How’s the hangover? I said how’s the hangover? 2018 was a bit of a shitter for lots of us and you might be carrying some of last year’s energy into this year along with the alcohol load your liver is clearing today. I’d like to make clear that I feel a little better about everything today than my biscuits do. My biscuits have been beaten up on the way to the plate, poor things.
We have passed that arbitrary moment time again and taking stock and making plans is more or less unavoidable. I’m using it as a cynical excuse for writing a few hundred words and getting at least a couple of dozen of you to read this nonsense. I’m no different from everyone else out there except I’m not trying to flog you anything. Not even biscuits.
For all the utter shite that landed on our heads and spilled onto our laps in 2018 – and there were Imperial fucktons of that, God knows – we had passing moments of joy. Sometimes it’s enough. It has to be enough; it’s all we have.
This is a bit bleak, even with the biscuits. It’s dreadful if your diet has already started and you can’t have biscuits. Me? I’ve eaten all the chocolate but there’s still the best part of an entire box of biscuits and a whole panettone in the kitchen. A whole very good panettone. And a bag of amaretti. And some of the biscuits Anne made in the week before Christmas. Were it not for the arbitrary moment in time this would just be an opportunity for a major diabetic crisis and not a character flaw.
I hope that 2019 is kind to us. It might be more practical to wish that we can be kinder to one another but there’s Brexit happening this year and that shit is awful. I’m going to have to remember that some of its proponents are human a few of them might have once had feelings too.
I’m getting it out of my system while I can.
Happy New Year, peeps. It could be considerably worse.