I invested in a subcutaneous GPS this year, having finally wearied of the whinging over the occasional small navigational cul de sac. I think we're somewhere over Belarus. For some reason this thing only speaks in a near-incomprehensible Glasgow accent. Time to start nipping into Uncle Rudolph's Special Sauce to allay the misery of this yearly haul.
Don't go tellin' me I can't drive.
At least I'm upwind of Prancer. Stupid carrots.
Here's your final drink recipe for the season:
half a bottle of Jim Beam