My 2018 New Year Proclaimation


The first of January has been and gone, as has February, which customarily means it's time for me to start thinking about at some point getting round to drafting and then publishing some New Year's Resolutions. Several weeks late. When all hope of anyone reading has faded faster than the chances of me actually doing. HASHTAG CONTENT STRATEGY!

Think about it I did. And - brace yourself - change of heart I had. For years, dear reader, I've had my priorities all wrong.


New Year's Resolutions are all about introspective self-betterment. Poring deep inside your rotten soul for a few glimmers of salvageable treasure. But, having lost weight that time, I'm already pretty much perfect.


Clearly I should be turning my attention outwards, to the external world and the shitty demands it places upon us all. But mostly me, Ross.

Reader, there will be no 2018 New Year Resolutions. Instead, beholdโ€”my New Year Proclaimation. Over the next 12 *cough* months, I will refuse to tolerate the twisted forces of darkness that seek to thwart and derail our best intentions. Nothing must stand in the way of efforts to broadcast only my Very Best Self to those lucky few around me.

Prepare to be IRRADIATED. With GOODNESS and PERFECTION. And also probably actual radiation if we donโ€™t get that Trump/Kim Jong-un situation sorted1.

  1. This would have been a topical reference had I actually managed to publish in early Jan โ†ฉ

Post ๐Ÿ‘ 10pm ๐Ÿ‘ bedtimes ๐Ÿ‘ are ๐Ÿ‘problematic


What happens after 10pm anyway? Bad television, 'clubs', and screeching fox copulation. There is nothing for me here. Like Galadriel, I will sail west, to a land of bed socks, pungent Lush 'body lotion' and the daily disapproval of my cohabiting boyfriend.

Ed ๐Ÿ‘ Sheeran ๐Ÿ‘ is ๐Ÿ‘ a ๐Ÿ‘ shitpile

Up until last year I tolerated his occasional Taylor Swift album 'feat.'s on the basis that, letโ€™s be honest, you couldnโ€™t pick his threadbare vocals out of a police line-up of one, let alone the rest of Taylorโ€™s favoured troupe of white bearded men (see also: him out of Snow Patrol, whatsit off thingmy). But now? After laying waste to the UK top 10, weasling his bespectacled way into onto Game of Thrones set and even leading whatโ€™s left of B*Witched astray? ENOUGH.


Like Westlife, David Sneddon and Amelle from the Sugababes before him, Ed Sheeran is a sworn enemy of my cultural interests. He must be stopped. Donโ€™t ask how. Itโ€™ll come to me.

purge ๐Ÿ‘ your ๐Ÿ‘ inbox ๐Ÿ‘ of ๐Ÿ‘ endless ๐Ÿ‘ marketing ๐Ÿ‘ dross 

I receive around 900 emails daily, the vast majority of which seem to be from Gap - a store I havenโ€™t set foot in for at least 3 years. Perhaps youโ€™re like the pre-2015 me, hoovering up discounted chinos, hoodies and tees with gay abandon. In which case, Iโ€™m going to let you in on a secret.

That 50% sale theyโ€™ve got going? It will never end. It goes on and on and on, discount code after discount code after discount code, until one day you finally look at yourself in the mirror and realise those cheap-ass jeans look FUCKING HORRIBLE on you.

Unsubscribe, right now, and never be fooled by their โ€˜stretch denimโ€™ again.

Adults ๐Ÿ‘ should ๐Ÿ‘ not ๐Ÿ‘ use ๐Ÿ‘ scooters

Do you enjoy the use of your legs, suited commuter? Theyโ€™ll be going the same way as your sense of pride if you donโ€™t cease wheeling yourself past me like an overgrown infant right this bloody second.


Shove ๐Ÿ‘ your ๐Ÿ‘ bullet ๐Ÿ‘ journal ๐Ÿ‘ up ๐Ÿ‘ your ๐Ÿ‘ arse

In between having a full time job, going to the gym, trimming my ear hair and staying in twice-monthly contact with my own parents, I manage to scribble the occasional missive into a torn and ill-kempt Bullet Journal.

Itโ€™s a brief, snatched, not quite daily ritual to perpetuate the illusion I might have a grip over the careening sarcasm cart that is My Life. Plus, it comes with the added bonus of documenting exactly what it is I eat every day, for unknown future reference (16 September 2016? โ€œSoupโ€, if you must know).

What I do not have time for, however - what I wouldnโ€™t have time for even without the parents or gym or basic hygiene maintenance - is daily calligraphy, washi taping, colour coding, habit tracking and florid illustrative flourishes (โ€œHereโ€™s my 2018 Reading Shelf, on which Iโ€™ll add and colour a new spine for every book I read this year! Oh, you like my wood grain pattern? And textured border? And compressed, real flower heads?!?! *Instagram explodes*โ€)

All I can conclude from those who do, and their occasionally readable โ€˜to doโ€™s (invariably, โ€œDrink water!!โ€), is that they are both unemployed and sexually frustrated.

Hereโ€™s a new bullet for you - DONโ€™T @ ME. 

Brexit ๐Ÿ‘ is ๐Ÿ‘ not ๐Ÿ‘ good


Over the course of 2017 I made a deliberate, strenuous effort to avoid reading, thinking or talking about it. What was to be gained? My twitter sarcasm and unflattering Nigel Farage illustrations amounted to nothing ahead of the referendum.

โ€œFfffffffffffff,โ€ I reasoned, slowly tweezering glass splinters from my clenched, bleeding fist. I would take time out to restore my blood pressure to less fatal levels, and trust in our elected leaders to Sort It Out.

Somehow, a year later, we seem to be no closer a resolution. I GUESS I could venture out of my self-imposed conversation exile to make one suggestion: letโ€™s force anyone actually excited by the prospect of a blue passport to wait the rest of 2018 out in a crowded customs hall. Letโ€™s see if that makes any difference to our negotiation strategy.

Andrew ๐Ÿ‘ Marr ๐Ÿ‘ has ๐Ÿ‘ a ๐Ÿ‘ lot ๐Ÿ‘ to ๐Ÿ‘ answer ๐Ÿ‘ for ๐Ÿ‘ and ๐Ÿ‘ i'm ๐Ÿ‘ not ๐Ÿ‘ talking ๐Ÿ‘ about ๐Ÿ‘ the ๐Ÿ‘ super ๐Ÿ‘ injunction

Sundays, if no longer a time of rest, should certainly be approached with more care and compassion than your average weekday. Think avocados, newspaper supplements, and vicious asides about Steve Wrightโ€™s neverending Radio 2 career.

The growing proliferation of Sunday morning political chat shows is therefore not something to be encouraged. We already suffer through six daysโ€™ worth of John Humphrys-stoked fury - canโ€™t we all agree to leave our embattled, bloodshot MPs to recover their wits at least for 24 hours a week? Who really wants to eat poached eggs while watching a Cabinet minister barbequed, beyond the handful of political junkies who could probably do with Chilling the Fuck Out themselves?

That said, I can think of plenty of others in public and cultural life in need of a good sweating. ED SHEERAN BRAINWAVE: LETโ€™S BRING BACK POPWORLD.


Non ๐Ÿ‘ sourdough ๐Ÿ‘ bread ๐Ÿ‘ can ๐Ÿ‘ s ๐Ÿ‘ m ๐Ÿ‘ d

It's not worth the calories and you know it.

Straight ๐Ÿ‘ people ๐Ÿ‘ have ๐Ÿ‘ no ๐Ÿ‘ taste

I saw in 2018 as I mean to continue - picking fights at dinner parties over the (considerable, UN-FUCKING-DENIABLE) merits of the Spice Girls classic, โ€˜2 Become 1โ€™. Do not roll your eyes at me. Do not even BEGIN to claim you are not stirred by that stringsy outro. I will KILL you.

Happy Remaining 5/6ths of 2018, everyone!

More New Year related musings!

Some more timely than others