Every other arsehole seems to be jumping on this sort of “blogging” bandwagon now, so, given that it’s a new year, I suppose I should, too. Only for as long as they keep the service, free, though - I wouldn’t pay good money for it – and only for as long as it doesn’t get boring. For me, that is; I couldn’t give a fuck what it does for anyone else.

Anyhow, I spent New Year’s Eve in and around my brother’s place at Cadmore End, just outside Marlow. To help get through the evening, I cooked an organic free-range chicken, purchased on Tuesday from an apparently equally organic (and maybe free-range, himself) butcher in West Wycombe. The meal was accompanied by Chablis, Chardonnay, innumerable gin and tonics, and what I was informed (though not by Churchill himself) was Churchill’s favourite brand of Champagne. The combination was almost enough to dull the effects of the crappy television and the national disgrace that constituted London’s £l million worth of fireworks (most of it spent on the conceptualisation and administration, presumably, because I’ve produced more spectacular results myself from a box of Brock’s bought down at the newsagent). Whatever, bed followed the chimes at around 12.30 pm.

As for today, it was the usual shitty 1st of January aftermath. First thing, I chased a grouse out of my brother’s front garden lest the cat be tempted. Minutes later, sounds of gunshots were heard from the neighbouring field. Possibly the two events were related. Whatever, after this, and after breakfast, I took a combination of trains and tubes home. Not uneventful. Several people who really ought to have been wandering around drunk last night or in the early hours of this morning had decided, instead, to put it off until this lunch time. And there seemed to be a general consensus amongst them that the best place in which to get raucous afterwards was my carriage. Various “You’re my pal” and “Are you fuckin' lookin' at me?” conversations were initiated.

God, I hate this fucking time of year when the decorations are still up but it’s perfectly, absolutely evident that all the celebrations are well and truly over.