Whilst not blogging, I found myself reverting to that other, traditional, way to vent one's spleen or crack a joke: write to the papers. My modest harvest has been three letters in the Telegraph and another in the Spectator.
2012, however, will be different. Weekly it will be, unless there are no comments. I read a few blogs where no one ever comments but it must be a bit soul-destroying for the poor wretched blogger searching for approbation and cyber friendship and getting fuckall in return.
An update:
Drummer is 7 months old tomorrow. Stops and sits on a short peep of the whistle; sits and stays for ever until called, even as one disappears from view; walks to heel; retrieves to the hand with a soft mouth; starts dummy training properly next week, with directional hand signals; is a perfect pest about wanting to go outside/come inside every five minutes during dark and wet winter evenings.
Am reading Hitch 22. I regretted his death and read all those miles of printed column about him in the days afterwards. Has a just-dead journalist ever prompted so many of his own profession to blog about their friendship with the Great Man immediately?
Am preparing for Cameron to let me down over Europe. Prove me wrong, please.
Turned 50 in November. Just 110 of my closest friends, sat down. Caterers charged like wounded rhino, ruinously expensive. Thank heavens the good old Commander Idle dipped into the cellar and provided shampoo and claret in enough quantity. Willie Austen and his band rocked the joint until 2am. That brilliant party planner Lady Idle and the Idle Girls dazzled all. Memorable stuff.
Walking the line between idleness and salaried employment with enough dexterity to have retained my job in the Incredible Shrinking Banking World.
Forecast for the year ahead:
Euro will blow up in March; Sarko will lose the presidency to a socialist no one has ever heard of, who will beat Marine le Pen by less than 5% of the (low turn out) popular vote in the run off;
Much worse UK economy until 3rd Quarter, which will presumably cause the incompetent self-regarding Olympic organising clowns to claim that they saved the economy. They will be wrong, but believed. Hidden cost of Olympics will eventually come out and the bill will be more than 20 billion;
Vince Cable will collapse under the weight of his own contradictions and resign from the Cabinet. Ed the Adenoid will woo him to Labour, he will prevaricate but then accept, will lose his seat at the next election, and disappear from public view, except in pantomime season;
'Mike' Tindall will be persuaded to wear black leather shoes whilst wearing a suit in the presence of Her Majesty. But he and his wife will call their first-born Troy, or Chantelle;
Imran Khan will be seen as the last hope for Pakistan, or a failed state will ensue, much much worse than the North Koreans or Somalis could ever be;
Kauto Star will win the Cheltenham Gold Cup and be retired as the most popular racehorse of modern times.
A happy new year to anyone who reads this rhubarb.
