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!

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.

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.

Awaiting Spring-break.

Awaiting Spring-break. John Mills dies. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Told you I'd win.

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.

No thank you, I've just had a cup.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Lichfield's dead. That only leaves me and Bill Deedes. That money's mine for sure.

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?

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