Dear Dreary.
This time of year always gives me palpitations when it reminds me of a yuletide incident a few years ago. It had been the office party the night before. I woke with strange recollections of dreams about a rather annoying, obese black santa being mysteriously thwarted in his attempts to deliver presents to our house whilst i knelt down in front of him, peeling carrots. I remember laying in bed trying to figure it all out and blaming the drink and the supper i obviously brought home (there was an interesting combination of ketchup and mayo on the pillow). Imagine my horror! As i came downstairs .i thought i had left the tv on as i could hear Lenny Henry rambling on about the fact that he'd much rather be staying at a bloody Premier Inn. Then i noticed that the voice was coming from the chimney. The bottom half of a black male torso was dangling above the grate, legs kicking in an angry manner in time with the incoherent rambling and cursing. It was naked apart from a pair of santa trousers and rudolph undies around the ankles and a pair of doc martins. In the fireplace were more of the same remnants of those in my bed, alongside a potato peeler, a jar of helmanns, my yellow marigolds, and a box of kleenex. There was no sign of any potatoes anywhere, but a pool of what appeared to be a congealed blood and flakes of black skin. Santas engorged, dangling appendage was red raw and in obvious need of a soothing touch. I applied a mixture of mayo and ice to the throbbing gristle, particularly to the area where the foreskin used to be. Santa shot out of the top of the chimney like a human cannonball, and his screams were heard across town, not helped by the fact that he landed arse first on next door's giant Norweigan pine. It was only at this stage that i vaguely remembered eating fresh kebab meat before going to bed. You can understand my subsequent unease with christmas and why i always now prefer Travelodge. Could you offer some advice to help me over my trauma? Seasons felicitations, Lionel Barrymore, Peeler's End.
　
　
Dear Lionel.
This is most peculiar.
Only last week I had a query from a Nat King Christmas who told me of an excruciating ordeal at the hands if his junior office boy after a fancy dress works do went horribly wrong.
He stated that everything was going well until Lionel came in the room dressed only in a mankini and started to try and interfere with Santas sack. At the point where Nat King Christmas started to tease Lionel about his 'chipalata' office boy went berserk and threatened to disfigure Nats Mambo for good.
It was only when Nat awoke astride the Norwegian Fir that his nightmares were realised.
If this is you 'Lionel' I shouldn't be too keen to return to work as Father Christmas has deemed you a very bad little boy.
He did say he'd let you sit on his knee though!!