It had been my intention to write a New Year post riddled with complaint.

A cynical diatribe about the illusions of time passing, prompted by ludicrous headline assertions such as there only being “24 hours left to stop America falling off a fiscal cliff”, a ludicrous arbitrary line in the imaginary sand at the base of a metaphorical promontory.

I had been irked by billboard adverts, following the moustachio’d lead of “Movember”, for “Dryathlon”, in which one avoids alcohol in January to benefit Cancer Research UK, or “Rock up in red”, wearing red clothing to raise money for the British Heart Foundation in February. Far from putting the fun into fundraising, these seemed terrible contrivances, reminding me of Starbucks’s Christmas “Red cups” faux-tradition. Indicative of some vindictive demiurge’s efforts to box us into a tightly-controlled calendar of ever-drearier predictability. Round and round, locked in.

On the Hogmanay broadcasts, there was a couple interviewed by the BBC at the riverside in London. They had made a special effort to get to the barrier, having witnessed it all from the back of the crush in 2011. Returned for their moment in the front row. In front of a forest of arms bearing digital cameras and phones recording, the ubiquitous little glowing antennae of self-reflexivity, mediating everyone’s moments.

We’re over a tenth of the way through this century, and it’s just going round and round in circles! Patting itself on the back for watching Gangnam Style billions of times. We might have done better by the Mayans by looking at the way their calendars were organised, instead of fabricating prophetic warnings of doom. Why can’t we have a Long Count? Maybe we’d act with more circumspection if we factored in what was going to happen in five thousand years. “As the oceans thickened, they did what?”

Or perhaps it’d be better if we knew we were time limited, like Mayflies, and had to get about our business with more of a sense of urgency.

Such misery! Such abstractions! The like of which might be prompted by a new year vin triste or something.

So no, I thought. Bollocks to all that. Happy new year! It’s nice and sunny out, here, this morning.

2013 has much more of a future love paradise sound about it than 2012 anyway. I think it’s the 3.

Have a good time, all the time…

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