Any excuses for the snoring father with his feet up?

First, the perennial question arises of who or what is responsible for the condition of the venerable paterfamilias snoring, mouth agape, in his armchair post Christmas dinner, while his wife and children make like mice so as not to disturb his “well-deserved” rest.

The unfortunate man has, after all, been labouring, physically or figuratively, all year to provide the wherewithal for the banquet (as has, most likely, his doting wife — plus labouring since daybreak to cook it —but it is Himself who is under discussion).

Previously, I thought his catatonia and the stentorian Christmas Day snores to be attributable to the port or the pudding. Now, I learn that the turkey is to blame. The bird is the culprit.