"Well hello little white bull!" said he, "what are you doing around here with all that purple carpet, and so far from B&Q?"
The little white bull looked mournfully at him.
"Oh I see! You wanted to be able to fly like all the red bulls, and you thought you could do it if you B&Q'd it, but you ended up buying 400m of purple carpet, and even then you couldn't make wings because you don't have hands. Well, little white bull," said Father Christmas with a twinkle (or was it an evil glint?) in his eye, "I think I can help you."
Almost Suzy-like, the little white bull's expression went from 'kicked puppy' to insanely hopeful. Father Christmas winked and rummaged around in his sack. He slowly pulled out a pistol*, aimed it at the little white bull, and pulled the trigger. As blood gushed out from his stomach, it went all over his coat, finally allowing him to be a red bull. And as his soul separated from his body and rose to the heavens, he had achieved his second wish - to be able to fly.
Father Christmas, thouroughly annoyed that a happy ending (albeit a sick and twisted one)had come about, trudged back to his lair.