I fucking hate New Year’s Eve. I’ve just swallowed enough tranqs and narcs to stun an ox in the hope of sleeping through the pissheads and fireworks. That, my friends, is the only way to see in a new year.
Especially one that will bring us tiny-handed President Drumpf in 20 days’ time. Party on, people. It might be the last chance you get before this fucking stupid species annihilates itself.
And I certainly don’t do resolutions. Fucking stupid idea.
So here are mine for 2017:
- Learn some Swedish. I was trying to think which foreign country I’d like to move to and hide under a bed. It’s New Zealand or Sweden. And I already speak New Zealandish.
- Publish Let The Hard Times Roll and raise £2,000+ for the charities. This, however, will almost certainly involve selling a kidney.
- Publish Something Changed without losing money, and try to avoid a libel claim as a consequence.
- End 2017 with less mass than which I enter it. Well, it would make a fucking pleasant change.
- End 2017 with marginally more money than which I enter it. That would be fucking miraculous.
- Use the word “fuck” as often as possible.
Let’s do this, fuckers.