The Aftermath

And so the Christmas juggernaut crashes headlong towards its nemesis, New Year's Eve. Millions of innocent sprouts have been slaughtered, the turkey has been rendered extinct and grandfathers up and down the land have released giant, Christmas-sized farts of appreciation. Men stride the Earth this day adorned in new underpants, greedy children bask in their spoils, and women try to figure out why the occasion of Christmas means they have to have so much more sex than they'd usually agree to. Across this green and unpleasant land, the twisted wrecks of a thousand souped-up hatchbacks herald the start of the joyriding season as an army of under-educated children turn Britain's roads into the world's largest race-track. Too many bad films have been watched, too many bad television programmes have been consumed, and the likes of Bruce Forsyth, Ronnie Corbett, Simon Cowell and that little Irish midget off of X Factor have recieved their thirty pieces of silver. Families have renewed their vows of hatred, Black and Decker are laughing all the way to the bank, and the drink-swilling paedophilliac department store Santa is back down the Labour Exchange, where he belongs.

The only thing we can look forward to now (before we stare into the abyss that is another year's worth of work) is getting so drunk we forget our own names. Here's to New Year's Eve - that vomit-spattered celebration of the ultimate turning point in all our lives ... January the First! Huzzah!