Tuesday, 8 January 2013

Happy New Year!

So, I’m guessing that everyone is now a trim size 8, and that those old jeans now just slink down to your ankles to the sound of a slide-whistle from cartoons whenever you put them on (revealing comedy white boxer shorts with red love-hearts all over them)? Oh, and well done for quitting smoking too! And what’s that you say? You’ve not touched a drop of alcohol since the 2nd of January either? Gosh, you *are* a model of perfection. Cripes, I wish I had your determination, steely willpower and all-round lack of personality.

But then, I seem to have this weird streak running through me known as “rational thought” – whereby I KNOW that if I say, on January the 1st, I won’t drink for a month that within 16 minutes I’ll be on my hands and knees rummaging through the cupboard under the sink looking for either white spirit or Dettol to add tonic water and a slice of lemon to if there’s no booze around –like Father Jack, or Eddie from Bottom.

And despite the fact I have Tom Daley’s calendar hung up in my room and he watches over every handful of Ferrero Rochers that I stockpile into my mouth, like some kind of soggy Big Brother from 1984 were it illustrated by Pierre et Gilles, I am never going to join a gym because HE IS AN OLYMPIC FUCKING ATHLETE and I make 7-foot-long beanbag sculptures in the shape of cocks as a profession. I have it within me to quietly accept that my body is never going to look like I’ve just swallowed a Victorian washboard, and instead bears a greater affinity with a mangle.

But it’s not just the resolutions that are PVA-glued onto the start of a new year that baffle me – it’s the whole shindig in general. What exactly are people celebrating? Does it not occur to people that - whether we assign names and dates to days, and calendars of kittens in baskets to years – time is going to go on anyway?! You may as well just holler “Happy New Passing-of-a-Minute!!” to people you don’t care about at 00:00am each night before joining crossed hands with some clammy-palmed pervert in a pub and wailing “May all acquaintance be forgot, and der-der-DERRRRR-der MIIIIIIND”. I mean – WHO ACTUALLY FINDS THIS SHIT FUN?

The alternative form of celebration that I annually participate in for New Year’s Eve is simple: bed before midnight, phone switched off and try not to be woken up by fireworks. SIMPLE. I once broke this rule – but that was only because I was hungry and REALLY wanted houmous... we had none, and so I went downstairs and was pouring chickpeas and lemon etc. into a blender when we crossed from one year to the next. The houmous was shit, and the year was shitter.

Stop fooling yourselves, boys and girls. You’re never gonna lose a stone (and why do you want to anyway?! Put ON a stone, I say), you’re never gonna quit your job and take a course in something new and you’re never gonna find “the one” (this year or any year for that matter). My advice would be to continue to puff on 40 fags a day (and if you don’t already, then start), buy at least one cream cake a day and time how long it takes you to eat it (trying to reduce this time with each day that goes on), swear more often, pinch your partner in their sleep and then pretend to be asleep yourself, and have sex with strangers. That irate bollock Duncan Bannatyne ain’t likely to post any leaflets for his gym saying things like THAT through your front door.

- Charlie

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