January is the cruellest month. Every January people make great expectations of improved fitness, high hopes of greater prosperity and laudable aims of extinguishing vices and nurturing the buds of happiness. Why? Soon you will have wasted money on a gym you resent and avoid like an ex-fiance, money you sorely needed because your boss is making belt tightening noises and the only consolation is that you can save money on belts because you have to inhale to fit into your trousers. Those buds of happiness are frozen by a cold snap that lasts just long enough for your boiler to explode and it will be the height of Summer before anyone can find a part to fix it. Where do they keep all these boiler parts, does Siberia have them all, are they holding out on us, are they made from metals only found in the Earth's core.
We all have high hopes for the new year born mainly out of our need to escape from the cold pit of reality we have just crawled through otherwise known as Christmas with the in-laws. The arbitrary division we make between one year and the next is an opportunity for yet more disappointment, alcoholism and self-loathing. Which is why it actually suits me to the ground. So in the belated spirit of what I like to call the suicide season let me be the last to wish you a happy new year. You have lived long enough to see another decade raise the spectre of its zeitgeist and win or lose in the year to come you can say with a glass aloft for the sake of the only true success being alive affords; 'I was there.'
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