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.

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In yet another bid to prevent the great British public from getting royally rat-arsed and – horror of horrors – maybe actually enjoying themselves in this grim, grey wasteland they’ve so generously created for us, the right honourable members of Parliament (members, indeed) are calling for an outright ban on what was once the finest exponent of the British pub trade, the happy hour, as well as cheap supermarket booze.

The good people elected to protect our interests have even proposed putting a minimum price on alcohol. This in particular nearly caused Jeffman to spill his pint.

These sparks of brilliance stem from a committee headed by keen defender of free speech, the publicity shy MP for Leicester East, Keith Vaz, a man who by decree of his very religion is unable to partake of alcohol.

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Jeffman has been in the wars of late, suffering cracked ribs and a bout of flu with enough of a kick to incapacitate a randy mule. But he doesn’t want sympathy! Jeffman is crafted from hardy, all-weather materials, and always bounces back to fight another day. So please, save your goodwill and comforting words for someone who’s in greater need of them.

Gordon Brown, for instance. The poor lamb.

Jeffman’s better half even commented on how he looked as though he’d had a stroke, and she never has anything bad to say about anybody, my good self excepted.

Not that falling victim to a stroke is an indictment on anybody’s character, but I could detect from the tone in her voice that this was more of a comment on his increasingly shabby appearance than concern for his health or well-being. I’m quite astute like that, see?

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Another day and another bank I’ve never heard of collapses. More chinless wonders face up to the fact that it’s not just the working classes who can lose their livelihoods.

I’m expecting this to have a knock-on effect which will ultimately see me out of pocket, and leaves me wondering how all these high-paid merchant bankers (cockney rhyming slang) find it so easy to lose something that doesn’t exist in the first place. A few zeros on a computer screen shouldn’t be too hard to retrieve. Have any of them actually thought of looking in the recycle bin? I’ll wager a double-click on that little icon in the top left-hand corner of the screen will put a swift end to this economic crisis and we’ll all be back to normal.

But until those merchant bankers (cockney rhyming slang) pull their heads out of their arses and implement Jeffman’s patented financial rescue package, we have to make do with the continued talk of credit crunches, recession, housing market crashes, the cost of petrol, and the end of cheap food. But there’s another major casualty we all seem to have neglected in this time of economic uncertainty. One that doesn’t make the headlines or fill the column inches of the national newspapers. I refer, of course, to Jeffman’s drinking budget.

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Hot dingle. Jeffman fears he might be getting old. The pieces are slowly but surely slotting into place. Pull out the scorecard and tick the appropriate boxes.

Greying hair. Check. Expanding waistline. Check. Aching joints. Check. They’re all there. But there’s one thing Jeffman never expected. The thing that creeps up on you like the ex-scoutmaster your mother used to tell you to keep away from and stamps the card of all right-thinking men across the land. The ones that have reached the an age when they should really know better.

I refer, of course, to a man’s tolerance to the demon hangover and the unreasonable period of time now necessary to put aside when accommodating recovery from a day and night on the sauce.

Gone are the days when Jeffman could drink the greater part of Mitchell and Butler’s stock of a Friday, then get up footloose and fancy-free of a Saturday lunchtime and be back in the pub for three, to stagger home around five Sunday morning, safe in the knowledge of a job well done.

Then be fit and fruity for work come Monday.

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