

a dignified memorial to the end of the life of one of the greatest global statesmen in human history was 300 drunk dancing Santas, Andy, throwing up into a fountain.

I think if Jacob Zuma had been allowed to fully organise that memorial service himself, that is exactly what there would have been.

In New York, there were multiple incidents reported, including a mass brawl involving eight,

as well as a now infamous internet video which showed Mrs.

Santa giving Mr.

Santa a drunken hand job in a shop store window.

What could be more Christmassy, Andy?

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Let's see, Andy, if people still insist on the Christ being put back into Christmas, if the holiday increasingly becomes about drunken Santa hand jobs.

They might.

Even Santa Claus has needs, John.

You know, he works very hard through the year.

I'm just saying, they might start pushing it for it to be a secular holiday after all, faster than you can say, is that woman giving Santa a hand job in that shop window?

There was

also a complaint from a local in the East Village that some drunken Santas and their elves were outside her apartment making use of what she described as, I quote, a combination trash can and toilet.

Going on to say, again, I quote.

That sounds like a really bad prize in a 1980s TV game show.

That's right.

Gamble!

It's a combination of trash can toilets.

Gamble!

She went on to say, it's the public nuisances of the vomiting and the urinating that really puts people off.

And I think that's fair, Andy.

I think that's fair.

SantaCon

is clearly reaching a bit of a vomit-strewn fork in the road of its short history and needs to make a decision about whether it's going to be an eccentric celebration of holiday cheer or a charmingly costumed riot.

And two, in their defense, Andy, they clearly had tried this year harder than normal to regulate human behavior.

I took a look at the New York chapter of the Santa Con's website, which described itself as, and I quote, a nonsensical Santa Claus convention that happens once a year for absolutely no reason.

Now, I already like that description, Andy.

It's celebrating the pointless, and that's very much my sweet spot.

However, what initially seems charming suffers from a slight tonal shift the more you investigate the website.

On the front page, it states that New York Santa Con will have a rule of four Fs.

One, don't f ⁇ with kids.

Two, don't fk with cops.

Three, don't f ⁇ with bartenders.

And four, don't f ⁇ with New York City.

And from the early media reports, it seems like they may have had a record of 0-4 on that particular

scorecard.

As you travel deeper into the snow animated website, you find more guidelines, Andy, to maximise everyone's enjoyment of the special day.

One such instruction is: Santa wears a costume, full, head to toe, none of that, just a hat bullshit.

Good point, firmly made, Andy.

No complaints from me there.

That stats in the Pope's contract as well.

That is true.

That is true, Andy.

The Pope wears a costume, full, head to toe, none of that, just a hat bullshit.

It works perfectly.

That's right.

Anyway, no arguments from me there.

They then say, they then go on to say, Santa spreads joy, not terror, not vomit.

Again, no arguments from me on those points, Andy.

That's right.

Well, you could argue those are three sides of the same coin, John.

Well, I would hasten to add that if you feel the necessity to say, Santa spreads joy, not terror, you may have a deeper problem on your hands than you were first thinking.

There's also a piece of useful legal advice pointing out that urinating in the street street in front of children makes you a sex offender.

Again, the very fact you have to issue that warning is not ideal.

And finally, under a list of do's and don'ts, they say do bring your jolly Christmas spirit.

Do not bring a crappy, trashy, rapey, Grinch-like attitude.

Just on a quick side note, are they calling the Grinch a rapist there, Addy?

I don't think that was ever been...

They've never made it to court, has it?

So anyway, yeah, Santa con rampaged its way around the world and

well, strap in, strap in in one year's time.

Maybe we need to hit back with a Moses con around Hanukkah time.

That would be a good idea.

Would that work?

Lots of people dressed like drunk Moses.

Yep.

In other Christmas news, a man in Florida has tried to swap a live alligator for

a pack of beer at a convenience store.

And I think if I can just stop you before you go any further, Andy, that may be the most Floridian thing that's ever happened.

That transaction embodies Florida.

I will give you this alligator for that beer in this convenience store.

That should be Florida's flag.

There should be a silhouette of that on the Florida flag.

But to me, John, this above

a story that exemplifies everything that is good and even better about Florida, this is a story that shows the difficulties of exchanging unwanted Christmas presents.

Because clearly, looking at when in the year this has happened, it's nearly Christmas.

This guy has thought, oh no, the alligator that Uncle Norvis gave me last year is nearly out of warranty.

I've barely used it.

I have to take it back before it's too late.

I'd rather have some beer.

I'll swap it for some beer.

I don't have the receipt.

Oh, well, I'll just take it.

I'm sure they won't mind.

I don't know what shop it got it from.

Oh, well, all shops are basically part of the same economic continuum.

I'm sure my local convenience store will take it.

They sell everything: food, drinks, other stuff.

Why not alligators?

I wonder how much an alligator costs.

I'll bet he'll take it.

And if he takes that, I'll come back tomorrow with that book about the history of pencils that I was clearly never going to read and a set of kitchen scales that Petula gave me.

You measure food out, you're showing weakness to the kitchen, it'll be all over you like a rash.

I am keeping the crocodile, though.

No beef with Senor Snappy.

A special Christmas cookery bonus for you buglers now.

Bugle Chef of the Year, Scluton Malvain, has given us some exclusive Christmas recipes for you to try out this Christmas for a slight tweak on the classics.

Suggests a starter of miracle birthed ellipsic child of godly chicken vergienne.

I think that's a long way of saying egg.

Bumble buffeted in a roiling micro-gallery of sodium chlorescence, served on a heat-commanded tablet of bread.

That sounds like post egg on toast.

For main course, clip and clop of faux donkey fillet shepherded into a God-féron sauce Christiane served with infant potato Jesuses in a hollowed cauliflower manger on a bed of harshly sacrificed firstborn carrots gifted with a trio of wise king prawns.

Then a

carol themed amuse bouche featuring two cups of a brightly coloured infusion with a deep-fried fish, also known as rock salmon served in a pecan and macadamia gravy.

A recipe entitled Gaudi Tea, Gaudy Tea Crisp Huss in Nut Sauce.

Optionally served with a side dish of the caviar of a common order of snake-like fish, some fresh olive oil, and another cup of the brightly coloured infusion.

Eggs moree, eel, virgin oil, gaudy tea.

I think that's me done for the year.

And for dessert, Christmas pudding, you don't mess with the classics.

And now, buglers, for the first time ever, it's time for the annual Bugle Christmas story.

This story is entitled, Worst Christmas Ever.

Michael woke up.

His heart pounded.

Christmas morning.

Reliably, the greatest morning of the year.

He'd loved Christmas for his entire conscious life.

He loved the anticipation, the realization.

He loved the look of delight on his family's faces at the opening of a much-yearned-for present.

He loved the look of pretend delight when the gift proved to be an anticlimax, such as when his brother had opened a new set of golf clubs from the charity shop.

Well, you could learn to play left-handed, consoled their mother, as Michael giggled giggled to himself, whilst Ian smashed a vase on his backswing, with Michael's old golf clubs.

He loved the awkwardness of the feigned gratitude when a present was not so much a token of love as a logistical inconvenience, like when he'd given his mother a tank full of stick insects.

They're really good ones, mum, he had gushed.

They should breed like bilio.

Thank you, darling, how very thoughtful of you, she forced.

She doesn't know how right she is, self-congratulated Michael.

But most of all, He loved opening his own presents.

He loved the tingle in his fingers as he picked slowly at the weakest point in a tightly wrapped gift's defences, the flick of adrenaline in his gullet, as the big present proved to be exactly what he'd asked for, as it always was, every year, from his lovingly, if self-interestedly, indulgent parents.

They wanted no repeat of the unrequested skateboard incident.

Michael kept a file containing all of his previous Christmas lists, each successful and failed request marked in appropriate coloured ink, a catalogue of acquisitive progress of moments of joy, acceptance, or barely concealed disappointment flowing into visible facial resentment, a journal of his lifetime's desires.

Thank the Lord that Jesus was born on the cross, so we might all bag some some swag for his sins, Michael used to think to himself as he hovered over a bulging stocking.

Jesus, he could take or leave.

On occasion, he was of conversational use, but to Michael, Jesus Christ's greatest legacy to humanity was Christmas, the glorious festival of generosity and selfishness, the essence of living, boiled down into a frenzy of torn paper and momentary exultations.

Michael looked at his clock.

5.32 a.m.

Justifiable getting up time.

He sprang out of bed in a febrile splurge of date-specific excitement.

He raced across the room in the faint light of his bedside spaceman lamp, a a relic of three years ago almost to the minute, to his stocking by the fireplace.

Full.

Pleasingly full, he thought.

Arguably challenging for his top five fullest stockings.

Looks like a good year, he said out loud to himself, high-fiving his hand with his head.

Get in.

Michael had long since known that Father Christmas was a fiction or at best a rampantly deceitful self-publicist.

But that mattered not to him now.

The raw primeval joy of the Christmas stocking needed no mythical adornment for him.

Michael could contain himself no longer.

This had to be shared.

He switched the main light on.

Come on, it's definitely uptime, he yelped with a half-squeal, his voice escaping its usually well-moderated confines.

Get up, get up!

Oh, too early, said his wife.

Come on, it's Christmas, bounced Michael, uncontrolling his excitement.

Christmas!

I'll go and wait the kids.

Let them sleep, Michael.

Franklin has been working his socks off at the bank and Theodora has only had a week's leave from active service.

Let them sleep.

Oh, winched Michael, mildly crushed by this sliver of reality on his day of dreams.

Can you at least least get up, Janet?

Shut up.

I'll get up at seven, no earlier, said his wife, grabbing the duvet back from Michael's outstretched arms in her annual display of medium-altitude dudgeon.

Oh, deflated Michael.

Oh, well, I'll go downstairs and just open a couple on my own to get things going.

You do that, darling, slumbered Janet.

You do that.

Michael picked up his stocking, put on his Washington redskin slippers from 2010, and scuttled downstairs, his pace increasing with every step.

He opened the door.

Happy Christmas!

he whelped.

Roger sprang up from the sofa, panting, looking agitated.

Oh, sorry, boy, have you been in here all night?

Yes, Mr.

President, replied Roger Boyston, head of Michael's security detail at the

White House.

Listen, I think you better sit down.

You pee, thought Michael, this sounds good.

They must have got me a special present for my first Christmas as president.

Maybe a remote-controlled model of Air Force One.

That would be awesome.

Great garden for it, too.

The door opened.

In marched Defense Secretary Stanton, Secretary of State Poltenberg, and the Joint Chief of the U.S.

Military.

Happy Christmas, folks!

Beamed the President.

Did you bring your stockings?

Mine's enormous.

Stanton looked seriously at the President as he stood in his 2007 Spider-Man pajamas.

Mr.

President, there is a serious matter to attend to.

Michael felt his Yule-tide enthusiasm thinning by the second.

This is exactly what he'd feared when he had agreed to stand for the Republican nomination.

364 days a year being President of the United States was okay.

But on the one other day, it sucked, big time.

Can this not wait until after we've done our stockings, pleaded Michael, a figure now far removed from the confident 54-year-old multi-millionaire businessman and philanthropist who'd so suavely won over a sceptical U.S.

public the year before.

No, sir, replied Stanton.

Not even the big one on top and the chocolate chocolate coins.

Mr.

President, there's a situation in the Middle East.

Oh no, not again, replied Michael with a giggle.

That's how it all started all those Christmases ago, he quipped.

Mr.

President, said Stanton heavily, ten minutes ago Iran launched a rocket attack on Israel.

But it's Christmas, protested the President.

They can't do that.

Seriously, they cannot do that.

Iran says it was provoked.

Israel is readying its nuclear weapons, Mr.

President.

They threatened to fire them at 8 a.m.

Eastern Time.

That's in just over two hours.

So we've got a bit of leeway stocking-wise.

No, sir.

You need to talk to the nation, and then you need to talk to Israel and Iran.

iraning shit bags screamed the president this is the worst christmas ever oh i suppose i better talk to the watching world get me my suit let's get this shit over with or the whole day is going to be

he cleared his throat right i'll i'll warm up my fellow my fellow americans people of this is a dark day for it yada yada yada right i'm ready to go i want this speech done in one f ⁇ ing take comprende and if anyone starts on their stocking before i'm done they are sacked

of all the days of the shitting year let's go and get the israel and iranian dudes on the phone.

I'm going to bang some f ⁇ ing heads together.

Michael gave his speech.

He spent the whole day in talks.

The crisis was averted.

A tentative truce was agreed.

The world applauded Michael for his firm but even-handed diplomacy.

But for Michael, it would remain for all time the worst Christmas ever.

Well,

the end.

I think in future years

that could replace people's

wanting to read'twas the night before Christmas as a family family together.

I can see parents gathering their kids around on Christmas Eve and reading that out.

Good.

That's what you were looking for, I presume.

That's that's very much what I'm going for, John.

Yeah, a long-standing Christmas tradition.

Yep.

The reason for the season, Andy.

So, was he the good guy?

What?

Michael?

Oh, Chris!

That's.

love I love the genuine sense of hold on

I'm just I'm confused

what

I don't think you've ever intellectually engaged in Andy's bullshit before

normally you're just going to say well that's not none of what just happened when happened out loud mattered in any way you just let it wash over you and you've actually got sucked in what hold on narratively Was it good or bad?

Or was it a grey area?

Was that the point, Andy?

It's a wonderful time of the year.

We're just getting some breaking news coming into the bugle here.

Father Christmas is rumoured to be contemplating resigning.

He was overheard drunkenly confessing to being, quotes, tired,

disillusioned, and in need of a new challenge during a late-night drinking session in a Scottish pub.

Father Christmas, who also goes by the alibi Santa Claus, Pen Oel, Babo and Atale, Mickey Reindeers, Big Beardy Bastards, and Fat Boy Chimney Smasher, as well as Percy Presents,

had been drinking quietly on his own in the George Hotel in Barary when, at at last orders, he staggered to the bar, fell over, and started spilling his heart out about the difficult year he's had.

I'm getting too f ⁇ ing old for this, he said, as staff helped him back to his feet.

It's the same thing year after year, and frankly, the magic is gone.

Even I barely believe in myself anymore, to be honest.

I've been phoning it in for the last 20, if I'm honest with myself.

I'll do this year because I've got a f ⁇ ing contract, but I think that'll be it.

I'm done.

My goose is baked, and if I see another f ⁇ ing elf again, I will wring its f ⁇ ing neck.

Besides, he continued, drunkenly, kids today are so bloody unrewarding to deliver presents to, they send in frankly a ludicrous list of demands, complain their little asses off if they don't get exactly what they ask for.

Do they ever send me a thank you letter?

Do they shit?

In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if I'm not part of the fing problem.

I inculcate a culture of materialism and inquisitiveness, and that's not what this job was supposed to be about.

I guess I got carried away with the adulation and did what people asked.

But I should have kept it lower key like in the old days.

A little touch of magic on Christmas morning.

Not a fing deluge of easily breakable shit from a fing two-bit toy shop.

Whiskey, give me a fing whiskey.

Most expensive one you've got.

Splash of coconut, I've got to fly home.

I know I shouldn't, but once I'm off the ground, the Rainos pretty much run the ship on their own.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah.

Oh, it tires me up, it really does.

Anyway, economics and shit.

Out of my hands.

See, brandy.

Give me a brandy.

And whiskey.

Mix it up and stick a fing cherry in it.

Yeah.

Oh,

what am I?

I'm overweight.

I look like I'm a skatewar criminal.

I've got a questionable record on animal welfare and workers' rights.

And I'm facing more trespassing charges than you can shake a stick at.

And for what?

It's bullshit.

It's all fing bullshit.

If you've got any crisps, cheese and honey would be great.

What do you mean you're shut?

Bollocks and father Christmas.

Give me some crisps or you're not getting your PlayStation.

Oh, balls.

Father Christmas left the George in his sleigh flying off rather uncertainly and almost crashing into a hillside while shouting, sorry about the reindeers, they've crapped all over your car park.

Ho ho, fing ho.

You want to engage in that, Chris, as well?

John, I've been keeping a count today.

And he just reached the 40th f of the show.

Ho ho ho, f.

I think maybe keep uh

keep that as an off cut.

Nope.

Well, that is all we've got time for in this uh Christmas special.

Sorry we didn't have time for your emails.

Do keep them flooding in over Christmas.

To info at thebuglepodcast.com.

Don't forget you can treat yourself to the Christmas gift of giving yourself a bugle voluntary subscription at thebuglepodcast.com and also the merch including bright orange socks.

Can you really afford to be without a pair of bright orange socks with cartoon versions of Mines and John's faces on

this winter?

Can you?

Look deep in your hearts, Buglers.

They're the socks that have been designed to go with nothing.

The socks that dare not speak their name.

You cannot wear an outfit that fits those socks and vice versa.

Do try and have a good Christmas.

It's going to be very difficult for me, John, because the England cricket team has been absolutely annihilated, John.

I mean, it's,

I mean, you, in the past, you know, growing up, people of our generation, cricket fans of our generation, John,

we were used to seeing England get thrashed, but usually it was when England didn't have a very good team and the opposition did have a very good team, but not this time, John.

England have a good team this time.

It has been like watching Daniel Barrenboim struggling to play Frere Jacquer on the piano.

I mean, sure, the piano has been an unexpectedly tough opponent, but still, you'd have at at least expected Barramoyne to get a recognisable melody out even if he's having his fingers slammed under the lid repeatedly.

Tough times John.

They're sucking the lifeblood out of this nation, the Australians.

Very dark times.

So buglers do try your best.

Chins up, happy Christmas.

Bye.

Hi buglers, it's producer Chris here.

I just wanted to very quickly tell you about my new podcast, Mildly Informed, which is in podcast feeds and YouTube right now.

Quite simply, it's a show where me and my friend Richie review literally anything.

So please come join us wherever you get your podcasts right now.