MY pal's in mourning after being barred from his local pub. He seemed unaware their "wet floor" sign was a warning, not a request.

He had already been under a suspended sentence, from the night the barman collapsed during last orders, and two hours later my pal and the sundry other remaining regulars were too drunk to call an ambulance.

He drinks a staggering amount, does my pal. The day he goes - which won't be before the authorities have devised a safe method of disposing of his liver - they will definitely need to hold an innquest.

In Cambuslang, where within crawling distance of his front door he can sniff out at least a dozen watering holes from which he's permanently barred, the man is a legend.

And for good reason. After a night on the skite, he will always suddenly and serenely perform a back flip off his barstool and fall unconscious to the floor.

Yes, one thing about my pal, he always knows when he's had enough.

Ironically, the introduction of the smoking ban in pubs has been good for his nightly horizontal highs.

There are no longer discarded cigarette butts on the pub floor to burn his hands and knees and face when finally he awakes and leaves the premises.

My pal was married to The Wicked Witch of the East for four months and the lassie didn't know he took a drink until one night he came home sober.

Sobriety and my pal are not boozing buddies, and he's a magnet for mishaps.

I was flagged down by a traffic cop last week for speeding, allegedly.

"What would you do if Mr Fog came down suddenly?" the cop asked me.

"He would put Mr Foot on Mr Brake," my pal replied from the passenger seat.

"Let me start again," said the cop, distinctly unamused and advising my pal it was best if he shut it.

"What would you do if mist OR fog came down suddenly?" What a contrast to my pal's brother.

Now, there's a model citizen, a guy who doesn't drink, smoke, gamble or cheat on his wife.

Mind you, it's a real problem for the guys every year knowing how to celebrate The Saint's birthday.

The festive celebrations don't mean much change for my pal. Every weekend is Hogmanay for him.

His hangover cure of choice is hair of the dog. But, according to US doctors, he and everyone else seeking that festive refresher will be barking up the wrong tree.

Two docs at Indiana University School of Medicine say the idea you can cure a hangover is a medical myth.

And you can forget any of the hundreds of remedies trotted out through the years, from aspirin and bananas, to Marmite and milk, and water or that morning fry-up. The only thing that will cure your hangover, they say, is time. And I have to agree.

For myself, Nancy will have me on a very short leash when the family descend for their Christmas dinner this week.

Routine keyhole surgery to repair my dodgy knees left me with a blood clot in my lungs. I've been put on warfarin, so no seasonal sessions with my pal.

And, now that he's barred from every pub in Cambuslang, he's having to do his drinking at home.

You may have seen him stocking up at Morrisons yesterday, with two trolleys overflowing with booze.

Behind him in the busy queue at the check-out was a little old lady, with just a packet of custard creams and a small carton of milk in her basket.

"Is that all you've got, love?" my pal asked her.

Her wee face lit up. "Yes, dear." "Well, I think you'd better join another queue, because I'll be ages here."

The season of goodwill, indeed. From me and my pal, have a happy and healthy Christmas.