Barely 12 hours to go before another new year rolls around, predictably enough coming almost 366 days after the last one. Another year of floods in the summer, partisan punch-ups in Parliament and Ant and fucking Dec to look forward to.
Doubtless there will be something new to make the year seem less monotonous than it actually is, I've got my money on Simon Cowell finally disappearing up his own arsehole and the discovery that in an ironic twist of fate Richard Dawkins is actually God and Christopher Hitchins his son, Our Lord and Saviour. In my later years (I'll be 23 this June), every annum blurs in to another and the same resolutions are rehashed and promptly forgotten by 2nd January: keep (or more recently, start getting) fit, eat less white chocolate and study harder. My nan has given me a bit of help with that second one by buying me a giant bar of White Toblerone for Christmas. By the time I'd cleared the tenth summit (and what an unnatural bloody shape for a chocolate bar. At what point did its creators decide a giant triangle could fit inside an oval shaped mouth?), my shaking hands and heart palpitations were telling me something in my life had to change. It was either going to be false teeth and a personal crash cart on standby round the clock, or a cocoa-free diet. I'm sure I'll be writing about how I made the wrong decision and we have to make sacrifices for chocolate in February (probably from a hospital bed), but for now, I'm giving it a go.
The actual event of new years, watching the clock strike twelve, have always been a bit of a damp squib for me (although not as much as it has been for poor Mike Rouse). The only time I've ever honestly enjoyed it was (and this, rarely for the FFS It's Monday column, is true) Millennium Eve, when I stood in Trafalgar Square, aged just 14, surrounded by drunks and City chinless wonders off their face on cocaine, screaming "Happy New Year", before turning to watch the Thames River fireworks. I haven't lost hope since then that I could have another new years as magical as that one and so there I'll be at 11.59 tonight, stuck in a room with fifty people I either despise or care so little about I wouldn't weep for if they crashed in a Paris underpass, crossing my arms and hoping my hands are infected with a highly contagious form of foot and mouth, singing Auld Lang Syne and wondering why I'm missing Jools Holland's Hootenanny for this.
Hope you have a great new year.