They're just numbers on a calendar, really.

Well, what a year.

WHAT. A. YEAR.

And to celebrate what can only be described as an approximate three hundred day molestation of my general health and mental well being, I'm going to march over to the nearest off license with as much swagger as the body allows, pick up a fat bottle of Jameson's, demolish the first curry I see and then get involved with another molestation of my general health and mental well being, this time brought about through my own designs. Should be a chuckle.

I've grown tired of holding out optimism for New Year's Eve, so getting plastered and following the crowd rather than spearheading the entire operation is my plan of action this time round. An Indian restaurant followed by a party somewhere? I can abide by that. Fingers crossed for fireworks and a calamity punch up down Holloway Road.

So aye, have a jolly night whatever you end up doing. But for the love of God, whatever you do, don't rub your nipples against a cheese grater.

Big love,

Ryan.

Merry Christmas.

To anyone who's ever taken the time to pass on their best wishes, or give me support, or even just read this blog, I hope you have a Merry Christmas. Quite a year this has been; let's hope 2012 brings a bit more joy and cause of celebration.

Remember, it's a slap in the face to the chef if you don't take a cheeky nap after finishing your Christmas lunch. So don't go around offending anyone, ok?

Have a good one you beautiful bitches.