I like trying to get into the seasonal spirit every year about this time by finding the most tenuous or offensive attempt to cash-in on Xmas. Last year’s winner was Christmas toilet paper. I just liked the ambivalence of the idea – perfect if you hate Yule or indeed love it. (Anybody still stuck for inspiration for a gift for the man who has everything – I’ve checked, and Amazon now sell a whole range of similar products to delight the discerning Yuletide loon.)

This year I’m rather taken with Stella’s attempt to exploit seasonal excess by billing their swill as ‘crafted for Christmas’. I have trouble getting past the ‘crafted’ bit to be honest. It is, I suppose, crafted in the same way that dogshit is sculpted – sort of technically true, but something most of us would rather not contemplate. Crafted in the sense that a human hand is involved, if only to turn the tap that propels the raw Stella from the urinals, through the chiller, and into the kegs.

According to James Watson, Western European Marketing Director, “Stella Artois is the quintessential Christmas beer and this year’s limited edition, eye-catching festive packaging truly captures the spirit of the celebratory season.  Stella Artois is renowned for its discerning and pioneering brand activity, and this combination of exclusive packaging, high-profile advertising support and the innovative album download will ensure that Stella Artois is the top choice for beer consumers this Christmas.”

I like the description of their target market as ‘beer consumers’. I also admire the way their slogan is a ‘subtle as a fucking sledgehammer’ attempt to link Stella to the craft beer revolution, even though the desire of discerning drinkers to escape from dubious fluids like Stella is the chief reason craft brews took off in the first place. Yet I still can’t quite buy Jim’s description of his product as ‘the quintessential Christmas beer’. Perhaps if I imagine it as a slick TV ad…

Our hero pre-loads on cheap, supermarket-bought Wife-beater, before putting on his Burberry baseball cap and heading into town. There he goes to a nauseating nightclub to listen to Jay-Z and N-Dubz and drink more of his beloved Stella – this time expensive and liberally watered down – pausing only to grope two young girls, unconscious after the Rohypnol their last suitor fed them kicked in before he could get them into a taxi. He strolls unsteadily home with half-a-dozen of his friends, breaking their journey to assault some bloke they’ve never met before, who happens to be on his own and isn’t looking. Once back to the family home, our hero punches his girlfriend for something he half-remembers she might’ve said earlier. But not with the fist with the sovereign ring – it is Xmas after all. For the end of a perfect night, he drifts into slumber on the sofa in front of his 98″ flatscreen 3D TV, which is showing reruns of X Factor. He still has a can of his beloved Stella in his fist, which slowly spills into his tracky bottoms, pooling in his crotch as he contendedly swears in his sleep and soils himself…

Come to think of it, that is pretty Xmassy after all. Merry Christmas one and all! Ho, ho, fucking ho…