Within a matter of just a few weeks, the time will be upon us to usher you out of our lives. Just as we did last year, we will replace the empty void with a brand new year - but this time around we are doing it with a feeling of suspicion and fear, hitherto never experienced by my ageing generation.
You turned up to the party last year, just as we were waving 2015 out of the door. We joyously popped open those champagne bottles and acted like demented Formula 1 champions on the winner’s podium, covering our faces and your boobies in bubbly - totally unaware of your resentment toward the human race and the well-being of the planet.
Within days, your anger and raison d’être started to manifest itself. You began your demolition by blindly killing off some of our most beloved musicians actors and celebrities. Slowly and methodically, you picked off the greats. One by one. A carnage meant to disarm us and steal the very arts that made us human. A virtual book-burning that was to herald your true aims of a Nazi rebirth.
With the aid of your loyal right-wing, multi-billionaire servants, their tabloids and well-oiled propaganda machines (now given the more facile moniker of “Fake News”, as those suckered in by such drivel generally can’t manage more than four letters in a word at a time), you were able to extract Britain from the EU and install the greatest divide across our country, Union and Europe since World War II. You gave Boris Johnson a big boy’s job and then you set him and Nigel Farage on an absurd world trip, making the global populous believe they somehow represented British people with their non-sensical, seemingly drunken and insane waffle. For that alone, you deserve a massive punch in your suppurating gonads. Apparently, hereafter to be referred to as your “Red, White and Blue Brexits".
Then after all that - you casually walked into the centre of the room - whilst we all stared, aghast at the audacity you showed by still being at the party - you pulled down your lavishly soiled underpants, crouched to the floor, smirked maniacally and defecated the world’s most hideous, repugnant, massively steaming, straw-topped Donald Turd on all of us. Then you heartily laughed, handed him Time Person of the Year award, a Twitter account and tried to high-five 2017 (who I am sure, by the vibes I’m getting, is standing at the door, sweatily texting 2018 with “WTF brah!? Why didn’t anyone tell me about this shit??!? BTW - tell 2019 and the rest of the gang that climate change is really happening this time - full steam ahead; 2015 must have lied or 2016 SERIOUSLY screwed up! OMG, WTF, BBQ etc!”).
You sir, yes you sir, gave an unrepentant and powerful voice to the grotesquely angry, the bemusedly malcontented and the outlandishly stupid. You gave massive rise to racism, homophobia, bigotry, misogyny, ignorance and a blanket intolerance to anything different. Let’s not forget you beat up, raped and killed a lot more people along the way. You normalised fascism and washed clean the sheets of the Ku Klux Klan, just in time for their Christmas lynchings. In your one year’s tenure, you basically threw a nuclear hand grenade in the room and walked off, washing your hands as if nothing had happened. Yes, a bit like the Brexshit Vote Leave camp.
2016, you fucked up so very monumentally, it would take all of the world’s stonemasons and artists (both alive and dead) over two thousand years to build and furnish a monument that would suitably honour your massive fuck up; after of course all of them conceding that there wasn’t enough basic building material on earth to finish said monument - meaning the majority of the fuck-up tribute would need to rely on modern art techniques and the use of the general public’s collective fucked-up monument imagination.
So, it is with a stoic, stiff upper lip that I open the door widely and lean in to your ear and whisper softly, yet firmly (just as many people have done to me in my lifetime) “You’ve upset enough people now. I think it’s time you left”.
Your friend, 2017, is too close to you for the coming New Year celebrations to be as much of a party as we have generally been used to but, being the generous and gracious people we are, we will of course get utterly shit-faced and attempt to make him or her feel welcome.
You and I won’t say farewell. You will walk away silently into the night. You will not collect your things and you will not say goodbye to any of your colleagues. You will leave knowing that the damage to our friendship is irreparable and you are hated by most of the educated planet (those of whom are currently not going crazy with the newly revived fads of pussy grabbing and Nazi salutes).
This time around, I won’t make any New Years’ resolutions, because you don’t deserve the attention. In fact, I’m going to smoke harder, take drugs faster, drink more deeply, eat more pies and do absolutely nothing to help myself get any better than I was during your short but sorry reign - because you’re a dick and I need to get my happy back on!
2017, come in, take a seat in the corner while we boot out 2016. We’ll be over presently to discuss your terms and the newly imposed limitations on the duties and responsibilities New Years may take on.
My final words to you, 2016, are that I trust you will spend your remaining days mulling on what you have done and not, as I suspect you will, pull down the collective human race’s pants and give us all one last, right royal shafting for Auld Lang Syne.
Goodbye 2016, I hope we never meet again.
1972 to undecided (but it’s not looking good).