Tuesday, December 16, 2003
At this time of year, when most people I know are celebrating the birth of someone they don't believe in, I tend to get given bottles of champagne. These not-so-wise men bringing me these gifts hope it will make me believe in them this coming year, and push some lucrative business their way.
Well, I've news for you, my generous and scheming little dears: the Zanussi is already bursting with Moët, meaning there's hardly any room for the partridge, pear-tree and poppers and, besides, I can't stand the stuff. So much for the Ab Fab party life then. Excuse me while I shuffle off for a nice cup of Horlicks.
Now, I admit there are occasions personal tragedies, dark depressions, bailiffs on the doorstep when only tap-dancing and the effervescence of champagne can pull you through, but generally it's over-rated and over-priced, either too acidic or too sweet, and never served at the right temperature. It also gets up my nose, and makes me burp. How terribly sophisticated.
But the main reason is that it's the only drink which invariably gets me pissed way too quickly and easily. And that's pissed, by the way, not drunk. Pissed as in why am I lying face-down somewhere which hasn't got a London post-code, what was my name again, and, why, thank you, Officer, it's so nice of you to offer me a lift in your shiny new van.
Drunk I can do very well, carrying it off with my customary and endearingly boyish charm (yeah, right); but pissed, and I do not want to know me, and neither does anyone else celebrating on Old Compton Street. So if you're thinking of buying me anything alcoholic this Advent, a bottle of Amaretto, a classy Armagnac or just an Absolut would go down a treat (although a case of Argentinean red would be even more acceptable). But easy on the champers please. Those sneaky bubbles get me every time, and you really do not want to be held responsible for the consequences.