They reckon you got concussion. –Oof. –Well I couldn't give a tart's furry cup if half your brains are falling out. Don't ever... waltz into my kingdom acting King of the Jungle. –Who the hell are you? –Gene Hunt, your DCI. And it's 1973, almost dinner-time. I'm having 'hoops.
Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, I could hear something stirring; it was my husband, that louse. I screamed down the stairs, 'Jack, get back to this bed,' but heard not a word from the weasel I wed. So I slipped on my housecoat and stockings with care, but except for those items my body was bare. I scoured the whole house, but my search was in vain and visions of homicide danced through my brain. When out on the lawn there rose such a sound, I ran to the door and tore open my gown. The moon on my breasts in the new-fallen snow gave the luster of youth that I had long-ago. When what to my baby-blue eyes should appear, but a man dressed in red from his head to his rear. From the leer in his eye to the hump on his back, I knew in a flash that it must be my Jack. More rapid than eagles his corsairs they came, and he whistled and shouted and called me by name.
The Encyclopedia Galactica describes alcohol as a colorless, volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars and also notes its intoxicating effect on certain carbon-based life forms. The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster. The effect of which is like having your brain smashed out with a slice of lemon wrapped 'round a large gold brick. The Guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one, and what voluntary organizations exist to help you rehabilitate.