50% off all naked goose-fat massages - today only

So, it's nearly Christmas then, and I've been feeling like I ought to write some sort of a seasonal bloggette.

You know, festive spirit and snowflakes and goodwill beaming down upon the glans of humankind. That sort of thing.

But the sorry truth is that I haven't really come up with any new Christmassy recipes yet, and I already used the puntastic title 'Yule Blog' a few years back, and can't think of anything anywhere near as clever.

So you'll have to amuse yourselves and just pretend that I said something hilarious about cloves.

Stop the Cavalry

Actually, I have started putting together a little piece on my favourite beers of 2013, but my inner stickler won't let me post it until next year, just in case I drink something absolutely fantastic in the final few days of this one.

I done a picture of a sad person at Christmas

I get all het up about this sort of stuff: The need for logical purity and comprehensiveness.

Like how it really, really fucking pisses me off when they name the Man of the Match several minutes before the game ends, which seems to happen at all football matches these days.

It's just so needlessly stupid. What happens if your 'Man of the Match' goes on to net an own goal, then concede a crucial penalty before finally getting sent off for repeatedly headbutting the referee in the scrotal area, whilst another player bags a stoppage-time hat-trick of Brazilianesque wonderstrikes?

I'm sure this has never actually happened in a game, because it's an extreme theoretical example, and if it did ever actually happen, it would definitely be Coventry City on the receiving end of the bad luck. But the point is that until the match is over, you don't know for sure who the man of it will be, and until 2013 is over I won't know for certain what the beer of it will be, so you can all fuck off'n'shit.

That said, have a Merry Christmas and all that, and I'll see you on the other side. As the Jihadist said to the Bishop.