There’s really not much I want to say about 2020. There’s not much I need to say about it. It has been, without doubt, the worst year I can remember (and I can remember, very clearly, the rollicking twelve month period in which I moved house, lost a parent and was confined to a wheelchair after a hit and run - this year, hands down, takes the soggy digestive). I think it behoves us all to look forward, instead, to the year ahead.
That’s going to be bollocks as well, isn’t it?
Oh well. Maybe 2022 will be a little better. Time will tell. In the meantime, try and have a Merry Christmas. I know it’s not the same this year, and grandma probably doesn’t know how to turn her webcam on, but Prosecco’s still free of the import tax it’ll be slapped with in the new year, alongside every other foreign product entering the former United Kingdom in the wake of a Murdoch-engineered Brexit, so pour yourself a large one and curl up with A Christmas Carol, or Die Hard, or whatever your profane holiday tradition dictates, and try to forget the train wreck of our most recent collective journey around the sun. Perhaps Santa will bring you that vaccine.
Sincere good luck with all your endeavours in the new year, whatever they may be and whichever tier you find yourself hostage within.
And Happy Christmas, one and all.
Paul
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