Vladivar was starving before Christmas last and had to help himself to his next door neighbour’s dog to make a rogan josh curry.

‘It tasted better than the reindeer I had from Lapland the year before,’ Vladivar stated. ‘That tasted of sweaty scrotum and was Santas only means of transport after I burnt his sleigh to keep warm.’

In return, Santa bought Vladivar a bottle of cheap red wine and some chilli peppers from the local corner-shop as a sarcastic present.

‘THANKS SANTA’ Vladivar bawled: cocking his twelve bore shotgun and giving him both barrels.

Santa scarpered, clenching his buttocks.

‘Ha, that’ll teach him’ Vladivar exclaimed, putting his gun down and pressing his thumbs under his armpits, strutting round like a cockney chicken. ‘If he wants to make it back next year he’ll need some jellied eels (wheels) and fork out from his own skyrocket (pocket).’

That same year without his transport, Santa felt pointless. He decided to leave his home of Greenland and moved to Vietnam, exporting rice as a new business venture.
‘I capitalise on child labour’ Santa exclaimed ‘forcing them to hoe hoe hoe for a living.’


Vladivar Vernacular is now even more skint and has resigned himself this year to eating garden snails stolen from his other neighbour.
‘They taste of sweaty Lycra,’ he grimaced ‘like the time I stole our vicars bicycle seat before he rode to Christmas mass. He didn’t even notice when he pedalled off.’