The Bugle - Bugle 254 – Christmas Special!

Episode Date: December 20, 2013

The latest from London's Scroogiest councils, Santacon 2013 and how a US president might enjoy Christmas day (or not). Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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Hello, Bugleers, 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. 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 10th schedule it 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, the newly unemployed TV and animated movie voiceover star, John Oliver. Hello Andy, hello Bueglers, it's our end of the year Buegl, the final Buegl of 2013. It's been snowing here on and off for the last couple of weeks, Andy, Bughlers, it's our end of the year, Bughel, the final Bughel 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 the the you wonder why the f**k you live here The true New York Christmas image is not a central park in the snow It's not that Andy. It's a New Yorker stepping into the road onto what he thinks his 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 it to his shoe as the man in question shells If if you could take a photo of the moment of the F in F***, 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, it's been a home. Let's we forget I left an entire fucking 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. So I guess that's what happens.

And if you live your life as an emotion of volcano, once every 17 years or so, that thing is gonna blow. I think more the question needs to be asked is, is there actually anything left of you that is still genuinely British? I don't know. I don't know. You have started saying gotten quite a lot and now crying outside the proof of your own attic and or dungeon. You might have gone drown your fucking passport in Boston Harbour John.

I just worry that I've lost my heart man of comedy image now. I don't want bugles to think that all of a sudden, this, 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 fucking hill again. I was alerted to this, these tears on Twitter, John. Are you a holler? Yeah, the show's not being shown here until tonight, I think. I was alerted to this, these tears on Twitter, John. Oh, you were, yeah.

No, no. The show's not mean it doesn't get shown here until tonight, I think. Right. 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 that turns out this one is true. John, hold up. I mean, this is not, John, this is, this is appalling.

I mean, as you say, you really, you really have to bottle it up. I mean, did we, Brits, become is, I mean, this is appalling. I mean, as you say, you really, you really have to bottle it up. I mean, did wee Brits become the most powerful nation the world by being all teary and touchy-feely about things like moving into other people's countries, giving you face 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. They weren't tears though, were they? They weren't tears, aren't they? Tears of blood. So John, Oliver, now unemployed. That's going to hit your hard, John. It's going to hit your hard.

Yeah, well, unemployed until January the first. All right. But you're right. It's counts. Yeah, counts. Thine 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 I 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 being banged in out. No extravagance information, God had a message across clearly and concise it. I was impressed, John, by the volume, because it showed that he'd thought about the character, because when you see motion activity plays, the arcangel 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 arcangel, you're probably seeing 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 Gabriel probably developed a bit of a shout over time. So if you could put in a word for him with a smearce franchise, I reckon he could do a job. There's a gobbies smearth. 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 Nose Jesus. It's the bugle Christmas special! Happy Christmas everyone. Happy, happy holiday Christmas holiday. It's in a move that is borderline to Kenzian 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 physically in a glass. Wow, Andy. I mean, just to start this Christmas roundup, I think even Scrooge might have got a head rush

from that level of Miss Anthropique. 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 Cratchett 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 cards are part of a quote, hard hitting campaign. Now, I mean, there's a time in a place, John, for hard hitting politics. And is that really, I mean, I'm not sure that really chimes in with Christmas. I'm not sure how many people's lists of hardest hitting religious festivals.

I mean, if Hammersmith and Philham Council really wants a 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 deny it. 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**k you felt the need to do it. Well I guess you know let's let's try and see it from from the other side. John it's often hard 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 trouble. So it's all about tone of voice, and literally the pound coin dissolving in the glass of water Didn't didn't maybe suggest it was the most philanthropic of messages, but you know This is this is part of Jesus isn't it? You know a lot of what you said Does come down to tone of voice so we've discussed and before pick up your bed and walk For example very different from pick up your bed and walk

The make shall inherit the earth could easily be in sarcastic and we don't know the full, what happened after that? What he said after that, the meek, shilling her at the earth, and hardworking carp and tumour-sized like me have to pick up the f***ing tab for them, said Jesus, visibly reddening. I have to have two jobs just to make ends meet. Imagine how much better a parable right I'd be if I didn't

have to spend half my time making f***ing shells for f***ing losers. So maybe we should get in credit, give him credit, give him credit job. Understandably, many of the recipients of this card were slightly less than thrilled. One woman said, what made me so angry? Is my mom's been a ten 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 close 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 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 a rears 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 Hamas, Smith 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 chivvy. 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 Christmas my smoke 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 renteries. It's a very serious issue and the real issue of this Double-sided postcard was to say if you 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 and uniforms coming to your house and carrying any items of value

out into a van. The apparently eviction proceedings begin with how much sentence city council, when a tenant is 250 pounds in a raise, and this card, which was sent to around 17,000 homes, cost about 2,000 pounds to produce. So you could have actually given a Christmas miracle to nearly 10 families, rather than putting that poison in the mile.

And I've got to say, Andy, Councillor Andrew Johnson, might 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 how 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, John, is our economy, economy is apparently roaring back into life like an old dog waking from medically induced coma to find that it's had its pancreas removed by partially qualified vet. We've got house prices rising in London still

tumestant 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 economic, be 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 stock-breaking firms. The hungry of 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's what keeps our economy moving. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha Now and at last weekend saw the latest largest instalment of Santa Con yet, the new and yet tenaciously clinging 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 park's motorbike? Oh, Daddy, why is that lady Santa getting into a fist fight with Rudolf? 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**k myself. What's wrong with Santa? There were there were events. Santa called, 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 else. Those are sad rules for life, I think. Ideally, that last one would be a joke, Ideally, but sadly, there were arrests all over the world. That's basically Jesus' message, wasn't it?

It's true. But you know, I shouldn't throw things at elves. It's...it's basically what? That's a very, very condensed, high-coo version of the Bible. Well, part two of the Bible anyway. That's...that's a first. Well, part two of the Bible anyway. LAUGHTER That's a fair. Now, in London, there were apparently three Santa arrests. One for theft, one for attempted robbery, and one for disorder offenses.

Many attendees partied into Falca Square, apparently, despite being asked by authorities and organizers 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. Because life goes on. Life goes on. Life goes on. Well I guess, yeah. What if wanted. I guess that's, I guess we'll never know. But I would argue what Nelson Mandela's memorial did not need in its quest to bring a, you know, a dignified memorial to the end of the life of one of the greatest global

statesmen in human history was 300 drunk dancing centers Andy throwing up into a fountain. I think if Jacob Zuma had been allowed to fully organize that memorial service himself, that is exactly what they would have been. In New York, there were multiple incidents reported, including a mass brawl involving eights. As well as an now infamous internet video, which showed Mrs. Santa, giving Mr. Santa a drunken hand job in a shop store window. What could be more Christmasy, 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... Even Santa Claus has needs, John. You know, he works very hard through the year. I'm just saying they might start pushing you for to be a secular holiday after all. Fasten you can say is that woman giving Santa a

hand job in that shop window? There was there was also a complaint from a local in the East Village that some drunk and Santa's and their elves What 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 a really bad prize in the 1980s TV game shop Gamble That's right. Gamble! It's a combination trash can't toilet! Gamble!

You went on to say it's the public nuisance of the vomiting and the urinating that really puts people off. And I think that's fair Andy. I think that's fair. Santa Con 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 defence, Andy, they clearly had tried this year harder than normal to regulate human behaviour. I took a look at the New York chapter of the Santa Cohn's website which described itself as as a, quote, a nonsentical 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 Cohn will have a rule of four Fs. One, don't f*** with kids. Two, don't f*** 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 and 4, and I'm not taking them out of their scorecard. And 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's right, I send the post-conflicts. No complaints from me there. That's right, it's in the post contract as well. It's true, that is true Andy. The Pope wears a costume full head to toe, none of that, just a hat bulge it, 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, there's a three. Well, you could argue, there's a three sides of the same coin, John. No, 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 you're relating

in the 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-some-dunce, they say, do bring your jolly f***ing Christmas spirit. Do not bring a crappy, trashy, rapy Grinch-like attitude. Um, just on a quick side note, are they calling the Grinch-a-Rapis there, I think? I've found the thing I've never been, I've never made it to court, so anyway, yeah, Santa Con rampaged its way around the world and, um, whoa, 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 well that would 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 packet of a pack of beer and a convenience store. 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 in bodies Florida will give you this alligator for that beer in this convenient store. That should be Florida's flag. That should be a silhouette of that,

of 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 difficulty of exchanging unwanted Christmas presents because clearly, looking at when in the year that has happened, it's nearly Christmas. This guy's 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 we got it from. Oh well, all shops are basically part of the same economic continuum. I'm sure my local convenience door will take it. They sell everything. Food, drinks, other stuff. Why not alligators? I want to have much an alligator costs. I bet it'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 the set of kitchen scales that Bajula gave me. You measure food out, you're showing weakness to the kitchen, it will be all over you like a rash. I am keeping the crocodile though, no beef with senior snappie.

A special Christmas cookery bonus for you, Buglesnow. Bugles' chef of the year, Sglutin Malvein 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 Birth, ellipsic child of godly chicken version. I think that's a long way of saying egg. Fumple buffeted in a roiling micro-galilee of sodium chalorescence, 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, shepherd it into a godfill on source Christian, served with infant potato Jesus' 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 Roxamon, served in a peacan and macadamia gravy. A recipe entitled Gordy Tee, Gordy Tee,

Chris Puss in Nutsource. 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 more aile, virgin oil, gold ET. 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 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 anti-climax,

such as when his brother had opened a new set of golf clubs for the charity shop. Well, you could learn to play left-handed, consult their mother, as Michael Giggle to himself, whilst Ian smashed a vase on his backswing, with Michael's old golf clubs. He loved the awkwardness of the famed 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 Billy-O. 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 presence. He loved the tingle in his fingers as he picked slowly at the weakest point in a tightly wrapped gift to fences, the flick of adrenaline in his gallot, as the big present proved to be exactly what it 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 color-dink, a catalogue of a positive progress of moments of joy, acceptance, or barely concealed disappointment flowing into visible face resentment, a journal of his lifetimes desires. Thank the law that Jesus was born on the cross,

so he might all bag some swag for his sins. Michael used to think to himself as he hovered over a bulging stocking. Jesus, he could take all 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 exaltations. Michael looked at his clock. 5.32am. Justifiable getting uptime.

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 space manlamp, 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 set 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-publishist, 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 up time! He helped with a half-squill his voice escaping its usually well-moderated confines. Get up, get up! Oh, too early. Said his wife. Come on, it's Christmas, Bounce 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's only had a week's leave from active service. Let them sleep. Oh, Wins Michael, mildly crushed by the sliver of reality on his day of dreams. Can you at least get up Janet? Shut up. I'll get up at seven.

No earlier said his wife grabbing the doofay back from Michael's outstretched arms in her annual display of medium altitude dungin'. Oh, deflated Michael. How will I go downstairs and just open a couple on my own to get things going? You do that darling slumber Janet. You do that darling slumber Janet, you do that. Michael picked up his stocking, put on his Washington Red Skin slippers from 2010, and scuttle downstairs is pacing increasing with every step.

He opened the door. Happy Christmas! He welped! 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 Weist Hat White House. Listen, I think you better sit down. You P. thought Michael this sounds good.

They must have got me a special present from my first Christmas as president, maybe a remote control model of Air Force One. That would be awesome. Great garden for it too. The door opened in March to Fent Secretary Stanton, Secretary of State Poltenberg and the joint chief of the US military. Happy Christmas folks, being the president. Did you bring your stockings? Mind you, Normus!

Stanton looks 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 eul-tied enthusiasm thinning by the second. This is exactly what he'd feared when he 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. Could 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 so swarvely won over a skeptical US public the year before? No sir replied Stanton. Not even the big one on top of the chocolate coins. Mr President is a situation in the Middle East. Oh no, not again replied Michael with a giggle. That's how it all started all those Christ Christmases ago, he quipped. Mr. President said stands in 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 redding its nuclear weapons, Mr. President. They threatened to fire them at 8am 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 he needs to talk to Israel and Iran. King shitbags screen the president. This is the worst Christmas ever. Ah, suppose I better talk to the watching fucking world. Get me my fucking suit, let's get this shit over with all the whole day's gonna be fucked. He clearly throws, right, I'll warm up.

My fellow American, people of it, this is a dark day for it, yadda yadda yadda, right? I'll warm up. My fellow American people of it. This is a dark day for it. Yaddy yaddy yaddy. Right, I'm ready to go. All this fucking speech done in one fucking take, come frienday, and if anyone starts on their stocking before I'm done, they are fucking sacked. Of all the days of the shitting year. Let's go and get the Israeli and Iranian dudes on the phone. I'm gonna bang some fucking heads together. Michael gave his speech. He spent the whole day in talks. The crisis was averted, attentive to truth 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, at the end. I think in future years, that could replace people's wanting to read towards the night before Christmas as a 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 very much on going for John. Yeah, a longstanding Christmas tradition. Yep. The reason for the season ending. So was he the good guy? What? Michael. Oh, Chris, I love the genuine sense of hold on. I'm just I'm confused. I don't think you've ever intellectually engaged in Andy's bullshit. Normally you just go to say, well that's not none of what just happened when it happened out loud mattered in

any way. You just let it wash over here and you've actually got sucked in what? Oh, no, 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. I was just getting some breaking news coming into the bugle here. Father Christmas is rumored to be contemplating resigning. He was overheard drunkenly confessing to being, quote, tired, disillusioned, 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 O. L. Babo and Otale Mickey reindeer's big beady bastards and fat boy chimney smasher as well as Percy presents Has been had been drinking quietly on his own in the George Hotel in Vereric when 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. So 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 b****, and if I see another f***ing elf again I will wring it's f***ing mech.

Beside she continued drunkenly, kids today are so bloody unrewarding to deliver presents to who they send in frankly, ludicrous list of demands, complaining they're little asses off if they don't get exactly what they asked 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 f***ing problem. I inculcate a culture of materialism and a closeness, and that's not what this job was supposed to be about. I guess I got carried away with the adulation of 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 f***ing deluge of easily breakable shit from a f***ing two bit toy shop. Whiskey, give me a f***ing whiskey. Most expensive one you've got. Splash of coconut, I've got a fly home. I know, I shouldn't, but once I'm off the ground,

the rain hose pretty much run the ship on their own. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Oh, it turns me me how it really does. Anyway, economics and shit out of my hands. See Brandy, give me a Brandy and whiskey. Makes out of a stick of **** cherry in it. What, what am I? I'm overweight, I look like a Mascope Walk criminal. I've got a question mark record and animal welfare and workers rights.

And I'm facing more trespassing charges and you can check a stick out. And for what? It's bullshit, it's all fucking bullshit. If you've got any crisps, cheese and onion would be great. What do you mean you're shut? But look, some father fucking Christmas, give me some crisps for you, not getting your fucking PlayStation. Oh balls. Father Christmas left the Georgian his sleigh,

flying off rather uncertainly and it was crashing into a hillside while shouting, sorry about the rainders, they've crapped all over your car park, ho ho, fucking ho. You wanna engage in that Chris as well? John, I've been keeping the count today. Andy just reached the 40th f*** up the show.

Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho! F***! I think maybe keep that as an off-cut. No. Well, that is all we've got time for in this, Suits Christmas special, so I don't have time for your emails to keep them flooding in over Christmas. Do 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 don't forget you can treat yourself to the Christmas gift of giving yourself a bugle-volumptu subscription at the buglepottoast.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 minds and john's faces on this winter? Can you look deep in your heart, people? They're the socks that have been designed to go with nothing. The socks that they're 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. Yeah. John, I mean, it's... Yep. It's, I mean, you, you in the past you're growing up People of our generation cricket fans of our generation John We were used to singing and 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 Baron boym struggling to play friar a jacker on the piano I mean sure the piano has been an unexpectedly tough opponent, but still, you know, at least expected Baronboim to get a recognizable 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. Yes, very nice.

Very dark times. So, viewers, do try your best. Chins up, very nice. Very dark times. So, beolars, do try your best. Chins up, happy Christmas. Bye! Bye! you