I hate to be the bearer of bad news but the fun is almost over, folks. It's that time of year when heady excess gives way to needy self-flagellation. Because no sooner has the Advocaat been drained and the last Lindor unfurled that someone starts banging on loudly about their internal cleansing rituals – involving kale, wheatgrass, and similar middle-class foodstuffs – and entreating all within hectoring distance to join them in their annual detox.
