Happy frickin' noo year, you douchebags!
What ho, my virtual interweb chums, we meet again, what? I must admit, it seems like years since I saw you last.
I am, of course, being amusing. January, and the new year it spearheads, is upon us like a slavering tiger getting upside a native bearer in far-off India. I don't know if it is just me, but the year 2006 seems particularly unglamorous and charmless. Whether it is the number itself, possessing no significance or novelty, or possibly because I have become jaded and cynical with the passage of time, I don't know.
All I can say is that the prospect of 2006 fills me with indifference.
This isn't to say that life is all fly and no ointment at the moment. There are, it must be said, little things that make life worth living.
The crisp crunch of fresh, clean snow under one's boots; injury time equalisers in local derby football matches; the first glass of Bordeaux wine in the morning while the breakfast bacon sizzles on the griddle; the new Belle and Sebastian album; gorging like a pig on Danish butter cookies; pouring oneself a foaming hand shandy while watching a pretty presenter on Sky Sports News.
Jim, I think his name is, Scotch lad, you know the one I mean, the little tart.
These are all hip and dudey in their way. I like them, I think they're good.
However, they must all bend the knee and salute the majesty of gadding about the place wearing a black, Fidel Castro-style hat.
You may be familiar with the work of the good people at H & M. They sell reasonably-priced, voguish clothing to the beautiful person on a budget. Their premises are always worth a visit if you wish to observe what my coarse friends might describe as "tidy boilers" or "dolly birds" browsing for low-cut tops and chi chi accessories.
Mostly though, they don't cater for the fat bastard end of the market.
If I am to be honest with you, this is the only end of the market I go to. You could go so far as to say there is a court-sanctioned ASBO requiring me to keep away from the other end of the market, owing to a misunderstanding regarding a lost contact lens and a changing booth.
A sordid business.
Anyhow, we have strayed. In the shell of a nut, the only section of H & M's modish wares I can fully participate in is the headwear section. And participate I jolly well did. For a trifling sum, I walked away with a masterpiece of the milliner's craft. So giddy with excitement was I that I asked the comely assistant to cut off the tags so I could wear it straight away.
It was purely coincidental that I was making this purchase in the company of two of my dreadful friends, having been sipping evil beer all day long.
Let me tell you, being part of a gang of fat chaps, trying on hats while drunk, in a boutique full of model types is tremendous fun, free of modern suggestiveness and filthy goings on that taint so many areas of life.
We're going buying gay shoes next month. Giddy up, eh?
Laters, me taters.