Darlings, it’s been too long. Like air kisses, sex and the TV programme Knightmare, I miss you.

I’ve had an absolute SHITFUCK NIGHTMARE of a year. I asked 2013 to do one thing for me – one fricking thing – and it failed spectacularly, and with about as much grace as an all out gangbang in a pool of custard.

“Just don’t be shit,” I asked the New Year as nicely as I could, “that’s all you have to do.”
“Sure, sure,” muttered 2013 looking in its pockets for some Rizla, “I think those pills I bought were a bit funny. I’m starting to feel a bit sick. Have we run out of vodka?”

Brilliant. Slow handclap to the first four dumbass months. If I sound as if I’m pissy then you’re right, I am. You hear that? That’s me scraping the goodwill barrel only to find it’s full of shit.
At the moment my fortunes seem to be in the hands of a bunch of clowns who run around in a wobbly wheeled car on which the doors fall off carrying an unfeasibly long ladder and honking a comedy horn. One of them is currently racing about with a bucket of whitewash and oh no! He’s going to step on that perilously positioned rake on the ground and doh! Right in the kisser!

You’re laughing* but he’s in charge of my finances. You should see who’s looking after my love life. Old Ronald fucking McDonald over there.


Yeah, I know. Lighten up. This could all be worse. I’ve just ingested nine Jaffa Cakes and for some people that’s nirvana, right? For most normal people that is. Some freaks will eat Wagon Wheels but I’ve stopped thinking about those perverts.

It will get better. I’m about to embark on a beginning so new and exciting that I’m actually shivering with anticipation. I’ve written a book. I’ve got awesome legs. I didn’t get that Ren and Stimpy tattoo off that drunk tattooist when I was fifteen. I’m in the enviable position of having no regrets and only good things to look forward to. Let me lose the clowns and I’ll be halfway there.

I just need the rest of the year to fix up and look sharp. It can still be done 2013, it can still be redeemed. Just straighten the hell up and take your hands out of your pockets when I’m talking to you, you feckless wastrel.

*you aren’t, I know that, but humour me okay?