Noel Edmonds for President

January

• The final Celebrity Big Brother is marred by hideous scenes as Boy George invades the house and chains all the male housemates to radiators. Vinnie Jones attempts to squeeze his testicles in an act of revenge, but Boy George evades capture, jumping into the jacuzzi and performing a touching nude version of Killing In The Name. 'Jordan's Boyfriend' TM does nothing of interest.
   
• Temperatures plunge to -24 degrees as Britain suffers its coldest winter since the era of rationing. A confused elderly man phones talkSPORT to proclaim that "this proves Global Warming is just a myth by the Government", and is given too much airtime. The lack of salt on the roads is derided as "a bloody disgrace" by Katy Perry, on Twitter.

• Fresh from winning Celebrity Big Brother, 'Jordan's Boyfriend' TM interrupts Tony Blair's grilling at the Iraq War Inquiry to reveal crucial evidence obtained on a previous stag weekend in Turkey. He then proceeds to dry-hump an aroused Blair, as a disgusted Jordan looks on from within an ITV2 show.
   
• The Internet unveils its long-awaited campaign for the forthcoming General Election. Facebook announces its intention to stand in the swing seat of Crewe and Nantwich, while YouTube posts a stunning speech (on YouTube) challenging the safe Labour seat of Glasgow East. Gordon Brown becomes intensely conflicted by the cultural ramifications of this technological challenge, eventually bottling it and promising to "work with TweetSpace in the event of a hung Parliament".

• Britain's coldest weather since the Victorian Age continues as temperatures fall below -40 degrees, causing the House of Commons and Buckingham Palace to become trapped in 50m-high ice. The Sun launches a spirited new campaign to 'Get Britain Moving', urging everyone to cry until their salty tears can clear the roads again.
   
• Frankie Boyle takes inspiration from his namesake Susan, storming the stage at the 'Britain's Got Talent' Glasgow auditions and performing a soaring version of 'I Dreamed A Dream'. Meanwhile, Susan replaces Frankie on Mock The Week, launching a slew of foul-mouthed cusses against Gordon Brown, Kerry Katona and Glaswegians in general. A mesmorised Dara O'Briain proposes on the spot, as Russell Howard blinks repeatedly in a startled-looking manner before making a gag about "how funny it would be if we replaced the two of them with ducks".

• Lady Gaga is spotted in London wearing only a mesh of twigs. The temperature has now plummeted beneath -65 degrees in the coldest spell of weather since the Battle of Bannockburn. The lack of salt on the roads is derided as "flipping typical" by Harold Bishop, on Twitter.
   
• Following Scotland's demoralising 5-0 friendly defeat to the Falkland Islands, Craig Levein is accused of "failing to get the best out of the team", and promptly sacked. No one has any better ideas, so in desperation the SFA turn to Vladimir Romanov, who proceeds to import a range of new players from Kaunas on forged IDs. They include former Hearts midfielder Saulius Mikoliūnas, who promises to "dive for Scotland, the Saltire and Freedom!"

• The General Election arrives at last, and it's 'put up or shut up' time for Gordon Brown's Labour party. Former Home Secretary Charles Clarke creates a last-minute Facebook group entitled 'Stop Gordon getting to No.10 LOLZ!!!!!1', attracting a whopping 2,300,000 fans. YouTube take Glasgow East in historic scenes, and celebrate by posting a video (on YouTube) of a ned throwing Free Range eggs at John Prescott.  Ebay are pipped to the post in Skye, Ross and Inverness West, and are so offended at the lack of public support that they boycott the shipping of all goods to the Highland region. Eventually, after Louis Walsh and Danni Minogue have a blazing row with Cheryl Cole, the final call - as ever - goes to Simon Cowell, who takes the public vote to Deadlock. John and Edward become Joint Prime Ministers of the United Kingdom.
   
• Temperatures in Britain have now dipped below -89 degrees, in the coldest weather since the Crucifixtion. The lack of salt on the roads is derided as "stupid, just stupid" by someone from Gavin & Stacey, on Twitter.

• Down in South Africa, there are no such icicle-related problems as the World Cup kicks off. England are held to a 2-2 draw by the United States, after David Beckham forgets he is representing his country and accidentally sets up a magnificent cross for an LA Galaxy team-mate to head home the equaliser.
   
• Prime Ministers Jedward cause chaos in their first month in charge by re-allocating all the British salt reserves to Dublin. The increased lack of salt on the roads is derided as "the biggest letdown of my life" by Dermot Murnaghan, on Twitter.

• The BNP cause uproar by suggesting that the aliens in Avatar are attempting a "cultural takeover" of Earth, and that they "should just go back where they came from...with the other blue people". On a special inter-planetary edition of Question Time live from the Moon, there are angry verbal exchanges between Nick Griffin and Tsu'Tey, heir to the chieftainship of the Na'vi tribe. The broadcast comes to an abrupt end when Tsu'Tey makes inflammatory remarks about Griffin's mother, causing Griffin to threaten Tsu'Tey with an anti-alien group called the Blue Kulx Klan, renowned for their hit catchphrase, "We're not anti-blue; just pro-white!"
   
• The World Cup comes down to a thrilling climax as England face Germany in Johannesbourg. After a fantastic closing ceremony featuring a long-awaited collaboration between Lady Gaga, Baddiel & Skinner and the Lightning Seeds, the match itself is a 3-3 classic, going all the way to penalties. Unfortunately, German fans then pelt the penalty box with imported snow, causing the referee to lose the penalty spot. The Jules Rimet trophy is declared vacant until the next World Cup, and the lack of salt on the pitch is later derided as "frustrating" by Fabio Capello, on Twitter.

• Prime Ministers Jedward dig through the 300-m deep snow engulfing Downing Street to move into their respective homes; John takes No.10 while Edward chooses No.11. This leads to inevitable tabloid speculation that John is the real Prime Minister, with Edward waiting in the wings to succeed John as PM after a controversial war of some sort. The temperature is now -119 degrees in Britain's coldest weather since the year of Noah's flood.
   
• 'Jordan's Boyfriend' TM suggests an end to the recession which involves everyone buying Peter Andre's album, throwing it on a collective scrapheap and using the congealed plastic to aid the construction industry. He is appointed as the Government's new Enterprise Tsar by Prime Ministers Jedward, and celebrates by beating up Ricky Hatton dressed as a flower.

• The autumn's TV smash hit is a clip show compiling the most hilarious moments from the world of motorsport. Damon Hill's TV Burp combines the funniest footage from recent Formula 1 races with all the highlights from your favourite F3000, Motocross, Le Mans 24 Hour and NasCar meetings. Before each ad break, the merits of two competing drivers are compared, before Damon remarks, "...but which is better - there's only one way to find out...DODGEMS!!!!!"
   
• As speculation mounts over Kris Boyd's Rangers future, the striker breaks another of Henrik Larsson's records by returning from international retirement for the fourth time. Boyd says that "this time it's for good" and pledges his undying support to the fifth national manager in nine months, Dick Campbell, who promises to "instill some Loyalist...em, I mean, Scottish pride in the team again."

• After a humiliating 6-0 loss to Guernsey, Kris Boyd gets wasted in the Cameron House bar with Barry Ferguson, Allan McGregor, Freddie Flintoff, Paul Gasgoigne, Chris Evans, Shane MacGowan and the soul of the late Queen Mother. All eight are banned from ever again pulling on the Scotland jersey by new national team coach John Smeaton. The lack of salt on the breakfast tables at the Cameron House is derided as "utterly reprehensible" by Hitler, on Twitter.
   
• The sea and the horizon both freeze, becoming stuck together in Britain's coldest recorded temperatures (-237 degrees) since the original Ice Age. Polar bears migrate to Leicestershire, while the Inuit announce plans to invade Dumfries and Galloway to steal snow supplies. Prime Ministers Jedward respond by playing their version of 'Rock DJ' at full volume until the Inuit retreat to Baffin Island, before proudly proclaiming that "we will not back down in the face of terror" and grinning at Chancellor Louis Walsh. The lack of salt on the roads is derided as "shocking" by a shivering Bigfoot, on Twitter.

• Janet Jackson's plans to repackage Michael's children as a new pop group sensation are dealt a severe blow when all three are arrested on suspicion of touching up adults. A range of middle-aged men and women come forward with stories of physical and mental creepiness, forcing a long, drawn-out court case in Madison Square Garden. The Jackson Three are eventually admonished after a star testimony by celebrity friend Stevie Wonder, who remarks that "I never saw them touch anyone." In Central Park, a woman releases a live beaver for every Jackson child acquited of the charges.
   
• As temperatures hit -250 degrees in Britain's coldest snap since the births of Cain and Abel, a solution is offered by Tiger Woods' wife, who agrees to fly to the UK and smash up all the ice with one of Woods' golf clubs. Woods takes the opportunity to bed a further 473 women, while his wife skids into a frozen Heathrow and swings a 4 Iron aimlessly at the ice around her. She is promptly arrested and charged with attempting to commit an act of terrorism near a plane. Prime Ministers Jedward agree for her release after viewing an online al-Qaeda video which argues that "we ain't got nothing to do with that mad bitch."

• The thermometer finally reaches -273 degrees, or Absolute Zero, in the coldest and longest British winter since the Big Bang and the beginning of time. The historic temperature triggers a 'Reset' function within the country's climatic system, causing the weather to instantaneously return to normal British fayre. Grey clouds and drizzle fill the skies as groups of pensioners gather around coffee shops to moan that "the weather never changes in this country". They blame the Government, leading Prime Ministers Jedward to retaliate by performing an inspirational medley of "Blame It On The Weatherman", "Why Does It Always Rain On Me", and "Ain't No Sunshine". There is suddenly an influx of imported salt to British shores, derided as "bloody ironic" by a thawing Steven Fry, on Twitter.

• Feeling somewhat guilty after last year, Rage Against The Machine launch a Facebook group urging people to get Joe McElderry's 'The Climb' to the Christmas No.1 spot. They release a joint statement revealing that, "We feel really bad about depriving Joe of his moment, and this Christmas we want him to literally own that stage". McElderry's single reaches No.1 on downloads alone, narrowly defeating the 2010 X Factor Winner's Song, which this year just happened to be a choir-led, pyrotechnic-filled cover version of 'Down With The Sickness'.........

I can almost see it
That dream I am dreaming
But there's a voice inside my head saying
"You'll never reach it"

Every step I'm taking
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking

But I gotta keep trying
Gotta keep my head held high

F**k you, I won't do what you tell me,
F**k you, I won't do what you tell me,
F**k you, I won't do what you tell me,
F**k you, I won't do what you tell me,
F**k you, I won't do what you tell me,
F**k you, I won't do what you tell me,
F**k you, I won't do what you tell me,
F**k you, I won't do what you tell me,
F**K YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
F**K YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
F**K YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
F**K YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
F**K YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
F**K YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
F**K YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
F**K YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb

MOTHERF****R!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! UGH!!!



That more or less encapsulates the last year, really. The thrilling feeling of trying to achieve a goal is often tempered by the unnerving weight of expectation; the rush of climbing a 'mountain' is regularly neutralised by the fear of not conforming to normality. And then you just think, "Frig that, I'll do what I want" (or words to that effect). 2009 had just about everything I was looking for, and just as many things I was hoping to avoid, so the only thing I can say with real distinction at the close of the year is that I'm glad to have made it here, reasonably intact and in full working order. Most of the people that are important to me are still around (although the outlook can change on a weekly basis, recession-style), and I can take a list of memories with me that could make Tiger Woods' Little Red Book of Women's Numbers look inferior, if his spouse hadn't torn it into a thousand pieces.


Woods: May have to visit WH Smith's stationery section

I'll remember the good times spent in Kent Road, my first ever chance to experience living away from home. While my original New Year pledge to learn multiple new cooking techniques rather fell by the wayside, I can now make a mean Chicken Stir Fry/Wrap Combo (although they're not called Fajitas, because apparently Fajita is a type of sauce rather than a dish. You learn something every day). And the convenience of finally having somewhere to live in Glasgow was intangible, allowing me to properly embed myself (not literally) in the city and its weird and wonderful ways. With my flatmate Andrew 'Meex' Carmichael on hand to discuss the big issues of the day (which tended to degenerate into me lightly insulting Liverpool and their mad manager), it was a great experience living slap bang in the centre of such a lively place as Glasgow. And £225 rent is not to be sniffed at, as I would discover to my cost later in the year......*shudders*

In the winter I sent a text to someone. It was good. Texts clear things up.


Hiltons: only communicate by handheld technology

I've had a little bit too much
All of the people start to rush

Of course, it wouldn't really be Glasgow without a string of ridiculous drunken nights out. Arguably the most ridiculous of the lot was our Flat Party, in which hardly anyone turned up and I ended up phoning Fergus in the middle of what appeared to be a late-night mini-breakdown, while Paul drew a Swastika on my forehead (at least I can say I've lived the Prince Harry party lifestyle now). Then there was the insane night of February 23rd when, in a moment of sheer madness, I decided to swap Kent Road for a stairway. That night would get a Blog of itself, if I could just remember which bar steward put my socks in my pocket. All the while, my Honours degree in Geography was starting to lose just a little of its stability, and I couldn't tell if it was down to the harsh marking of an unnamed lecturer, who shall remain unnamed (although her first name began with S, like seemingly every woman this year), or my general faffing about...


We thought it was stable at the time, but your honour, circumstances change...

Where are my keys? I lost my phone, phone



The course finally wound up on April 30th with the Conservation Exam (after I cleared the hurdle of being woken up on April 29th by loud swearing voices, and the sound of bodies falling against furniture). As I sat in the Beer Bar with Guy and Joanna, doodling semi-humorously on the exam paper, it was only natural to feel a sense of accomplishment at completing the four-year degree as originally planned. However, it had come to our attention over the last four years that a Geography degree, while fascinating and informative, is about as much use in the working world as a Golden Wedding present for Jordan and Peter Andre. Throw in the biggest recession in the history of the universe, and you have 108 Glasgow Graduates up Slack Alley. With that in mind, I sobered up (slowly but surely) and confirmed my application for the MSc in Geospatial and Mapping Sciences. I would be sticking around for a while longer, even if it meant running the greatness of University life into the ground.


It's time to Man Up!

Half psychotic, sick, hypnotic
Got my blueprint, it's symphonic
Half psychotic, sick, hypnotic
Got my blueprint electronic

It was the middle of May. The MP's were getting their asses handed to them at the height of the Expenses scandal. And I was about to walk into a controversy of my own...








If I could describe and explain the whole Grad Ball from start to finish in a logical manner, I would not only be a certified genius (and genius I ain't), but I would be breaking all sorts of moral codes as regards the dissemination of information online. The US would probably try to extradite me whilst giving me Aspergers, if I don't already have it. But I can say this much without a moment's hesitation. The Grad Ball was some of the most fun I've ever had, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat, provided the laptop worked this time. In fact, the speech is probably the only part of the night I regret in any way. Had I any knowledge of how big the place was beforehand, I would never have tried to go in there and do a JogSok anti-Katona routine, and if I hadn't brought it back round at the end, it would have been the biggest catastrophe since those nutty parents put that kid in the balloon and pretended he was dead (what was it with people playing dead this year?). But I don't regret anything else about the night as, to channel the spirit of Rage again, the standardised 'rules' of public life which keep getting paraphrased and re-packaged for individual needs are only useful in the right context. And to channel the spirit of McElderry, ultimately it's up to us how we spend our days on this Earth, and which mountains we choose to climb, so to speak. But if the lady don't wanna know, then you godda move on (street talk). And move on I did.

*Four nights later I was stood in Fat Boabs with an attractive young siren telling me I was a "good looking guy". She was probably blootered though. It was that kind of week.*



Oh yeah, Somerfield. How could I forget the land of scum and scones? Of pensioners and Pringles? Of jakies with jacket potatoes? I didn't spend much time down in Howard Street in the spring, but when my 2:1 was finally secured I returned to St. Enoch to spend practically the whole summer ensconsed in the dilapidated dive of a building. Luckily, the people were good to work with, and with one eye on the imminent Postgrad year, I made a nice little earner. Which was just as well, given what was coming on the 2nd of July...



You hear the door slam
And realize there's nowhere left to run
You feel the cold hand
And wonder if you'll ever see the sun
You close your eyes
And hope that this is just imagination
But all the while
You hear a creature creepin' up behind
You're outta time



My supposedly ingenious plan to graduate in Glasgow, go to New Cumnock for a wedding reception then return to Glasgow for the Graduation night out actually worked. Up until 3am, when I found myself as isolated and vulnerable as Sir Fred Goodwin at a Job Centre. Everyone had left Couture, and I had no flat. So what was my Plan B? Phone Tony, who lived right behind Couture anyway? Phone Fergus, who was still in town, listening to a bit of Gaga no doubt? No, I wandered back to Kent Road, loitered about the recycling bins for a few minutes then went down to the Clyde for a Grand Tour. Eventually I wound up at Howard Street, where a jakie was looking for directions to "tha hostel". I decided to take him there personally, while he gave me a depressing tale of a recent dispute with a fellow guest at the hostel, whom he wanted to "go and headbutt". I advised him that violence was always a last resort, and while he claimed to understand my argument, I'm not sure if I fully converted him to renounce his sinful ways. I should have brought the Pope in for some back up - not only is he a leading moral light (aside from all the condom stuff), but as a victim of common street violence himself, he would have the black eyes to prove it.

'Cause this is thriller
Thriller night
There ain't no second chance
Against the thing with the forty eyes,
Thriller
Thriller night
You're fighting for your life
Inside a killer
Thriller tonight





You should have seen Jamie Lee's face when she found me loitering outside the store at 6.45am the next morning. My attempts to face up the Red Bull (luckily I didn't try downing any of it) and Coke Zero were reasonably successful, much to Graeme's chagrin, and I retreated to Prestwick with degree in hand, not literally. With the rest of the summer still to go, I felt the need to continue my Tuesday to Sunday stints for monetary purposes, but also fancied brightening things up with a bit of a road trip. Meanwhile, Sandy was knee-deep in books in Stornoway, as his summer-long placement continued apace. Suddenly I had a brainwave: why not kill two birds with one Lewis-sized stone?











Sunburst on the morning moor
The light of God
The heart of youth
I look around me
My eyes find their rest on this garden
The Flower of the West

The week I got to spend in the Western Isles would really need a Blog of its own to give it proper justice, but suffice to say it was a classic on the level of Swansea and Majorca in years gone by. When you're next running down the main road in Tiree with 7p on your person and the boat pulling in on the horizon, you'll know what I mean.



I didn't have a choice but to lift you up
And sing whatever song you wanted me to

Only love can leave such a mark
But only love can leave such a scar

Back on dry land, Gaga Oh-La-La was still sweeping to power Obama-style, U2 were playing at Hampden, and David duly provided me with a ticket for the epic performance, claw-and-all. At work, I felt more ingratiated with the local environment than ever before, and was finally starting to get close with some of the co-workers. Surprisingly close...weirdly close? But while it was refreshing to be in such banterous company, I knew that the dreaded clutches of University were preparing to re-tighten their grip round my academic neck. I never thought I'd prefer Somerfield to Uni, but due to a convoluted combination of factors, I was almost wishing I could stay full-time at work. The MSc was looming, and I was still Kent Road-less. A desparate Facebook message was sent round, asking anyone if they were interested in flat-hunting with me. It was about as successful as my invites to the Kent Road flat party, appropriately. With no other conceivable option, I was resigned to the last resort. In my fifth year of University life...I was going to live it up in Halls!


Bono: Claws



See, it can't be seen
It's a dreamless dream
That comes alive when no-one's watching
Books and words can't write
Of a great divine
That comes alive when no-one's watching

The great things that you do
Are so meaningless to you

The last three and a half months have been such a blur that it would be difficult to describe everything in meticulous detail here (and even more monotonous than usual). Put simply, Part I of the Course From Hell has been the best of times, and the worst of times. My ludicrous rent (FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY (420) POUNDS A MONTH) has forced me to take more overtime than my course can realistically allow, meaning that the mere completion of my coursework has become a struggle. Report Season in October was one of the worst fortnights I'm ever likely to endure, characterised by long, sleepless nights in the Geography basement and half-assed submissions on deadline day. The nights out have turned into hazy but enjoyable blurs, aided and abetted by Cheesy Pop's ridiculously cheap pricing revision. I've been stopped by police for trying to drag a sofa back to Maclay (what the hell was I thinking?)

I stressed out to the max in November when I thought someone was work was dead (woops), then watched in disbelief as she walked back into the store in December. I've been duped into sending ANOTHER seedy text to ANOTHER woman, except this time I didn't even (really) fancy her. I was bundled into a taxi by David, Sandy, Fergus, Jonathan, Joanna and apparently half the QM, as my end-of-exam boozing spiralled out of control at 12 Hour Cheesy. I've managed to accidentally flirt with Nerina Pallot, despite her being married (for now). I've been stood in the sodding rain for six hours trying to survey, as Jim Jefferies and his Kilmarnock Under 21's shout "Midget On A Box!" at my colleague Lola. Alright, that one was more humorous than anything else.


Jefferies: Needs to control youngsters

*I also got flashed by a young lady. But she was probably blootered. it was that kind of semester.*

The term, and perhaps the year, is best contextualised by the story of the Battle of Howard Street. There I am, doing my usual midweek overtime in November, when security guard Alex (he catches all the scum) notices a young whipper-snapper trying to leg it with four cans of Stella. Alex promptly drags him into the store, to the usual complaints - "Whit ye daeing? Ah've dun nuffin!" When they get through the staff door, however, all hell breaks loose. Three of his mates, clearly on some sort of illegal substances, burst through the doors and begin pounding on Alex. At this point, Trading Manager and ex-Army tough guy Blair has seen enough, and wades into the ensuing scuffle with such aplomb that he ends up getting thrown into the cages (in a real E-C-DUB moment), becoming concussed in the process.



The fight spills out to the shop floor, where middle aged women shriek with horror at the unfolding incident. Jamie Lee pulls her most shocked face since...well, since she found me drunk outside Somerfield at 6.45am. She yells at Stuart to pull the alarm. By this point, I'm thinking "Fire". I can't even see round the corner, but all I can hear are loud and exasperated shouts. Then someone shouts "Knife", and I really brick it. One of the neds is trying to get at Blair with a syringe, but Blair's having none of it, performing a double-arm takedown on the little s**t. The riot edges closer to the front door, where a crowd of stunned customers have gathered (no doubt forgetting that this would be THE time to walk out the door with a bunch of free goodies). Graeme is now trying to subdue one of the crazed ned-terrorists, Smeaton-style, and Waz has left the kiosk to wade in too. Meanwhile, Frank and Darren have zoomed downstairs to join the fight. At the door, a disabled man has been trying to get donations for Cancer Research Scotland, but the sub-human scum have no compassion for him, almost knocking him out of his wheelchair in their insane attempts to leave the shop with the aforementioned Stella.

It winds up with eight of our guys on top of four of them, as one of their mothers stands at the side screaming "WHIT YE DAEING TAE MAH SUN?!?" in the style of those old women at the British wrestling with the handbags. A 40-yr-old lady leaves the kiosk with her shopping (where James is still serving, admirably) to find that one of the suspect's shoes have come loose in the melée. Seeing a clear opportunity to extract a bit of karma, she dives on to the floor and grabs the trainers - the police are so busy with the other three by this point that they don't even notice. With a look of intelligent hatred, she bends over and unleashes the kind of finishing line anyone would be proud of.

"I'VE GOT YOUR F*****G SHOES NOW."



I want your loving
And I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Other than that, it would be beyond me to try and accurately sum up the year just past. But to channel the dual spirits of Rage/McElderry again, I've deduced that sometimes other people are right when they try and advise me to change my ways. Tony gave me a pep talk in September that I still try and live by to this day, and it involved simple subtleties like carrying myself more confidently, and not trying to turn every sentence into a pun/joke. I still do that in Blogs, but that's not real life, so it hardly counts. However, the 'discourse' that I read about in Cultural Geography - that pre-ordained sequence of thoughts and opinions which just filters down through society from the media - is not a legally binding document to guide the Earth's 6 billion inhabitants through their lives. People act differently from other people - there is no average and there is no standard, until someone just says there is. Having said that, I've taken on board a lot of what people have told me this year, and I like to think I started to become a little less farcical in the autumn. But if there's one thing I've learnt from 2009, it's that the simple things in life are often complicated, and the complex things are usually rather easy.

There was a very cautious man who never laughed or cried
He never risked, he never lost, he never won or tried
And when he one day passed away, his insurance was denied
For since he never really lived, they claimed he never died








The last thing anyone would ever want is to be labelled dull, and I seem to live in a city where anything is possible at any moment. One minute it's throwing six assignments at you, the next it's throwing a torrent of abuse and one of your customers is urinating on the floor (true). But to be honest, I wouldn't have it any other way, minus the urine of course. 2009 was the most unpredictable and tumultuous year of the lot, but I like to think I've come out of it stronger for the experience. Now I'm as ready as I'll ever be (however ready that is) to finish Uni, get some of that dollar dollar bill and fulfil all those other ambitions I have no time or inspiration to achieve at the moment. Because if we have to live in such a ridiculous world as this, we'll just have to play it at its own game. I certainly plan on doing so. Then and only then will it realise that it can't read my, can't read my, no it can't read my poker face.



Happy New Decade.