My father used to make the Christmas cake every October. Then it would be put in a quiet, unused room, and once a week we'd all go in and he'd pour one glass of whiskey into the cake and drink another.

Some time in the middle of November it got that just going into that room would make you come out ffeeling a bish funnnny.

By the time Christmas Day came the thing could practically reel down the street by itself. And on Stephen's Day all the neighbours would be fluthered, purely from coming in for a genteel cup of tea and slice of cake.