So another fine year draws to its inevitable close. New Year’s Eve. And with it the obvious need and desire to work out whether this year past was a good one, whether improvements need to be made to ensure next year might be made even better. Changes to lifestyle, to diet, to plans and aspirations.

Naaaah; fuck dat, BRING US ANUVVER RUM’N’COKE, JAMAAL, AND PLENTY ICE.

There’s always been an unnecessary importance placed on New Years. As if it, and it alone, of the 365 days each year, has the power to change, influence and somehow affect the gods, the stars, your fortune, in a way the others lack. Just because you get more drunk, stay up later, watch a few fireworks, throw up and almost guarantee that the first day of the new, exiting, pulsating, filled with unknown promise, new year starts with a hangover and the mother of all headaches.

Even as a teen I felt unduly pressurised by the whole ‘new years’ thing. That it had to be the best, most exiting, most wonderful evening, filled with fun and friends and snogging and fun and more fun. Otherwise you might just as well not bother with the next 364 days, they’d be written off.

No longer. If we’re in bed by 11 tonight then so much the better. Who cares? Don’t like to be a killjoy but it is what it is. I may stay up a bit later and listen to the reggae band, or watch the fire-eaters, see a few fireworks. But I may not.

I’ve actually managed to upload a photo today. Is there no limit to my technical brilliance? And its a good one. I paid those two pelicans for their guest appearance in my sunset. Pleased to say they didn’t let me down.

So anyway, Happy New Years to everybody. 2016 is just about to begin.

A xxxx