New Year. The Anthology

And so like a new book of short stories, we lick our fingers, turn the page and tomorrow is all kinds of wonder. 2019, the Musical. Carl 2.0. Except nobody will take broken products back for a refund, and turning things on and off again doesn’t ALWAYS work. Trump and Brexit – they’re not the problem. We are their parents. They are just the poster children for dissent and division. Nuance, debate and listening have been taken into care in a for-profit private home that has failed it’s inspections, but still turns a profit. Turning a trick at the taxpayers expense. Trump and Brexit, the illegally hunted fox-fur coats, to humanities self-loathing no knickers. A developed world searching for relevance and liberalism.in the bargain bins of populism. All the filters in the world are going to have trouble making 2019’s selfie look pretty. But, hey. There are still seams of smart, pockets of resistence and resilience in the under funded rubble. Coal begets diamonds. So a shout out to all those who have kissed my grazed knees, scolded appropriately my weary schism, loved, laughed and ranted with over the past year. Thanks for your love and support. We had fun didn’t we ? I hope I reciprocated. Maybe kindness is our go to; is all we have. Heathy mocking of societies predlictions is our defence mechanism de jour. If so then lets redouble our efforts in 2019. Be a little bit nicer, more understanding. If not of ourselves ( I mean, miracles ? ) but of other people. Love. Consensual hugs. See you beautiful fuckers on the flip side xx

2018

Remember how everyone piled on 2016, hated it, wedgied it, it’s idiocy, it’s killing of talent ? Well 2017 was it’s brother and he came looking for us. Swiping broflakes and liberals alike, kicking rationale in the genitals, allowing our health, education, depression, gender to be sent for landfill, …the burning of the inanities in reverse. Nuance, doubt, growth – weaknesses. Emotion beat evidence at arm wrestling and the result was binding. Eastern Europe lurches to the right like a first day sailor. And freedom ? Reinvented as a 10 year olds whim to watch ten hours or Rick and Morty at 4 a.m. Woah stick it to the man. Just let us get on with being a fluffer for billionaires, empty lap dancers for media owners.and turn a blind eye to democracy being duffed up in an alley.
My American friends, I feel your pain. We have the same stuff going on just with a Bowler Hat to make it seem decent.
Soooo. 2018 will probably not be an improvement in the wide scheme of things. As James O’Brien forecasts forelock-tugging will be weaponised and passed off, as patriotism. It’s the only way to create an environment where people trust the words of Governments more than the evidence of their own eyes, the emptiness of their own bellies and their giving up on dreaming.
We can only look to ourselves. I’ll try and be good. Loyal. Practical. Charitable. Fight injustice. Maybe I won’t smack myself around if I fail this year; kick that John of Arc streak once and for all. I’m lucky. Two great kids. Great dog. A coterie of friends I adore. I hope they get to suffer less, laugh more and fight for what’s right. January I spend in an emotional, dank basement …but here’s to a New Year, and I wish you all …everything you fucking deserve ! xx

2017

Remember how everyone piled on 2016, hated it, wedgied it, it’s idiocy, it’s killing of talent ? Well 2017 was it’s brother and he came looking for us. Swiping broflakes and liberals alike, kicking rationale in the genitals, allowing our health, education, depression, gender to be sent for landfill, …the burning of the inanities in reverse. Nuance, doubt, growth – weaknesses. Emotion beat evidence at arm wrestling and the result was binding. Eastern Europe lurches to the right like a first day sailor. And freedom ? Reinvented as a 10 year olds whim to watch ten hours or Rick and Morty at 4 a.m. Woah stick it to the man. Just let us get on with being a fluffer for billionaires, empty lap dancers for media owners.and turn a blind eye to democracy being duffed up in an alley.
My American friends, I feel your pain. We have the same stuff going on just with a Bowler Hat to make it seem decent.
Soooo. 2018 will probably not be an improvement in the wide scheme of things. As James O’Brien forecasts forelock-tugging will be weaponised and passed off, as patriotism. It’s the only way to create an environment where people trust the words of Governments more than the evidence of their own eyes, the emptiness of their own bellies and their giving up on dreaming.
We can only look to ourselves. I’ll try and be good. Loyal. Practical. Charitable. Fight injustice. Maybe I won’t smack myself around if I fail this year; kick that John of Arc streak once and for all. I’m lucky. Two great kids. Great dog. A coterie of friends I adore. I hope they get to suffer less, laugh more and fight for what’s right. January I spend in an emotional, dank basement …but here’s to a New Year, and I wish you all …everything you fucking deserve ! xx
And choose your quote for the year….
Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering ‘it will be happier’…”Tennyson
Or
We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us. Charles Bukowski

2016 death of talent conspicuous. Knee-jerk politics ridiculous. Not the death of hope but maybe I’ve turned down the thermometer on optimism. Millions wanting safety, succour, a fucking cuddle. A reason to fucking believe. In something. What do we get ? The return of snake oil salesmen. (Snake Oil: read instructions carefully…). The tooth fairy left a dime, but hacked our phones and stole our underwear. For me it was like being hit by a juggernaut; Bruised. Nails chipped. A ladder in my stockings…but whadyagonnado. 2017 reapplies lipstick, puts on the game face. Maybe I gotta be better. Certainly we gotta play smarter, instead of rolling around in our own contempt for everything. I’m lucky. I got you fuckers in my orbit. People I can touch with a bargepole. My own survival kit. Thanks everyone. I would love to get to see all of you once this year. It is unlikely. I wish you all a year you can take pleasure in. Happy New One. Big love and see you on the flip side. Que vengan los buenos yiempos. xx

2015

Well. It’s the precipice of possibility, or at least a date symbolic of it. I wish you all whatever you wish for yourselves, because my judgement of your desires does not exist. Most of you have cried with me, laughed with me, certainly drunk with me. Some saved me, some a comforting textual presence on here and some tied me in a sack and threw me into hell, which I asked for ! I like most of you because…we share some fucked compass morality. And despite a tendency for cynicism, we still give the same shit a go…not out of dumbness, but out of belief that things will be better. Go do whatever it is that makes you gasp in awe. For me, 2015 was an imposter. A disgrace. It mocked humanity and history, and left my eyes raw. Embrace and Enjoy 2016. I feel good about it. Lets make our tiny worlds better. Our paths will cross I suspect xxxx.

2014

2014 ? 2015 ? For me it’s a little ‘meet the new boss, same as the old boss’. Life change rarely comes with the paper-cut flick to a calendered kitten in a bowler hat. Sadly it appears down to the tricky coupling of action and fate. However for those I know have had a difficult year, I hope 2015 brings with it a change of fortune. For those that have supported, or even encouraged, me with my crazy-ass shit..thank you. It is, of course, always appreciated and hopefully reciprocated. To the collection of other friends; my life is probably better with you in it ! I hope our paths cross physically, telepathically or even with just the liking of a picture of a cat in a bowler hat, an empathic message on a troubled post or a nod to a political rant. Have a fucking great New Year. Big Hug, handshakes or kisses…whatever your preference. See you all soon xxx

2013

Twain said New Year’s is a harmless annual institution, of no particular use to anybody save as a scapegoat for promiscuous drunks, and friendly calls and humbug resolutions. All three are fine in my book, so to those that indulge, let them enjoy. May we all find serenity or chaos – whichever we prefer. Happy New Year to everyone. Let’s be good to each other xx

2012

The nuts and bolts of four weeks of emotional disorder limp to an end. Missing my father’s funeral due to a chaotic rail service was not an appropriate end to a relationship that was more than ‘it’s complicated'( or was it ) … and to see how quickly remembrance flowers make their way into parking spot 6a was ‘chastening’. I haven’t quite taken it all in. My brother is out of hospital however and convalescing. He will return to greater glories. I shall enjoy them. Me ? I’m a human dot-to-dot, functioning on memory and instinct, my HB blunt. I’ll reintegrate, I guess. The superficiality of advertising, it’s nudge-wink reminders of what I should have to make me ‘happy’ has thoroughly got on my last nerve during this time. Maybe I’m in the angry phase. It’s my default x Or maybe I’m just three stops past Tired on a line that Beeching condemned years back. I’ve made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, and moulding my life, is too much of a daily event for now. However thanks to all that have given their support to greater (yeah, we know the roll-call ) or lesser degrees, and here’s my stab at wishing you all a Happy 2013 – may it be your versions of fucking perfect xxxx

We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives… not looking for flaws, but for potential.” Have a good one everyone…hope to see you on the other side… xx

 

 

 

 

 

And dancing with January is…Suicide.

January.

30 days have September April June and November, all the rest have… except January. A 68 day suicide watch shoe-horned into 31 days. A calendar fonted in misery. A month of hacking coughs, a lack of places to put three pairs of new slippers and a slough of broken resolutions. A month that grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you, screaming “why-are-you-here”.

Pilot once sang a song about it…”You make me sad with your eyes you’re telling me lies…don’t go, don’t go…” A low point in vinyl; a lower point in sentiment. I always thought they were referring to a girl named January …please Pilot fans, enlighten me. If so, then she must have been the grimmest of the calendar girls. Death’s Cheerleader. And parents what were you thinking ? Wasn’t June enough ? May ?!

Every year, every fibre of my being is shouting “January …Fuck Off.” From the spectacle of shops waving your pre-Christmas purchases at half price…. to bills put off from the last three months, nobody being able to afford to go out and the panoply of grey outside the window. And you know the mild weather has got the rat population’s libido working overtime, knocking out broods by the dozen. They’ll be out of post-conjugal cigars by the end of the week and ready to find somehwere warm to call home.

What about the positives ? The chance to start anew…put the old year behind us ? I see an arbitrary Gregorian monthiness, a mask for vile weather. I struggle to peer out of bed, if only to catch the eye of self annihilation. Too many ghosts and not enough angels. A Facebook purge ? They are paying the price of January as much as anything, that and a lack of a Happy Christmas Carl. Which stops me wandering the streets, kicking tramps money over and being spiteful.

Other months are brushed with glitter, sprinkled with the faint sheen of hope….February, just the sight of a crocus has me gasping for air in wonder, in expectation. Unexpected warmth in May, planning of summer days, lighter mornings. The showy, mid-year months speak for themselves with their sweat glistened, colour-ridden showiness, but even October’s spells of crazy leaf dervish, brittle frosty sun and early morning white-crunch grass has moments to recall. 

I used to love “January …The Snow Years”. Scarf weather, “Wrap up warm” from your mum. Wet gloved from snowman building. Icy. Slipping. Danger. Now I feel it’s purpose is only to fluff misanthropy, snuggle-buddy depression and write love letters to self loathing – who hates that shit.