No. 57 Christmas Illness and a New Year’s Resolution

Jeffman returns and another Christmas has come and gone. One that was just as crap as anticipated.

You see, anyone that knows me personally or reads this rubbish with something bordering on insane regularity, will already have made an assessment in their minds that I am the cut of cove who has a very low tolerance towards fellow idiots, the greedy, politicians (not mutually exclusive of each other, by any means), so-called celebs and… well let’s just say 99.9% of the human race.

But this painfully low tolerance threshold isn’t just reserved to his fellow man. It would seem to stretch also to whatever dose of lurgy is presently doing the rounds.

This Christmas, in what has become something of a festive tradition at chez Mann, your host was struck down with a vicious wee bastard of a virus that I have since found out has reduced the Great British nation to what could be a ropey outtake from the remake of George Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead. Albeit one involving a great deal more snot, phlegm, and a continual interchanging of feversh sweats and ice-cold shivers.

Jeffman’s a martyr to such pandemics. If there’s a good’un knocking about it’s a relatively safe bet that he’ll cop for it – twice as bad as anybody else! For it’s also true to say that nobody catches for an ailment quite as bad as Jeffman does.

He literally lacked the energy to remove himself from the sofa, which can be a royal pain in the arse when your pint glass needs a refill. Nevertheless he showed exemplary courage in the face of universal adversity and hauled his sorry behind over to the fridge or where the hard stuff was kept without complaint.

Not that the usual award-winning tactic of attempting to poison the illness with alcohol worked on this occasion, for the blighter was resilient even to the most potent combination of beer, brandy, rum and port drunk straight from the washing up bowl – suitable for all manner of cocktails, punch concoctions, and occasions when entertaining polite company.

Christ! Jeffman even resorted to heating the rum up in the microwave, hopeful that its medicinal qualities would be intensified and chase the Demons from his shivering, cadaverous body, but only succeeded in burning his mouth. Then left it too long to cool. Nothing worse than lukewarm booze.

But if his Christmas hols were knackered by the infiltration of unclean spirits and the prospect of returning to the world’s dullest job at the start of this week, his spirits have since been lifted by not only the news of the death of one Thatcher’s lackeys (there can’t be long left for the witch now, surely) but also the latest pearl from our old friend Case M, star of Idiots in the Workplace. Apparently his boiler blew up over Christmas, leaving him without heating in what is proving to be one of the coldest snaps of recent years. Of course, it might just be a lie, as is generally the form with this suspect character. Nevertheless, we can but hope.

PS. After making my predictions for this year in my Christmas message, Jeffman has entered into the spirit of things and made a New Year’s resolution. One he shall endeavor to stick to.

This year: Stop being nice to people

Tis a messed up, festering scab of a dog eat dog world out there and my naturally pleasant temperament is clearly wasted on it.

You have been warned!

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