This year and this decade are going down to the wire.
This isn’t going to be a reflection on the events of the past twelve months, nor is it going to be a moan post (the two would probably be next to identical). I’ve had practically the same response to every New Year’s Eve this past ten years, namely ‘fuck off out of it and don’t let the door hit you on the arse on the way out’, and this year is no exception.
It’s just going to be a mild rumination on the nature of this night, starting with the reflection that, as of midnight, the Sixties, and I mean every last second of them, have been gone for fifty years. People, our every ‘half a century ago’ is going to be the Seventies, and as one who lived through that decade, that’s not a golden prospect.
Does it really matter? Were the Sixties really that important? As one who also lived through them but as a mostly imperceptive kid who hd to learn about it all backwards, the only possible answer is, ‘of course it was, you fucking idiot!’
Like each of the past ten New Year’s Eves, I approaach it in solitude, in thought. That’s been the way of most of my New Year’s Eves, though at earlier times this was by way of choice. Now, though it’s forced on me by circumstance, and time, I don’t complain or begrudge my last night of the year. I grow fonder of my own company, and my ability to go my own way.
Will anything be better when we start a new Roaring Twenties? Let’s not go there, I said this wasn’t going to be a Moan post. But there is one thing, that I tempt fate in even alluding to it in the most allusive of terms, since Fate, when I have been here before, has almost invariably responded to being tempted by giving me a good steel toecap in the gob, but at some point and sooner will be better than later, I will have to summon up the nerve to speak to someone who works in the same building as me. In which case, things will either be potentially more enjoyable or they’ll be not much worse than they are now.
Put like that, the course of action seems obvious but, trust me, nothing round me is ever obvious.
So, with that one caveat in the possibly better column, let’s allow the 2010s to make their own way out the door and then let’s lock, bar and bolt it in case the bloody bastards want to come back in. We don’t want to go through that again.
And in terms of music, let’s honour this post’s title and proffer my last musical choice of 2019, before I have to figure what will do to start 2020, a date that corresponds with the opthalmologists term for clear sight and vision. Here’s hoping, on macro and micro levels.
Pass me another lager…