Echinacea. Never held much truck with it before but the on-set of male pattern coughing, spluttering and snoofling took me to Boots the other day.
Lash one of those lads - they look like purple Berocca - into a mug of hot water and watch it go. It's a delightful little blackcurrant potion that, coupled with industrial amounts of Exputex, should see me right for the Christmas.
I'm also a few days boozeless and that can only be a good thing after last week. All that brilliant carnage. Why blog when you can drink and eat and drink again, in Bowe's and Neary's and The Globe and all those places I seem to end up in spite of my liver and my self?
Yep. Did myself a right old damage, lurgy and stomach-gah, but the form is good and why wouldn't it be? It's been a good year, as they go.
Home: August, and the move from 'Withnail and I'-style rusticity to grander pastures altogether, surrounded by people and restaurants and a supermarket that's only a slippery, slidey walk up the road away.
Work: Much the same - bit and bobs of paid employ to keep my head above water - and I've been writing more, here and in the drafts and in places not yet visited by others. The recent paper piece might also spawn some opportunities, it is all good.
Football: A black spot. A shite World Cup and even shiter Liverpool. At least we're hopeless at rugby again, taking the 'Leinster! LEINSTER!' saps down a peg or ten. You can't get tribal over a province, to my mind.
T'other thing: I do not miss waxing on and on and on again about the perils of internet dating.
Food: I went from olive-like to olive-love, picking them off the plates of unsuspecting co-diners and strangers alike. Yoink. After the cholesterol scare of 2008 I still haven't fully embraced the myriad cheeses this town has to offer, but I'm getting there. We're here for a good time, not a long time.
Pubs: If you don't know where to find me by now, you haven't been paying close enough attention.
Drunkening of the year: Myself and Fitzbollix, the morning after a stag. What started off as an eye opener and a bite to eat turned into The Stag's Head, The Long Hall, The Long Stone and somewhere on the quays, before he pissed off a bridge. That is to say he urinated from a conduit, nothing to do with invoking its ire.
Sky Sports News presentress of the year: Millie Clode. As ever.
Blogs of the year (in order of handiness from my dropdown menu): Andrew, Regina, Twenty, Shiny, Therese, Kitty Cat and Rosie. Oh, and not forgetting Jennikybooky.
Birthday of the year: Birthday of all my birthdays.
Film Of The Year: 'Another Year.'
The 'Wouldn't Have Him In The House' award for the most annoying tossbag shat forth by Satan in 2010: Brendan O'Connor. And there you were thinking it would be Barry Egan.