Christmas isn't all about eating. There's drinking to be done, too. And what goes better with whisky than St. Bernardus Abt? Or should that be: what goes better with St.Bernardus Abt than whisky?
The whiskiness of the . . . no, I've done that one already. The medicinal gauziness of the laphroaig reminds me that hospital is probably where I'll end up later today. The brown Belgian beeriness of the Abt rinses the out the iodine taste from my mouth. Um, Kopstoot Royale, as I like to call this combination, lovely.
It helps me cope with a dual tragedy this year. I broke both my Chimay and St. Bernardus glasses. I'm reduced to using a Leffe glass I got cheap on Koniginnen Dag. Sacrilege, I know.
Talking of sacrilege, with all the weight Andrew's lost, he looks like Jesus on the cross if he lifts up his shirt. I'll have to trick him into doing it and take a quick snap later. What could be more Christmasy that Jesus on a crucifix?
In case you've forgotten, please have your string ready. I want you to be able to spring into action and without the string it just isn't going to work.