When it comes to Christmas presents, my parents seem to have located the only Granny May’s outlet still standing, and have encountered some sort of spectacular wholesale purchase deal.

The most promising gift of reasonable practicality I can hope for is a book. Everything else is a honking, fart-noise-generating, practical joke cacophony of novelty mugs, genuinely disturbing stress balls of George W. Bush’s head, and genitalia-shaped pasta.

Last Christmas, I received Jelly Shots. They’re gelatine-based (at least, I hope) shot glasses. There’s one thing which makes the Jelly Shots rise above all other previous gifts, though.

The use-by date for the Jelly Cups is October 2008.

Look: when I’m pissed, I’ll eat all sorts of terrible shit. I’ve even eaten Taco Bell during its brief stint in Australia (apparently this country isn’t quite ready to ascend to the glamorous heights of food involving mince meat dispensed from a tube) - but even I have a bit of a hard time trying to push something which isn’t due to expire for three years down my gob.

For fuck’s sake: these things are going to surive the next two US pre-emptive strikes. Not even Bob Hawke can outlive these things.

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