It's that time again Pop-Kids. New year's Eve, Olde Lang Syne, (
still don't know what means) out with the old, in with the blah blah.
As I'm currently nursing one bad-ass headcold and have what feels like broken glass inside my chest-area, not to mention at least one instance this evening of the Screaming Sh*ts, I'm not planning on leaving
Chez Sonique tonight.
That said, I've never been overly keen on this particular celebration, to be honest. By 7pm the streets of Cruel Britannia are teeming with lagered-up battalions of the kind of brian-dead drooling, chanting halfwits that you've spent the previous 364 days avoiding. And they all wanna be your friend. Well, the ones that don't wanna kill you do anyway.
That hasn't stopped me trying in the past however, so I reckon I've earned my stripes with this one.
With the benefit of hindsight I'd say that if you're still hellbent on venturing out, the best bet is to find a good Houseparty. Well no, the
best bet is a beach somewhere blazing hot, but if not, try the houseparty. I've fought the
Hogmanay Wars for many a long year dear reader, and now I'm home - home from the Front with a few physical scars and a whole
Smörgåsbord of mental ones. Of which, more later.
So, all that remains for me to add at this point is:




