Thursday, 1 January 2015

2015: A Waste Odyssey

Congratulations, Earth. It's been exactly 2015 years since Jesus celebrated slaying the dinosaurs by setting fireworks off and singing Auld Lang Syne. Thankfully, this is the two-thousand and fifteenth CONSECUTIVE year we haven't cocked anything up since he left it in our possession. That is, if you don't count the wars, plagues, natural disasters and famine, but that's all his "will" anyway, apparently, so I doubt he'd be that pissed off.

Let's peer over our half-moon glasses of optimism and look into the crystal ball of incredibility at what lies in store for the year ahead, shall we? 

The start of the year ushers in with it yet another "cold snap". The Internet is awash with pictures of beautiful whitened pictures of otherwise shit locations. "OMG! Snow's falling! #snow #winter #coldsnap #coldestJanuarysincerecordsbegan #snowflake #frozen #MiltonKeynes". On Instagram, the new "Antarctica" filter makes the pictures, erm, white. It's all fucking white, like an American police force. Selfie sticks? White, but with your face in it, and (thank fuck) you're fractionally further away from the camera than when you didn't have a selfie stick. 

The Mail describes 2015 as set to be the "coldest year in history". 

The weather finally gives way to an unusually warm spring, bringing Bruce Forsyth out of cryopreservation early and leading The Mail to describe 2015 as the "warmest year in history". 

Greece and Italy become so poor that they are forced to sell national monuments. The Acropolis starts to be dismantled, and moved to Qatar. The Colosseum becomes the latest OArena, where Sam Smith plays the first gig of his world tour to a sell out crowd, and is then fed to the lions. It's hard to see how he's going to follow that up. 

After a gruelling four-month campaign, and thanks to a last-minute promotional offer in The Daily Express, Prime Minister Farage is on his way to be inducted into Parliament by Her Majesty, when suddenly his route is blocked by a group of straight-chest-haired men and his car is upturned and set fire to. Farage escapes, nips into the pub by the road for a swift couple, and uses the burning wreckage to light a cigar. He is subsequently forced into hiding, and simply a myth that is used to scare little politicians into eating all their greens. 

Hmm.. What usually happens in the summer of non-footballing years? Can we cheer for Andy Murray - what? June? Bugger, that completely passed me by! How did he get on? WHAT? Against who? Who?! Oh fuck it, it doesn't matter, that's pretty embarrassing, though. I miss Tim... and it's raining, great. The Mail was right, you know - this could be the wettest year in history. 

The Rugby World Cup comes to our shores, and despite Team GB giving itself three chances of winning, none of them do, and it's France vs. Australia in the Final. Who wins? We stopped caring after the group stages. 

God it seems like ages since it was sunny. Where has all this cloud and smog come from- woah, petrol's EIGHTY PENCE now??? Quickly! Fill the car. Fill the other car! Fill the jerry can! Buy more jerry cans! Fill the kids' sports bottles! Fill the dog's bowl! Do it now before it goes to eight-one pence!!

Black Friday comes to a head in an ASDA in Bolton with two fully grown men who "don't think they're going to make it in today, Boss" start bludgeoning each other over a Blu-Ray player with 20% off. 

Meanwhile, in a Waitrose in St. Albans, "Were you about to take the last artichoke heart?" "Oh no, you can have it." "No no no, please, take it!" 

Downton Abbey once again concludes with a strangely harmonious aristocracy and proletariat, showing just how backwards we've become 85 years later. Look, there's Mr and Mrs Carson having tea with Lord and Lady Grantham as if the only thing separating them from us is how much sugar they take. Why can't I have tea with Richard Branson? What kind of sick elitist is he? 

And before you know it, it's all over far too soon. We're back on our sofas, scoffing on Celebrations, wondering what happened to that resolution that you stuffed in February. The TV is blaring out some seasonal drivel, and as you slide into a food and light entertainment-induced coma, you wonder if there's really something else going on; whether Christmas is a veil pulled over our eyes to stop us from seeing the truth. Looking down into the box and seeing only fucking Bounties, you realise things HAVE to change. 

And dammit, NEXT year will be your year. 

Right after this little Snickers. 

No comments:

Post a Comment