Ho. Ho. And if I might be so bold: Ho.It's that time of the year again, and you know what that means: the annual celebration of the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. In chocolate form.
Twenty-four days of the kids refusing to eat the chocolate out of their cheapest-food-products-imaginable advent calendars and consigning them to the human dustbin that is your humble narrator. This being a humble narrator who will even put away white-with-age 2003 stock purchased cut-price from a nervous-looking trader at Portland Market.
"Om nom nom nom," as they are saying at all the best ambassadors' receptions these days, where budget cut-backs are biting hard into the Ferrero Rocher budget.
I am sure that you will agree that scoffing other people's chocolate is the best chocolate of all, and I will climb over the bloated chocolatey corpses of friends and acquaintances to gorge myself stupid.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, however. And it's fucking awful in the Duck household's kitchen:
"Fucking hell's teeth, that was foul!" I remarked to the ever-patient Mrs Duck, "Advent calendar chocolate gets cheaper by the year."
"Which calendar was it?" she replied, waving in the general direction of the three blu-tacked to the wall.
"That one. The one with all the cartoon animals on it. Why?"
"That was Lucy's."
"Beg pardon?"
"The dog's. I got her an advent calendar at Pets at Home."
It dawns: "Good Boy Pet Non-Specific Holiday Countdown Calendar"
"Boilk"
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