It must be that time again. The previously optimistic tendencies and assumptions that it’ll all be alright have been replaced by statements that within 12 months we’ll all be living on the street, or forced to scavenge in our neighbours toilet bowls for dinner. Everyone who was remotely famous for something that pre-dates things I can remember has spontaneously died, people are spending hours lining up to buy spare parts for things they didn’t want in the first place, and you’ve just said goodbye to a house full of people you don’t like. Yes, it’s the end of the year!
So, a review then? Well, no. Mainly because another end of year review would be about as enjoyable as stapling my eyes open, staring into the sun, and listening to Mariah Carey’s greatest hits on repeat. Also because I seem to remember doing one last year, getting bored half way through and never finishing it. Which incidentally is probably a summary of 2009 for most of us as well. Ho-ho-hoo-oooh fuck it that should have been funnier.
A look ahead then? Well, no. Because quite frankly that would mean reducing myself to the same level of the rest of the doom mongers out there who seem to have devoted their existence to making previously rational types jump off buildings and shoot their children. The thing is, while we might all be royally screwed through no fault of our own (discounting the armies of window licker's who find the notion of having to pay back their debts as something of a shock), if we spend the whole time thinking about how screwed we are, then it’s going to do us no good at all. So get up, get on with it, and just try and live your own damn lives. Next time Fiona Bruce tells you that you might want to get your spare organs valued, or Trevor McDonald mentions that your house is now worth less than a Scottish man’s underpants, tell them to sod off, stick on a copy of Die Hard 4 and yippee Kay-aye yourself into delusions that you could save the world single handed. In short, yes it is shit, but it’ll be a whole lot better if you worry about getting on with it rather than spend the next 12 months working out the earning potential of your 14 year old daughter for one night in Soho.