What nonsense. This survey is nothing less than a national affront, and a slur upon bibulous Scots. As soon as I unhook myself from this dialysis machine, there'll be hell to pay.
I still feel terrible tonight after drinking a bottle of whisky yesterday, and it's no wonder - I checked the label today and it turns out it was eight years old.
That far out of date, it's a wonder I'm alive to tell the tale.
Now, Scottish lager has mystical, magical properties. Eight pints and you'll develop a lovely warm beer jacket, and the busiest roads will be simple to cross thanks to the invisible traffic cones which miraculously stop oncoming traffic
You'll also find that a wondrous form of satellite navigation will guide you home at such a tremendous velocity, you'll barely be able to recall the journey.
Though to be honest, I'm struggling with this rioja tonight - it's a bit sharp. Plus, it's turned my teeth dark maroon, so I'll have to get rid of the stains by downing a bottle of white before bed.
The Irish? Two-can hand grenades, the lot of them. I was out drinking with that Richard Harris about five years ago - nine pints and a nip, and the bugger was face down, dead to the world.
Never heard from him since, the big jessie. Some folk just can't hack the pace, you see.