2016. Brought to you by the letters W, T, and F.
I think you’ve outstayed your welcome, 2016. Don’t trip on your way out. Shut the door when you leave. Now get the fuck out of my house.
It’s been an interesting experience, being alive in 2016. The fuckery we’ve seen has been truly awe-inspiring.
It began with Labour. Good god, what was that all about?
What started out with the party finally being headed by a decent opposition leader, ended up as a monumentously stressful challenge where you only had between 10.00 and 10.02 on the last full moon of the month, when Venus was in her fifth trimester and Jupiter was in sandwich, to complete the challenge of spinning fifty plates on the salt hardened hairs of virgin unicorns in order to qualify for a vote; all for the bargain price of £25. Then if it transpired that you had had impure thoughts, or expressed an appreciation for eggs, trousers, or pipe music on social media, you were disqualified.
All jokes aside, it’s probably easier to buy Glastonbury tickets for a group of twenty than it was to vote for Corbyn, again, after he’d already been democratically voted in a matter of months before.
Owen Smith. That was a laugh, wasn’t it? I don’t know who thought a human Kermit-the-Frog-alike, who incidentally used to be a lobbyist for Pfizer, would be a more attractive proposition for the leader of the Labour Party than a staunch, seasoned socialist with a solid history of fighting for the rights of the people.
The in-fighting, social media fighting, and constant moving of goal posts during this period created a kind of Orwellian paranoia, which at one point almost had me convinced that Corbyn was a plant. He was too perfect, and Smith was just so awful, I felt it couldn’t be real.
So, one hundred fuckery points awarded to the Labour leadership debacle, and the beginning of the weirdest year for politics EVER.
Whilst all of that was going on, our fuckwitted Tory government, in a barely veiled attempt at grabbing back some UKIP votes, ran with an idea generated by the lamest, most bigoted brain in the U.K. – Nigel ‘Fucktard’ Farrage.
That brilliant idea was to put the fate of our Country’s entire future in the hands of its people.
Now, let’s not forget, these very same people spend their time passionately voting for which of Simon Cowell’s awful plastic pop stars will be clogging up our airwaves with their aural diarrhea for the next twelve months, frothing at the mouth over The Daily Mail’s racist diatribes, and eating Nando’s.
No offense, but based on what the British public seem to enjoy spending their time and money on, I don’t feel they are wholly qualified to make any decisions of lasting value.
The morning we all awoke to discover we ‘aren’t in Europe any more’, the most searched for term on Google was ‘what is the European Union?’. That should tell you everything you need to know about the Great British Public.
And it’s no good getting all uppity with The Sun, or The Daily Mail, or The Times, or whichever brand of Murdoch-owned toilet paper you use to wipe your shit for brains, for telling you to vote Out. It’s done. You voted for Jedward, and now you have to live with it.
So, the then Prime Minister, Cameron, rightly said ‘fuck this shit, I’m out’ and bailed. And we end up with an honest-to-god, genuine Skeksis as our Prime Minister. I can’t even watch that woman on TV without wanting to hide under the duvet and suck my thumb.
Prince Philip must have been busy, and Farrage wasn’t strictly appropriate, so the Skesis decided that the nation’s third biggest racist, Boris Johnson, was naturally the next best qualified candidate to represent us to the rest of the world. I repeat, Boris fucking Johnson. Good work, England.
After the entire world collectively face-palmed, and the French media ran some (pretty fucking cool actually) parodies on their covers, it became clear that the only way we could come to terms with the surreal weirdness of 2016 would simply be to pop out for snacks and supplies, crack open a cold one and some chips n dips, and watch the show.
And what a show! After all, anything Britain can do, the good ole US of A can do bigger and better.
Watching the election spectacular in the states was a bit like watching that scene in A Requiem for a Dream, when the Mother character, in the throws of amphetemine psychosis, hallucinates that she is a participant on a particularly lurid game show. My favourite part was watching CNN (don’t judge me, I was in a hotel in Berlin, and it was that or German cookery shows), and they went to their ‘Political Expert’, who proceeded to talk about Miss Venesuela’s weight for half an hour.
I kept waiting to hear about Trump or Clinton’s policies on the environment, or education, or foreign policy, but it just never came. I’ve heard drunken arguments with more substance and integrity.
And so, like everyone else, I checked my head for signs of trauma.
When they announced in the morning that That Dickhead Trump was now President Trump, I wasn’t surprised. After the year we’ve had, nothing could surprise me any more, slumped as I was in a corner, staring into the middle distance, laughing at nothing in particular, frothing at the mouth and rocking back and forth.
Prince died, Bowie died, Princess Leah died, George Michael died, Castro, Wilder, Ali….
Then, when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Honey G.
On a personal note, 2016 also broke my boiler, broke my car, and killed my cat.
And so, we find ourselves on the eve of a brand new year. What have we learned?
Well, we have learned that the masses on both sides of the Atlantic have largely not kept up with the old evolution thing; and that whilst there are some really decent, empathic, intelligent and kind folks out there, on the whole our kind have revealed themselves to be a bunch of racist fuckwits of the highest order.
We’ve learned that anything can and will happen, no matter how unlikely or just plain wrong.
But, however bad, strange, or entertaining (depending on your perspective) 2016 has been, compared to the trauma experienced by our brothers and sisters in Syria, those poor, poor refugees who continue to attempt the life threatening journey to safety on our shores, the people of Palestine, Pakistan, Haiti and all of the many countries who have experienced war, natural disaster, terrorism, and famine, we’ve had it easy.
Yes, it’s been a year of political melt down; yes the free world is now run by clowns and fictional lizard-birds, but we are warm, we are safe.
So I guess all that remains is to pop open some fizz and say a big Fuck You to 2016.
And to you all, happy happy (God, I’m so happy it’s a new year) New Year. May the best of your past be the worst of your future.
Featured image courtesy of the marvelous The Oatmeal.