It was jolly entertaining to have Rab C Nesbitt back on our television screens last week. Age has not withered Gregor Fisher, Tony Roper and the rest of the Rab C repertory company.

Ian Pattison's script evinced a writing talent which has aged well.

Words such as mature and smooth do not apply, but in this vintage stuff there was not only plenty of bawdy.

There were shafts of observational wit which will have been spotted by the intended targets, starting but not ending with the Gaelic oligarchy at BBC Scotland.

Pattison blazed a trail for others to follow in the field of demotic comedy. He remains a most skilled perpetrator of the art.

The vintage wine analogy is appropriate. I identified a bit more with Rab C this time around because, like the Govanite, I am aff the swally.

Being a Glasgow West End person, I do not use the word swally. I am on the tack, which is a Para Handy phrase for a person taking a sabbatical from the consumption of alcohol.

Regular readers may be thinking: "Forgive me, but have I not read this Buffer-has-sworn-off-the bevvy routine before?" Yes, you have. With the onset of type 2 diabetes, I attempted to restrict my intake to a few glasses of wine a day, suitably diluted with diet lemonade.

But I found that a glass of diluted wine led to pints of diluted wine. Which led back to pints of lager. And a glass or two of brandy. Or a rum and coke.

Maybe even a nightcap of that Sardinian liqueur which has been lurking at the back of the drinks cabinet. The liqueur that is made out of myrtle berries and gnat's urea but tastes fine, really, with plenty of ice and tonic water while you're watching the last movie on Film4 at three in the morning.

This latest swearing-off is, I hope, more serious. It comes at the behest of the gastro-enterology department at Gartnavel general hospital. This fine bunch of men and women examined the Buffer's entrails and their divination was less than cheery. The levels of this, that and the other intestinal contaminants were quite worrying. The various organs had taken a bit of a doing.

The chief medicine man said any further ingestion of alcoholic beverages was not an option. After a long silence, I said surely the occasional glass of wine might be allowed.

He replied that in his long experience of treating journalists of my generation, moderation tended not to work. Only abstinence would do.

After a lengthier silence, I said: "There will be redundancies in many sections of the licensed trade." He replied: "I'll do my best to keep them going."

The gastro-consultant added that he suspected I might be suffering from a condition called haemochromatosis. This is an excess of iron in the blood. The body, unable to dispose of the iron, dumps it into the heart, liver, pancreas and various other nooks and crannies, buggering up (as the doctor didn't say) these important organs.

A quick Google of haemochromatosis revealed that it is not a pleasant condition. It leads to heart failure, cirrhosis of the liver, erectile dysfunction and very possibly psychiatric disorder and Alzhei-mer's when the iron gets into the brain.

Suddenly, abstinence seemed a suitable choice. I was, and remain, tempted to have a wee drink. This is hardly surprising after more than 40 years of indulgence.

But I have a mantra which helps. It is adapted from Mary Poppins and goes: "Super tragic gastric illness, haemochromatosis. It's something quite atrocious." This little ditty, and a desire not to die too soon, comes in handy when the debate arises over whether to have a drink or not.

Haemochromatosis is, ironically (if you will pardon the pun), not entirely related to alcohol. It is genetic and can induce cirrhosis in even the most abstemious Wee Free or member of the Plymouth Brethren. Which confirms my theory that God has a warped sense of humour.

There is no cure, only treatment. This consists of not eating spinach and going to hospital for bloodletting, a pint siphoned off on a regular basis. I am comfortable with the former but not keen on the latter.

There was good news from the recent slate of blood tests. I don't have the full-blown super tragic gastric illness, haemochromatosis. I possess just one of the two dodgy genes required for full membership.

Better news was that even a short period of renunciation had produced significant improvement of those ghastly gastric readings. So the regime continues. No alcohol and definitely no spinach.

My favourite tipple is Kingshill water from a spa in Newmains, Lanarkshire. Aqua Express can deliver it straight to your water cooler.

I still pop out to the pub for a beer. A ginger beer. Luckily, for those of a diabetic disposition, the Doublet Bar stocks a diet ginger beer called Bundaberg. Bundaberg is from Australia, as you might guess from the kangaroo on the label. It is an acceptable alternative to alcohol (yes, really) and offers an opportunity for Roman Calvinist guilt because of its carbon footprint.

My previous consumption of ginger beer was as an accompaniment to a large gin. I tried to recreate the flavour of this cocktail by crushing some juniper berries into my home supplies of ginger beer (Tesco's diet fiery brand; even cheaper than their lager at 23p a litre). But it was not a success.

I then looked in vain for a non-alcoholic gin. The staff in Demijohn on Byres Road, which does some very esoteric gins, appeared quite mystified by my request.

I am gradually moving out of the drinker's mindset. I no longer refer to my cup of black coffee in the pub as a mulled Guinness.

My compulsive-obsessive nature is now focused on ginger. I have even taken to drinking infusions of the root as an alternative to tea. Sadly, scientists at the Ambrose Alli University in Nigeria conducted tests which proved that excess consumption of ginger had deleterious side-effects on the livers of male adult rabbits. So I may have to cut back as I don't want to be an unwell bunny.

The no-drink lifestyle is going well, thank you. At a gala gourmet dinner in Inverness, I had a token wetting of the lips out of politeness when the fine wines were served. (OK, there was a token glug at the Turckheim Reserve pinot gris that came with the terrine of foie gras, celeriac and lentils).

Perhaps I did ladle more brandy than was entirely necessary over the Christmas pudding on Thursday.

I am aware that I could easily succumb once more to the lure of alcohol. But the intention is to indulge only if the doctor absolutely insists it is for the good of my health.

Meanwhile, if you spot me clutching a glass of strong drink, dash it from my lips and smite it from my hand. And buy me a Bundaberg.

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