Noggin' the Egg Nog

In my quest to instill some festive spirit in myself, I decided to try a seasonal tradition I'd never previously indulged in - egg nog. To be absolutely correct, I suppose we should use its Dutch name of Advocaat (which is what most people in the UK mean when they talk about egg nog, although I find this a bit confusing - I thought Dick Advocaat was what you got when you whacked off into a glass of egg nog, but apparently he's the manager of Zenit St Petersburg football club). Anyway, getting back to the point, I decided that I'd denied myself the pleasures of this strange alcoholic beverage, which only ever seems to get drunk at Christmas, for long enough. The trouble was, that I didn't actually have access to any of the stuff and I was reluctant to fork out for a bottle, not knowing whether I'd actually like it or not. However, Little Miss Strange convinced me that it was possible to make our own egg nog with ingredients already present in the house. Now, I really don't know why I ever listen to her, she really is the most unreliable of my so-called 'friends', and that's saying something. She's also certifiably insane. No, really. She's actually got the certificate to prove it. Cutting to the chase, the alarm bells should have started ringing when she cracked a couple of eggs, pouring their yolks into a mixing bowl before adding half a bottle of vodka and vigourously beating them together. I was sure that things like milk, cream, sugar and flavourings were involved, but Little Miss Strange assured me that I was mistaken, as she poured a measure of her concoction from the bowl into a glass for me to sample.

To be fair, this 'egg nog' looked much the same coming back up as it did going down, so the mess didn't seem that bad. I can now appreciate why people only drink it at Christmas - it takes them the rest of the year to recover from it. Quite why anybody would want to pay to drink it is beyond me. Having said that, when I struggled to my feet, eyes watering and still coughing up yellow sputum, I was greeted by the sight of Little Miss Strange draining the rest of the bowl of its filthy contents, before wiping her mouth and ransacking the house for anything else alcoholic. She ended up on the roof, hurling her shoes at passing carol singers. All-in-all, it was a pretty traumatic experience, but par for the course this Christmas. I mean, when Big Sleazy asked me to come and help him collect his Christmas tree, I didn't expect to find myself in someone's garden at dead of night, cutting down some unsuspecting bastard's fir tree. It was bloody murder trying to drag it across the lawn and over the hedge without being seen - the security lights went off and the house owner came after us waving a garden fork. He nearly caught us after Big Sleazy stopped to nick some of his external Christmas lights as well. Why the bloody hell he can't just buy the whole lot at the garden centre like everyone else, I really don't know. But apparently the adrenalin rush of having an enraged householder chasing you down the street, hurling a garden fork through your rear window as the car strains to accelerate with the burden of a fifteen foot tall ornamental tree strapped to the roof, makes it all worthwhile. All it needs now is for Little Miss Strange to climb up the damn thing under the influence of her 'egg nog', and try to impersonate an angel. It really doesn't bear thinking about!