Thursday, January 10, 2013
Even the best laid plans — like the eggs of monstrous ducks destined to devour your soul — can come a cropper, it seems.
I’d intended to begin this year with a flurry of blog posts in protest at the migration of minds from habitats bloggoid to the fringe semen pools of social media frippery, but a bizarre combination of a weirdo Son-of-Whirl all-body rash and a week-long broadband signal AWOLisation scuppered my resolve like I was Michael Phelps swimming for gold along the M1 against Mo Farah, Bradley Wiggins on a fuck off Triumph motorcycle, and Zara Phillips in a 3,575,000,000,000,000,000 horsepower rocket aerodynamically superior to a textbook erect penis.
In some ways, this is a shame. Just after New Year I ventured into the night and was struck by the final flickers of the few remaining 12th night Christmas lights — a spectacle which might have made an excellent post about heralds, hope and Henormous Santae the following day but is next to useless now we’re all taken up with shopping online for summer bikinis. I also videoed myself playing Monopoly against a cheese sandwich, but that’s another story.
To be honest, I’m just glad to get back to normal...