OK, so I know it’s still a few days until Christmas and I also know that the bloke they call Jesus was actually born in September or perhaps March.

However the winter solstice has always been immensely important, so it is no wonder early Christians adopted December 25 as their messiah’s birthday.

If by the solstice — the shortest day of the year — ancient people knew they still had stores of food, they had a good chance of surviving until the next spring. That was certainly worth celebrating.   

They would slaughter their animals about this time so they would not have to be fed during harsh and barren winter. This was the only time of year when a plentiful supply of fresh meat was available. 

The majority of wine, beers and other drinks made during the year were also ready for drinking at this time — food and drink, let’s celebrate.

I still enjoy celebrating the winter solstice — the longest and darkest night of the year.

Whether you call it pagan Yule, Jewish Hanukkah, Hindu Makaraa Sankranti, Iranian Yalda night, Roman Sol Invictus, Chinese and Japanese Dongzhi, Christmas or even the newly invented dodgy Winterval, it is roughly the same spot in the diary.

Let me introduce you to my friend William. He is 60 years younger than me but we both share militant atheist views, having no time for any religion.

If anything, William is more strident than I am in declaring his atheist’s beliefs.

In his first year at secondary school his vigorous arguing skills won him a place in the school’s debating team. The team won a place in the regional debating competition final.

William was somewhat horrified to discover the random subject he drew in the final was to “prove the existence of God.”

He was disgusted but tried to make the best fist he could of it. His argument proved magnificent and somewhat to his embarrassment he and his team won the competition.

After the prize-giving he was approached by one of the judges who congratulated him on “the best argument for the existence of God I have ever heard.”

William was quick to tell the man that he didn’t believe a word of his speech, proclaiming himself a militant atheist.

The man looked a little shocked but before he walked away William asked who he was and why he was so interested.

“Actually,” said the appreciative judge, “I am the Archbishop of Canterbury” — and much too young William’s astonishment so it proved.

Back to my gift. I’ve decided that after your magnificent achievement in raising money for the people’s paper in such an awful year, Star readers deserve a little present.

What I have in mind is giving you all the secret recipe for Frosty’s Home Brewed Ginger Beer. Start it now and we can all be raising a seasonal glass to celebrate that winter solstice.

There is a strong historical connection here. I bought my first ginger beer plant at a Daily Worker bazaar in Willesden more than half a century ago.    

Ginger (Zingiber officinale) gives us ginger root and ginger spice much used in cooking and with widely claimed health benefits. Ginger is very much the flavour of Christmas.

The first written record of ginger comes from Confucius, who reportedly ate ginger with every meal. Early Chinese sailors carried pots of living ginger plants on deck to eat to prevent scurvy.  

Ginger was one of the first spices to have been brought from Asia, arriving in Europe to become a staple with Greeks and Romans, who introduced it to the rest of Europe.

It was expensive: in 14th-century England a pound of ginger cost as much as a sheep. Fortunately ginger is a bit cheaper and easier to obtain these days.

Brewed ginger beer originated in Yorkshire in the mid-18th century and became popular throughout Britain and its empire. 

It is still widely consumed with rum in Jamaica. Ginger beer plants were once found in every kitchen but slowly they died out.

Now ginger beer is becoming fashionable. Elegant and expensive gin-mixer ranges often have a cloudy ginger-flavoured beverage.

None of these commercial brews even begin to rival my homemade recipe thiough — so let’s get on making your gift from Frosty and the Morning Star.     

You can adapt the method to match your own skills and equipment.

The only ingredient that might be difficult to obtain is champagne yeast. Champagne, I hear you ask? Well, “nothing is too good for the working class,” I say. I get mine from home-brewing supplier online. Don’t panic if you can’t find champagne yeast, brewer’s or baker’s yeast will work almost as well.

The other ingredients are far easier to obtain.

You’ll need two pounds (1kg) granulated sugar and about half a pound (250g) of ginger roots, chopped in a food processor or by hand. Leave the skin on — it is the best part.

Wimps and Philistines tell me you can use dried powdered ginger. I don’t. 

Thinly pare the outside coloured skin and save the juice of two lemons and two limes. Discard the bitter white pith.

Some people add extra flavours to the mix. A chopped fresh chilli, as hot as you like, gives an extra kick while a cinnamon stick or a few cloves are other possibilities.

I use a really clean plastic bucket. Take three-quarters of a gallon (3l to 4l) with boiled warm water, too hot will kill the yeast. 37°C-ish is perfect.

Add a heaped teaspoon of champagne or more proletarian yeast.

Leave it for half an hour until it starts to bubble. Then stir in two tablespoons granulated sugar.

Cover the top of the bucket with clean muslin. Fix it around the neck of the jar with string or a red ribbon.

Now every day feed it a heaped teaspoon of sugar and keep the bucket somewhere warm. Stir every time you feed it. It should be bubbling and foaming gently.

After a week of sugar-feeding tip it into the largest saucepan you own. Fill up with water (about half a gallon if you can). Add half a pound (250g) chopped ginger, the lemon and lime skins and juice and any other flavourings like chopped chilli.

Add two pounds (1kg) sugar. Bring to the boil and make sure everything is dissolved.

Cover the saucepan and let it stand overnight. Use a second saucepan if you need to and share the ingredients between pots.

Next day strain off the liquid — that’s the bit you want. I use a muslin cloth and wring out every last drop. Discard the pulp.

Now for the bottles. Today I use clean plastic two-litre fizzy drink bottles. They are much safer but sadly much less exciting than glass bottles that used to explode regularly.

Two-thirds-fill each bottle with the liquid. Screw on the lid and put each bottle somewhere warm. You will see — and perhaps hear — the liquid ferment and the bottles will become hard from the internal pressure.

If you get worried you can carefully loosen the lids a bit to release a little pressure. Keep a cloth handy to control any ginger beer geysers.

After about two to three weeks, your ginger beer will be ready.

Just as in the finest champagne caves, your ginger beer has made alcohol and a satisfying fizz. But champagne takes many years, yours is ready in a few weeks.

I drink mine straight, ice-cold. Some add a slug of rum. The coolest option, my fashionable friends tell me, is in a gin cocktail.

However you take it, sit down on The Day. Drink a health to yourself, me and the Morning Star.

If you are thinking you need to give me a present in return send a donation to Keith Stoddart at the Fighting Fund — tell him it’s from you and Frosty.  That will just make my Christmas.

Cheers!