Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Goodballoon's review of 2005
Well! What a year! What a gay old time! What a lot of exclamation marks! Blah-de-blah!
January:
Relieved that 2004 was over with for another eternity, I found my way to the Congo where I did what I could to help the local economy. The so-called "blood diamonds" I bought sold for quite a pretty penny. Enjoy them, Your Majesty.
February:
The winter days drag on and I find myself with little to do but revel in memories of past derring-do and brief encounters with sandy-haired boys and heavy-breasted young ladies. I then remember that I am a predatory millionaire with virtually no scruples and immediately book myself a ticket to California and await spring-break. Whatever that is. I also have Hunter S. Thompson killed for being annoying.
March:
Awaiting Spring-break.
April:
Awaiting Spring-break. John Mills dies. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Told you I'd win.
May:
Return to London somewhat depressed. Receive a letter from my solicitors informing me of the Jury's decision in the Niven family's case against me. I have the dog neutered as a mark of my anger. Not my dog, obviously.
June:
No thank you, I've just had a cup.
July:
Live8, G8, Olympic fever and the London bombings: you'd think it impossible to miss through that lot, wouldn't you? I must start reading the papers more.
August:
An invite to holiday with the Blairs arrives in the post and who am I to say no? I pop in Harvey Nicks to buy some trunks when I am confronted by the most horrendous sight. It is my penis and the last time I saw it without an adolescent or a nurse attached to it I was the brighter side of fifty. Urgh!
September:
Mists of mellow fruitfulness and all that. Mick Jagger pops in to show me his new dueling scar. Is it me or does he look ill? It's me. I think it's cancer.
October:
I'm with Harold Pinter when he is informed of his Nobel Prize win. He can't believe it. I can't believe it. Pause. Silence. I cross the room and look out of the window. A knock at the door. Who can that be? Pause. It's Harold; he's locked himself out.
November:
Lichfield's dead. That only leaves me and Bill Deedes. That money's mine for sure.
December:
Another year done, another set of entirely irrelevent year in review items... can you think of anything more boring to read? I can't. Imagine being the poor bastards who have to write them. Saps!
Seeing dandruff 2005 - What's winking 2006?
January:
Relieved that 2004 was over with for another eternity, I found my way to the Congo where I did what I could to help the local economy. The so-called "blood diamonds" I bought sold for quite a pretty penny. Enjoy them, Your Majesty.
February:
The winter days drag on and I find myself with little to do but revel in memories of past derring-do and brief encounters with sandy-haired boys and heavy-breasted young ladies. I then remember that I am a predatory millionaire with virtually no scruples and immediately book myself a ticket to California and await spring-break. Whatever that is. I also have Hunter S. Thompson killed for being annoying.
March:
Awaiting Spring-break.
April:
Awaiting Spring-break. John Mills dies. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Told you I'd win.
May:
Return to London somewhat depressed. Receive a letter from my solicitors informing me of the Jury's decision in the Niven family's case against me. I have the dog neutered as a mark of my anger. Not my dog, obviously.
June:
No thank you, I've just had a cup.
July:
Live8, G8, Olympic fever and the London bombings: you'd think it impossible to miss through that lot, wouldn't you? I must start reading the papers more.
August:
An invite to holiday with the Blairs arrives in the post and who am I to say no? I pop in Harvey Nicks to buy some trunks when I am confronted by the most horrendous sight. It is my penis and the last time I saw it without an adolescent or a nurse attached to it I was the brighter side of fifty. Urgh!
September:
Mists of mellow fruitfulness and all that. Mick Jagger pops in to show me his new dueling scar. Is it me or does he look ill? It's me. I think it's cancer.
October:
I'm with Harold Pinter when he is informed of his Nobel Prize win. He can't believe it. I can't believe it. Pause. Silence. I cross the room and look out of the window. A knock at the door. Who can that be? Pause. It's Harold; he's locked himself out.
November:
Lichfield's dead. That only leaves me and Bill Deedes. That money's mine for sure.
December:
Another year done, another set of entirely irrelevent year in review items... can you think of anything more boring to read? I can't. Imagine being the poor bastards who have to write them. Saps!
Seeing dandruff 2005 - What's winking 2006?
