By now I should be barely able to string a coherent sentence together, let alone type out 300 words of lovingly hand-crafted wit and/or wisdom. But as you can see, despite us being well into the Christmas season, I am still disappointingly sober. I have just had half a magnum of Karoline (with a K)’s Bolly Grand Année 2004, which she gets from a man called Piers at £139 a pop (“It’s a snip, darling”), but that’s just made me glow. It was cracked open to celebrate the Groceries Code Adjudicator’s fine-levying ability, so you can see how desperate we are for an excuse.
I blame Americans. Despite all that laid-back happy-go-lucky hippy cool, Mickey the idiot Mouse, Baywatch and Monterey Jack cheese, they’re still puritans at heart. Which means no fun. Exhibit A: Cadbury isn’t fun anymore. It’s dour and corporate and American. Exhibit B: All of our American-owned clients have told us they’re not allowed to have fun at Christmas (except they can’t say the C-word either). We’re now prohibited from sending ‘holiday’ gifts (not even anonymously to home addresses!), or taking them out for the traditional booze-soaked lunches that end up with a snog and a 2am misunderstanding at Strawberry Moons. It’s so we don’t corrupt them (fat chance - horse stable bolt door) or they don’t corrupt us (ditto).
Miranda suggests we cheer ourselves up with an After Eight cocktail to celebrate the brand’s 50th birthday (and the ritual of putting back the wrappers). It’s made with crème de cacao, crème de menthe and Baileys and is as revolting as it sounds. Does the trick though. Terry from the post room looks quite alluring in his Santa hat. God, I think I might actually be a bit squiffy.