"Another year over and what have I done?/All my aspirations have shrivelled in the sun..."
So sang Matt Johnson*, but he was a miserable bastard, and anyway he wasn't exactly right. Well, not if one of his aspirations was to be immortalised in a postmodernist, Verfremdungseffekt-bedecked one-act play written by me when I was in the sixth form, he wasn't. Not many people had that honour, Matt Johnson, I can tell you.
(One day my precocious juvenilia will be sensationally discovered, as a direct result of which there will be a huge The The revival, and a whole new generation of rock writers (probably led by Tim 'I've never heard of David Bowie' 'Jonze') will take great pleasure in deconstructing jejune lyrics about overgrown gardens and weeds and stuff, and wishing they'd been around in Thatcher's Britain when everything was gritty and bleak and real and you could look cool by wearing metal badges with Soviet iconography on them and there were real issues like Greenham Common and British Leyland to sing real songs and write real journalism about.)
Oh right, yes, where was I?
Yes, I decided this morning that I was going to draw this blog to a close today, in a sort of '...and they lived happily ever after'-type way, but then the lovely (and funny and deeply knowledgeable about electronica) Fat Roland said something nice about it, and I decided to continue it forever and ever, so you know who to blame.
And on that cheery note, I wish you all a very happy New Year and I hope that, unlike Matt Johnson, you will realise all of your aspirations** and just generally have a splendid year in 2008.
* Apparently the correct lyric is "Another year older and what have I done?", thus ruining my entire New Year's Eve riff. No gratitude, that Johnson chap. None at all.
** Try keeping them out of direct sunlight, that would seem to be the best approach. Maybe store your aspirations in a cool, dark place. Like under the shed, or in Beth Ditto's loft.