Friday Nights End Credits

What do you mean, it’s not Friday? It’s the last day of the year, the final chance to get all those things done you so earnestly pledged to do on January 1st. Definite Friday vibes, or possibly a Sunday. I’d have said there’s a Saturday if it weren’t for the 2020 of it all. Of course, we’re living through all those unprecedented times. It’s fine if you didn’t write a concerto or do all that networking you decided would be so many kinds of excellent for the sake of your career. I know, we’ve said all this before, but it’s the sort of thing that bears repeating, especially as there’ll be all those awful productive types with automatic Instagram filters who’ll brag about all that baking and reading they managed to tick off over the course of successive lockdowns.

Hardly any of us are going to be where we thought we were at the beginning of this year, or maybe even a portion through it. You may well have spent a whole lot more time on your own than you’d have previously thought was healthy, the ultimate introvert test to see how you get on with isolation. Maybe you became an unpaid untrained epidemiologist, poring over data and becoming ever more concerned over what’s been going down and how often the government seem to be fleeing as far as possible from common sense decisions that might intervene at a reasonable juncture.

However things shook out this year, whether you managed to contract the virus through taking a few stupid risks (or over the normal course of duty) or you hunkered down and miss the outside world or you had some other variety of displaced trauma or nothing all that much happened at all, you’re still here at the end of it and that’s quite a way away from nothing.

Song choices courtesy of: Frank Hamilton and Plan B

One of Those Days

It’s official, there’s too much news. We’re swaddled in the middle of the Merrineum, there shouldn’t be anything more serious than heroic sugar consumption and maybe the sad shuffling off the mortal coil of a few beloved stars of stage and screen. Surely if that weren’t the case, we wouldn’t have hoarded all those tins of Quality Street right up until the day of Christmas and not one moment before? If post 25th December didn’t make you expressely immune to the effects of overdoing it on the sugar front, it would be insane to have stockpiled biscuits like there was about to be a chocolate shortage. But no, there’s no reprieve from the relentlessness of those perpetually interesting times in which we live.

Prime example, today we’ve had emergency Independent SAGE briefings about how badly the whole pandemic thing’s going, a ludicrously short debate on the future of the nation thanks to that there Brexit deal squeaked through at the absolute last minute, and announcements of yet more tier restrictions because things just didn’t feel dire enough for the shortest of whiles. At no point has 2020 stopped churning out content and at this point I think we’d all very much like to get off the churning waltzer as there’s a very high chance that we’re all going to be collectively sick.

There’s got to be some good stuff going on, right? New vaccine – even though it’s not a magic bullet (especially in light of the new, more transmissable variant. 2020 y’all). And wispy insubstantial piece of nothing that it is, at least there’s a deal on the table (better than nothing, you understand, insanely low bar that might be for the future of a nation). There must be other decent things on the horizon too, but I do find myself circling back to the imminent departure from office of Orange 45. After that, just Johnson to deal with and it’ll feel like we’re home free(er).

Song choice courtesy of: Joshua Radin

You Know Where to Find the Love Sex Romance

A romance series, you say? That dropped on Christmas Day. Well, you’re going to have to sell me a bit harder than that. I’ve got better things to do than to ignore everything else going on during my extremely busy days to sit slack jawed in front of a laptop as the non-plague people skip about the screen with nary a concern about social distancing. A regency-era show run by the creator of Grey’s Anatomy with a stellar cast based on a series of books I previously knew nothing about? Why don’t you just hook it to my veins?

Maybe I should have expected as such, given Shonda’s shows often leaning so heavily on such escapades, but Bridgerton is pure filth. I might have been expecting a tame Regency drama where mere glances between potential lovers feels like enough to set everyone in the room aflame and where brushing fingertips is the most erotic act (and how) we get to see on-screen, but this show keeps on going. By episode six, we’re treated to a full-blown sex montage. And let’s be honest, there will be plenty of people (nonchalant whistling) who’ll be watching solely for the likes of Rene-Jean Page. And who could blame them? Add that to a Julie Andrews voiceover and you’ve hit the sweet spot of a venn diagram that’s turned out to be less niche than you might have originally suspected.

Bridgerton is a show with flaws, sure. Across eight episodes, there are some real baggy bits. And the story falls into the perpetual romance trap of having a narrative that would have been solved in about half a minute if the characters would just have a straightforward conversation with each other, but that’s the genre for you. In some bits, it feels like they’re trying just a bit too hard to make it an ensemble, but maybe that’s the source material trying its hardest to set up the slew of sequels (I haven’t read any of these novels. Yet). The diverse casting is refreshing in that we get both empire waists and a wider palette beyond the normal assorted shades of beige, but you can’t help feeling that they didn’t do enough with it

While this isn’t anything like an original observation, this show is neatly summed up as Jane Austen meets Gossip Girl – complete with, spoiler alert, a just as ridiculous Lady Whistledown/GG reveal. I had a marvellous time with it.

Song choices courtesy of: Imogen Heap, Chaos Chaos, Pat Benatar and Alexandre Desplat

Play with Real World

In so many ways, I’m an absolute child. Yesterday saw me digging into an ice cream sundae, today I’m several kinds of delighted to wake up and see that it’s snowing outside (mainly because I’m not the one who has to tackle the drive home). I’m hardly the first to declare so, but there really is something magical about fresh snowfall. Before we’ve had our way with it, transforming all to slush and grime, snow wraps a crisp yet also fluffy blanket around everything.

If you’re in a fit state to appreciate it, that is either inside nestled under layers of blanket with a mug of steaming hot chocolate cradled in your hands as you gaze dreamily out of the window at the world with its glorious new gleaming highlights or romping about with landscape crunching under booted foot and snowflakes melting on your cheeks, snow is marvellous.

But there’s a dark side. Of course there is. We’re not allowed to have nice things. That layer of frosting is temporary, it’ll freeze or turn to mushy grey. An already harried NHS will get snowed under too with breaks and sprains sprawled across slippery surfaces and the inevitable results of cars skidding across treacherous roads. Which is to say nothing for the folk who’ve spent the festive season breathing on each other and fostering that lovely new variant that’s all the rage these days.

So, maybe I’ve already fallen out of love with the idea of the winter wonderland. When I was in a dreamy recently arisen state and the streetlamps were still on, casting everything in an orange glow, it was all rather more lovely. Now with my practical adult head on, with a mind to what the roads might be like, it’s all been spoiled. And there are just too many recent analogies to be able to pluck just the one out of the writhing mass of contradictions. Maybe I should try and hibernate and see if 2021’s a bit more friendly.

Song choices courtesy of: Vance Joy, Matchbox Twenty and Alexandre Desplat

Chasing the Sweet Silver Yesterday

We’re in the underbelly of the year, the undefined stretch of time between festive bits that’s most often taken up with the important matters of eating up the towering remains that are the Christmas leftovers (because they absolutely couldn’t be started until the day itself) and wondering what the next year might hold once it gets going (because resolutions go off if they get kickstarted prior to the chimes of the new year). It’s enough to induce more than a little nostalgia.

And when there’s a pandemic in the mix, it’s even easier to find yourself wondering what might or might not have happened this year, given half the chance. Maybe you were planning to pick up some variety of new skill, have a big old clear out of the spare room in order to turn it into your recording studio or stick with a fitness kick for longer than the time it takes to microwave a burrito (or crack open the seal on that tin of Quality Street that’s been fluttering its eyelashes at you for like two whole days now).

But all the way back to January seems like such a sweeter, simpler time. All we had to worry about was the imminence of Brexit and that virus situation unfolding all the way across the world in China. Yeah, it would be better if we could find our way back to then. Sure, no one would listen to all our warnings and we’d get the frustration of watching everything happen again as we were relegated to a Cassandra-ish figure. But we could savour the last hug we got with our no-longer nearest and dearest and then go on to buy up masks and toilet paper and be part of the problem rather than the solution. It’s probably a good thing we haven’t invented time travel yet, I don’t think we’d made the best choices.

Song choices courtesy of: Michael Giacchino, Neil Diamond, Fleetwood Mac and Thirty Seconds to Mars

Hit Me With Your Best Fireworks

When I were a youngling and this was all fields, there was no such thing as the rona, and I don’t think anyone realised quite what a golden age we were living, I swear there didn’t used to be so many fireworks. I haven’t been to a large scale bonfire night display for many a year but that’s mainly because I don’t really feel the lack of them these days. People’ll let them off for any old thing and that does seem to rather cheapen the endeavour, doesn’t it? And it’s a bit stress inducing for all the assorted household pets I don’t currently have but intend to gather about me someday.

So, if I’ve become somewhat jaded in my old age (perish the thought), perhaps it’s time for the enthusiasts to try and change my mind, ready for the host of socially distanced personal extravaganzas that are bound to be cracked out for new ringing in of 2021 (and the general sayonaraing we need to give 2020 on its way out, just to make sure it’s gone). But it’s going to have to be something genuinely impressive. You know the sort of thing, big Gandalf style swooping dragon.

Sure, pretty whizzbangs are nice and all but don’t their ubiquity cheapen thier individual effect? I can’t help but thinking that my attempt to dare you towards bigger and better is part of the problem rather than the solution. But at least I’m getting involved, you can’t give me too much grief for wading into something potentially problematic but has the current capacity to give people joy (somthing not to be knocked in the era of th plague), offering up my vague opinions as gospel but without anything to back them up and then pushing for solutions that won’t really help the supposed issue I’ve decided is the main thing to be concerned about. It just wouldn’t be fair.

Song choices courtesy of: Pat Benatar and First Aid Kit

Gold Starships

How confident are you in the decisions you’ve made regarding the presents you’ve bought, made, or stolen from an alternate universe this year? Did you make the cardinal error of getting something for someone else that you’d really rather be given yourself (as long as I don’t tell too many people which one of the presents I bought that applies to, it’ll all be fine)? I suppose the only thing you have to ask yourself is this: is what you got better than a gold starship?

I mean, if it somehow is, then congratulations, you’ve won Christmas. For this year. Because are you going to be able to top that come next year? I didn’t think so. You’re going to have to shut that relationship down sometime during 2021 for fear of disappointing the giftee you’ve totally nailed this year.

What I’m saying is that maybe it’s for the best that you’ve trotted out the same bog standard tat as you normally do. Let people play to their strengths. There are some who just have a better basic level of present giving than you do. I’m sure there are things you’re good at too. But there are times when it can become a little bit more difficult to remember what those things are. Like when someone else gets your significant other a gift with such emotional resonance that it might as well be a gold-plated starship for the smile it’s put on their face.

And, of course, when it finally gets to be your turn, you can already tell that no one’s put a shiny vessel of space exploration under the tree for you. But that’s fine. Of course it is. It’s the thought that counts. They tried that’s the main thing. It’s not their fault they’ve got you pegged as someone else altogether, you don’t give anything away. You can save your dreams of luxury spacefaring for yet another year.

Song choices courtesy of: First Aid Kit and Nicki Minaj

Come, Take a Trip in My Air-ship

I might not have ironed out all the finer details just yet, but it’s clear to me that the only way to overcome all this surface-level nonsense is to literally rise above. When we’re a bubble in the skies, whether we’re floating in a zeppelin, hot air balloon or reinforced soap bubble of some description (there are maybe quite a few things I haven’t figured out), there won’t be any of the normal concerns that seemed so pressing on the ground. Not even gravity will be able to touch you.

But maybe you wouldn’t be able to let go. We might launch ourselves towards the skies with the aim of floating around, bobbing about like carefree champagne corks buoyed up by the sheer act of unshackling ourselves the tyranny of society, but you could be overwhelmed and preoccupied th everything you left behind, tiers dancing in front of your eyes, thoughts intruding about whether they actually reached a freaking Brexit deal in the end.

At the time of writing, pre-7am, we’re supposed to be on the brink of agreement. Of course, it’s been a stupidly long period of tantric negotiation, never quite reaching the summit of our collective ambitions. This is the fairytale moment, the point in the hallmark movie when everything would be fixed and snow would flutter down gently to annoint the romantic leads with a little bit of magic. It does make a certain amount of narrative sense, but it could also be the natural result of a chronic overpromiser who’s allergic to detail leaving absolutely everything to the last minute.

It’s not going to be pretty or anything approaching what was promised, but here’s hoping that it’ll meet the bare minimum standards of not being many times worse than the worst possible alternative. But I won’t care, flying along in my awesome air-ship you decided you were too good to travel in with me.

Song choice courtesy of: Chevy Chase

All of This is Losing the War

Fund the damn NHS. The major method for getting adequate healthcare in a major economy shouldn’t be pensioners shuffling round their gardens or up and down stairs. I know, these stories are heart warming and a way to show the indefatigable natures of some people, that time will not dull or diminish them. But this is not alright. To rally beside the likes of Captain Tom, a lady in her nineties has raised over 400 grand. I can’t help it, my initial reaction to that is fury.

How dare she grab the spotlight in such a cynical ploy for attention? No, fine, I haven’t made the leap to old lady bashing. But this should not be the way we run. The national health service shouldn’t have to be a charity, begging for funds to keep the lights on and the MRI machine running. In a world where we’ve got billions to whack out on dodgy PPE contracts and the like, this is downright shameful.

Good on Margaret, congratulations for making a difference in the world, I’m just all sorts of frustrated that such a move is necessary. Yes, she was also fundraising for a hospice, but that’s beside the point. This is what the Tories want, private charity in place of proper state funding for what should come as standard, not anything folk ought to have to be grateful for. Here’s to a 2021 when we’re not forcing pensioners to march to earn crusts for the starving or to buy masks for nurses. And I’ll try to be less furious that so much charity is needed. I’m still capable of having my heart warmed, honest. Like seeing that Sikh groups in Kent have been delivering hot food and water to stranded lorry drivers. But that gets us back to the smoking mess of Brexit and my impending coronary. Merry nearly Christmas!

Song choices courtesy of: Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. and Kings of Convenience

Plain Sailing Lost Souls

It’s been a festering toilet of an unwashed armpit of a year. Maybe you disagree and the last twelve or so months have been many kinds of excellent for you. Well, great. Whether it’s been spent all on your own and that’s the way you like it (uh huh uh huh) or that your personal bubble has been so overflowing with joy that you’ve barely noticed what’s been going down outside of it, if it’s all been going very well for you then I’m sure that you’re more than secure enough to put up with a bit of 2020 bashing from the less fortunate of us. And of course, I’m always taking up this opinion from a remote-working dependent-free perspective. Whatever’s happened to me this year, I haven’t gone hungry or worried about paying next month’s bills.

But it’s been a long one, hasn’t it? An endless parade of moments and matters that elbowed their way to the forefront only to be elbowed away the next. Assorted spats over trans rights, widespread debates over racial inequality, whether or not driving to Barnard’s Castle is the best way to get an eye test, a big old man baby refusing to accept legitimate electoral results – these are all topics that reared their ugly or otherwise heads this year and more. The Labour party ripped itself to bits yet again too (well, there’s nothing much to oppose as the moment so they’ve got plenty of time for infighting. Apart from incidental things like a bully in the cabinet that everyone has to do their best to rally round and the government’s repeated refusal to feed hungry children).

And then there’s Covid. And Brexit. Not much going on, is there? Along with everything else, 2020 has been something of an overstuffed buffet, too many unpalatable dishes on offer for you to take in the dangerous levels of dodgy seasoning and liberal sprinklings of actual laxatives for that extra kick.

Song choices courtesy of: Frank Turner and Blondie