New Year For The Neurotic

The prospect of the "New Year" holds a certain mythic symbolism for us. Every year the same macabre charade; the promise of change, the chance to become who we want to be instead of what we've ended up as. Another chance to shake away the apathy that hangs from us like cobwebs. Each resolution more ridiculous than the last, because you know you are running out of time. You're near thirty. What have you achieved? You are overweight, unattractive, unfulfilled, and talentless. The fear of failure looms large over us this time of year. We buy magazines, diet pills, how-to and self-help books. We stockpile these talismans; we surround ourselves with aspiration in the hopes that we too will achieve. It is cultural superstition endorsed in excess by those who profit from our insecurities and self hatred. An arbitrary date will not alter your personality. You will still be the same intrinsically flawed human being you were at the start of the year as you were at the end.

I am 100% on track for my New Year's Resolution of winning the Turner Prize.

Well, that’s what the bastards would have you believe. But in an uncharacteristically optimistic turn, I am here to tell you that, even though everything is pointless and your life is just one long meaningless march towards the grave, sometimes it’s nice to be in complete denial of your own limitations. For example, my New Year’s Resolution is to become a ballerina. At twenty-three years old, slightly asthmatic, with the flexibility of an iron rod and weighing in probably at the weight of twelve ballerinas combined,  some may say that this isn’t going to happen for me. To those cunts, I say, HATERS GONNA HATE. If I want to be a mother-fucking ballerina (not literally, I mean, I love my mother, but not in that way okay) then I will be. Yes, it could all end in tears, disappointment and despair, but most of my days end that way anyway. At least this way, there is a little glimmer of light in the abyss of my life.

Because ballet worked out so well for Natalie Portman.

People may laugh at those American Idol and X Factor contestants who have achieved such astonishing levels of denial that they are actually probably experiencing psychotic delusions, but you know what, I think those guys have the right idea. Why should we be realistic? Reality is terrible. I would much rather be completely self-deluded and believe that I am super-model hot with the voice of Christina Aguilera and the IQ of Einstein than face the reality that at the very best, I am poor to mediocre at almost everything I turn my hand to.

Who do these delusions really hurt? Certainly not the deluded. Other people only want you to face reality because they are jealous of how wonderful you feel when you are completely and utterly delusional. Imagine living entirely free from doubt. Your black-out drinking is just a charming eccentricity. Not many people could pull off a see-through orange plether cat-suit, but baby, you work it.

If you want to take this one step further and free yourself from the shackles of social propriety, then you might want to consider making solipsism your new years resolution. Dictionary.com defines solipsism as “the theory that only the self exists, or can be proved to exist.” This seems like the solution to every problem facing the socially awkward and unnecessarily angry teenager, whose parent’s still don’t quite believe the doctor’s reassurances that it isn’t autism. Rejected by the girl of your dreams? Doesn't matter, she doesn't exist! She is quite literally, the girl of your dreams; a figment of your omnipotent imagination. Failed your A-levels? Doesn't matter! 'F' is an arbitrary grade invented by your mind and you control your mind, so there is nothing to worry about. Drunk and crying in public, again? Doesn't matter! Nobody can see you because no one else exists. You are the centre of the world and the world is a pretty sweet place to be when you no longer have to worry about other people’s ‘feelings’. Solipsism means never having to say you're sorry.

Haters gonna hate.

Here’s an example from my own life of the joys of denial. I went out clubbing last Friday and woke up convinced that I had spent the night delighting my friends with my sparkling wit and easy charm. Instead, I was informed that I spent the entire time spilling other people’s drinks, slurring insults at strangers and apparently punching someone in the face. Repeatedly. But instead of holding on to those feelings of guilt, shame and fear that I might have to make an appearance in court quite soon, I decided to ignore all the evidence of my multiple transgressions and instead embrace the delights of denial.

Delusions

Reality

So, here are my self-awareness free resolutions for 2012:

1. Win the Pulitzer Prize with my debut novel “Brucey Boucher”
2. Become the face of Chanel
3. Master time travel
4. Survive the year with my dignity intact

Everything Is Awful: The Best Worst Moments of 2011

I'm probably not the right person to do a recap of the year post, because I basically remember nothing from this year. My chronic drinking and selective memory make most years fly by in a blur of shame, despair and confusion. But what I lack in memory, I make up for with bitterness and rage. I am also an excellent complainer, so who better to dredge up all the awful parts of the year you thought you'd successfully repressed and then rub them in your sad, frowny faces until you cry so hard you pass out and wake up wondering if it would have been better if you'd just died.

So let's get started party people!

5. Rebecca Black
   
   
    
   
   
   
   

2011 is when I lost my faith in humanity. Rebecca Black's Friday was a completely misunderstood and underrated MASTERPIECE and no one but me saw this. R-Bla, as I call her, even received death threats. C'mon people, DEATH THREATS? For a song that lasted three minutes and you only ever heard it if you went on Youtube and specifically searched for it and clicked play and then sat there for it's entire duration?

The song was clearly a ruthless satire of the Work Hard, Play Harder ethos that is so dominate in corporate culture. 'Friday' tells the story of an investment banker who drags himself through the working week like a mindless drone, sustained only by the promise of the weekend's cocaine binge and hooker mutilations that are an invariable part of social life in the City. In many ways, Rebecca Black's 'Friday' is this generations American Psycho or Bonfire of the Vanities, except it is much much better because it has a good beat and you can dance to it and you don't have to use your eyes and make them all squinty to focus on the page and then have to force yourself to keep your eyes in the same place even though they really want to look at the TV. 

Oh, and this might have happened in 2010, but whatever. Every year is pretty much an interchangeable continuation of the last as we trudge slowly towards the grave, letting videos of cats playing the keyboard distract us from the stark reality that WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.

4. Kim Kardashian's Kar-Krash Kommitment Keremony
   
   

   

   I think she's crying because they put Kourtney's name before hers.

She was an American Princess, he was some tall guy who played some kind of sport or whatever, no one really cared about him. The wedding was a completely understated affair and there was absolutely nothing to prepare me for the happy couple getting divorced only 72 days after the wedding. I mean, c'mon kids, what happened to staying together to save face? That's how it worked in the old days. People got married, realised it was the worst mistake they'd ever made and that their lives were over, had children, felt even worse about their terrible lives, grew to resent one another more and more with each passing year, developed drinking problems, bought washing machines and died. And do you know why they did this? Out of social awkwardness. 

3. The Economy

This man is the 1% who uses 99% of our nation's hair product supplies.

Yeah, pretty bad, huh? As a vaunted economic expert, I have several theories on why things are not going so great in the world finance sitch. Basically, this is Penn Badgley's fault. His fancy new Jeff Buckley hair do takes a lot of hair spray and hair gel to maintain, more than the Gossip Girl hair and make-up department could handle. Badgley's outrageous demands for hair products put the manufacturers of Bryll Cream under increasing pressure and they were ultimately unable to supply the Gossip Girl star with enough products to keep his hair aloft. After they went out of business, Badgley began using liquid gold to style his hair. After Badgley exhausted his own gold supplies, President Obama sanctioned the use of the White House's super secret treasure trove, which is what Scrooge McDuck's Money Lair was based on, in order to style the star's hair. This led to the loss of America's Triple A rating, but when I spoke to Obama earlier this evening he insisted that “Penn Badgley's hair is a national treasure, the loss of volume and lustre in that beautiful boy's flowing mane would have been a disaster that would have far outweighed any financial crisis. And OMG, can you believe that Chuck and Blair are back together?!”

Penn Badgley at Occupy Wall Street deflecting attention from his own singlehanded destruction of the economy onto the innocent bankers. SHAME ON YOU PENN.

2. Climate Change
   
   

   

   Clarkson has been quoted as saying "BLAH BLAH BLAH, I HATE MINORITIES AND PENGUINS BUT I AM OKAY WITH ACID WASH DENIM."

This has been going on for way too long. It's like chill out already environment. I mean literally, it's going to be totally annoying if everything melts and it's hot all the time because I look really cute in boots and furry hats.

Anyway, I skim-read an article in The New Scientist today on the recent conference on climate change in Durban and it seems like the general consensus is that global warming is ALL Jeremy Clarkson's fault. Brainy scientist types have given power point presentations with pie charts that provide concrete evidence that Jeremy Clarkson and his inter-changeable pals, (they both have the same terrible hair cut) have literally destroyed the ozone layer just by their existence. When pressed on this, the scientists went on to confirm that C02 levels actually have not had as catastrophic an effect on the environment as the noxious W4NKER gas that is released into the atmosphere every time Jeremy Clarkson opens his mouth.

Moonlighting as a government advisor from time to time, my campaign to have Clarkson ritually sacrificed to the Sun God Ra has thus far fallen on deaf ears, but I'm hoping in light of recent evidence Prime Minister Cam-Cam will seriously re-think my advice. 

       1. The Senseless Destruction of a Priceless Work of Art

In a year of atrocities, this is surely the worst of all. The original had Kevin Bacon. This has... I don't even care. I don't want to live in world where this kind of shit happens.

If this list seems a little patchy, well, that's because I had so many 'black out' moments in 2011 that I've started calling the parts I do remember 'black ins'. I think some stuff happened in the news too, but honestly, I don't pay attention to the world because it is a cold, dead place and I would rather read about fat celebrities and shit.

A Beginner's Guide To Passive Aggressive Gift Giving.

Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat (and so are you, but don't worry we'll deal with that in January.)
 

It's a well-known fact that suicide rates sky-rocket around Christmas time and this is almost definitely due to the stress of having to be around people you love and also buy them things. In Britain we have a time honoured tradition of ritual suicide practised by family members who have disgraced themselves by buying Mum the Dan Brown novel she's already read for Book Club. This is why I will be converting to the Jehovah's Witnesses on 24th December, but before I do, let me help you get through the holiday season with as little blood shed as possible. (NB: This does not involve simply switching to cyanide pills instead of the chainsaw you were going to use to disembowel yourself.)

Personally this is what I want for Christmas. To be immediately discarded in January, of course.

This year you won't have to kill yourself to avoid the awkwardness of giving someone a gift they are mildly indifferent towards. So be smart and survive the season (literally) by reading my go-to guide on purchasing Christmas presents for people you don't really like or who you think are okay but feel kind of resentful towards for having to spend time and money searching for something they probably don't really want anyway. Don't go to Lidls without it!

1.  MUM AND DAD

Sure, they gave you life, but what have they done for you recently, huh?

This year I wanted to give my parents something special, something unique that money couldn't buy. This was partly because I am a staunch anti-capitalist and I'm banned from John Lewis after stealing a wine rack in a radical protest against the bourgeois system of oppression. Also, I spent a lot of money on shoes this month so there's not much left over for anyone else.So this year, Mum and Dad are getting something straight from the heart that doesn't require me opening my wallet.

Having been taught to weave on a 16^th century loom by my mentor Rumpelstiltskin, I set to work on creating the kind of gift that you just couldn't buy from John Lewis (those fucking bastards). After painstakingly hand-stitching the opening line to Philip Larkin's 'This Be The Verse' – they fuck you up your mum and dad, they may not mean to, but they do – in Comic Sans, of course, I then went on to illustrate several (seventy-eight) traumatic key moments from my childhood right through until adult life. I like to think of it as a little Bayeux Tapestry of guilt and recrimination which will look lovely in our living room. 

We can't all be artists, but I am, and this is awesome.

For those of you who are struggling to find that something special to show your parents how much you resent them and question all the decisions they made when raising you, here are a few handy tips:

• Never buy individual presents for your parents. Even if they're divorced. Even if one of them is dead. Buying separate gifts makes it look like you think of your parents as actual people rather than the ATM machines we all know them to be. Except my bank doesn't usually criticise my expanding waist line and ask me when I'm going to get a real job when I withdraw cash.

• Don't  make the gift too personal - choose something generic that old people are into. For example, last year I bought my mother some denture toothpaste. She was very grateful and she's put it in a safe place so when she gets dentures she'll be ready to keep them sparkling clean. 

My personal recommendation for the perfect present to show your parents exactly what they mean to you is a copy of my latest novel, I Will Never Ever Forgive You: The Tragic True Life Tale of a Small Child Whose Mother Was Too Drunk To Read A Bed-Time Story To Him That One Time (available from any retailer with taste, published by Why Won't Anyone Else Publish Me? Press.) I suggest annotating your copy heavily, leaving notes in the margins letting your parents know how deeply you relate to the main character's plight and how being abused by a nonce was quite a lot like when you were seventeen and they used to pay you £10 to mow the lawn every two weeks. 

2. SECRET SANTA
   
   

Here I am DJing at last year's Christmas party. We listened to a lot of Leonard Cohen that night.

Secret Santa is the bane of every office worker and is actually a sneaky anagram of SATAN SECRET. This is no accident. The origins of Secret Santa actually go way back to the middle ages, when a group of monks decided they were totally over Jesus and began secretly worshipping demonic forces in exchange for small presents that cost no more than £5. The tradition has been carried on into our modern times and as such, every time you receive a Secret Santa present, you are actually making a pact with a demon who now owns your eternal soul.

Try explaining that at the office though and everyone thinks you're a spoil-sport. Or kind of weird. And maybe they stop talking when you walk into the room now. And maybe they all go out for lunch while you're in the toilets so they don't have to ask you along and you come back to an empty office and you sit alone at your desk, weeping silently, and wondering why it's so difficult for you to make friends. So take my advice, suck it up, say goodbye to your immortal soul and buy them something. 

May I suggest my newest Hypnotherapy C.D, So You Fucked Up Your Life: How To Come To Terms With Knowing That You're Stuck In This Dead-End Job Forever and Would Probably Be Better Off Dead. It's a step-by-step guide with a hypnotic induction which will help you successfully detach from your situation and depersonalise until you are basically a human automaton mindlessly drifting through the days not caring that every moment your wasted life is slipping through your fingers. Whoever gets this gift is one lucky son-of-a-gun! May I suggest also purchasing a copy for yourself too?

Don't be that guy. Let me help you suppress all those pesky emotions.

That pretty much covers all the groups that I have social contact with, so if you're one of those weird, desperate, needy people who needs constant human interaction to feel validated, I suggest looking elsewhere for tips on what to buy the people you cling to like a tragic limpet, sucking the life out of everyone around you until they're as empty and shell-like as you.

Let me leave you with this little ditty to get you in the Holiday mood. Put on your Rudolph ears, shove your face full of mince pies and Yule log and let your tears flow freely into the litre of Brandy you're already half-way through.

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