What is it about the festive season that brings these miserable bastards out of the closet? There I was contemplating a nice run of holiday breakfasts starting with ham on thick, fluffy white toast, perhaps a poached egg, melted cheese and barbecue sauce on Christmas morning, before settling down to the serious business of getting in half dozen or so mega café breakfasts involving staggering tonnages of bacon, pork sausages, black pudding, baked beans, fried mushrooms, enough hashbrowns to build a fort with which I can defend my breakfast haul from wandering fingers, a couple of avocados, because I heard they lower cholesterol or something, some fried bread, maybe a Christmas muffin, a couple of buckets of full fat milky coffee, some orange juice, because you have to stay healthy, and maybe just another sausage because I find with breakfast sausages they tend to be a bit undersized.

I'm sitting there, drumming my fingers on a belly which is already taut and groaning in anticipation, when my relaxed contemplation of seasonal engorgement is ruined by a posse of wretched naysayers and punishment freaks riding over the hill waving their sticks of celery and puckering their disapproving lips at me so fiercely that I can only imagine they've been giving the prune juice a terrible hiding.

Hands off that banana bread, shrieks Women's Health magazine in its most recent issue after commissioning research into the 'hazards of breakfast'. Don't you realise that banana bread contains more kilojoules than a KFC Zinger Works Burger? Whoa, back off, fitness bitch, I reply. First of all, bananas are very healthy. Chimpanzees are like seven times stronger than your average man* and they eat heaps of bananas. And secondly, I'm a bloke, so Women's Health is of no interest to me anyway. My metabolism was forged in the evolutionary, err, forge of the savage tundra where my ancestors needed tectonic slabs of banana bread just to stay ahead of the saber toothed tigers with whom they were competing to race to the top of the food chain, where those rat bastard chimps had hidden all the sausages.

Now now, John, scolds the Dietitians Association of Australia, did you know that hot chocolate adds 15.5g of fat to your calorie count? Ha! I scoff. You're forgetting about the bag of marshmallows I brought along to tip into it.

"Step away from the muffin!" shouts dietary busybody Dr. Rosemary Stanton. You should be ordering raisin bread."

But I am Doc, I plead. Here, I've got a big buttered slice between these two pieces of banana bread.

God's bollocks I will not stand for it I tell you. Do these people not realise how much alcohol I drink at this time of year? How on earth am I supposed to survive that if not by mopping up the rancid grog in my bloodstream the morning after with mounds of greasy bacon and scrambled eggs?

And... damn, I forgot to order the scrambled eggs.

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* Stated fact may not actually be true.