162: Happy New Year

Once again I am a naughty boy sent to the Blogmaster’s office to explain away my inexcusable deed via the medium of excuse.  I failed to hand in my blogwork on time yesterday, and today I have a lot of catching up to do.  I may also have to stay back late to write lines or copy words out of the dictionary.  So Bradshaw, why did you fail to hand your blog in on time yesterday?  I don’t care that it was New Year’s Eve and today is the first day of 2011, a new year and a new decade (depending on a pedantic and possibly wrong interpretation of facts); every day is a blogging day and you know this already.  We’ve been over this countless times before.  I don’t care if you are hospitalised or taken hostage; the blog still needs doing on a daily basis.  So Bradshaw, whatever could have possessed you to neglect your duties yesterday?

Well Blogmaster, you know yesterday was New Year’s Eve and I did spend the day playing with my three year old niece, who I haven’t seen for a while, missed over Christmas, and who is growing up really quickly.  But I know these concerns mean little to you and your I don’t care, do the blog mantra.  Then after she left I spent the rest of the evening arrogantly and blatantly refusing to do the blog.  What I should have been doing, according to the Good Time Police, the Party Garda, is standing in a hot sweaty room surrounded by perfumed arseholes in checked shirts, or women attempting to either look old enough to buy drinks or young enough to not look disgusting as the proverbial mutton dressed inappropriately.  I should have forced myself into a tightly packed space with a drink in one hand, a small shuffling dance in my feet and a couple of hundred quid in my pocket.  The money is to be spent on massively increased entrance fees and taxi rides, and that is what constitutes fun.  Happy New Year.

I took the alternative option and stayed in with my parents and fiancée watching Coronation Street, Tim Minchin and the Princess Bride.  This was lubricated with sparkling rosé, iced Bailey’s and four bottles of Lancaster Amber ale and followed with a nap on the sofa, a Happy New Year kiss and then off to bed with a book.  Great night; perhaps signalling my premature retreat into encroaching middle age, or perhaps just a decent fun night in on a night when it is particularly expensive and unpleasant to go out.  But if I stayed in why did I not write the blog yesterday?  Surely I should have and have left myself with no room to manoeuvre a convincing excuse.  How about this for an excuse: I just couldn’t be arsed.

P.S.  I'm getting married next year.