Pain and pleasure

The so-called festive season is the time of year all serious drinkers dread. Their favourite pubs are filled with amateurs, largely consisting of braying office parties. It takes for ever to get served at the bar, and there is the ever-present danger of being sicked over by some daffy young secretary who has been overdoing the alcopops. Then when you’ve finally got your drink — my Christmas cheer used to consist of triple Scotches with a dash of ginger wine and a Guinness chaser — some moron from accounts will lean over and say, ‘Cheer up, mate, it might never happen.’ The trouble, of course, is that it already has.

Mercifully, such torment is behind me, just for today, and Starbucks is serving excellent slices of Christmas cake to go with the double tall latte with caramel. But what fresh hell is this? I refer to the record shops, where I now waste so many hours of my life, as well as more money than I ever spent on the booze.