There’s much talk this year about NOT making new year resolutions because they inevitably lead to failure and only add to the growing bank of evidence that you are a shit-head living a shit-head life.

I am old school in this matter. I am a stiff-upper-lip, this-is-how-we-won-the-war, public-school-matron who understands how to be British in these areas and, by Jove, do we need to be better at being British by the end of March when the no-deal invisible wall is erected around our green and pleasant island and we immediately get to work on project: Make Britain Great Again (well, not Scotland and maybe not Northern Ireland – yak), a project which will involve excellently British character-building experiences like famine, a cutting off of the gas, a rise in racism and the loss of Nandos (foreign muck).

It’ll be like the Blitz! And that was FUN.

To be properly British one must operate with an inflated sense of one’s own importance coupled with a constant sense of shame, failure and confusion due to being encouraged to aspire to be significant other, more important Brits like elected, mindless, fat arseholes who ride bikes but never get slim and ride hookers but never get fired. No matter! For they are RICH and POWERFUL while you are on a zero-hours contract and have a shambolic personality.

Project Make Britain Great Again is in full swing here at the Annagram house. There is no namby-pamby ‘reflecting on our successes and achievements last year’; no replacing hard-graft resolutions with mindful, guiding buzzwords or mottos like, ‘pay attention!’ or ‘be true to myself’. No. It is my duty to prepare my offspring for a lifetime of BEING BRITISH by setting unachievable goals which leave them feeling like utter failures.

I began last night by demonstrating to my son that it is perfectly acceptable to spend New Year’s Eve alone and sobbing at your kitchen table whilst creating a list of things-I-will-fuck-up- next-year-and-end-up-crying-about-again-on-NYE-but-pretending-to-my-child-that-I’m-fine.

My list:

1. To be happy. Which is patently a far too American aspiration. The child said to me: ‘but you’re already happy, Mum’ and that made my heart swell because I was, at the time, crying quite copiously and felt proud of him for already being able to achieve that most British skill: PRETENDING EMOTIONS DON’T EXIST.

2. For my children to be happy. Another grotesquely Obama-esque goal. Far too flakey; this amounts to a prayer, a hope, and one I can have only limited control over. My son said: ‘I will be happy if I can leave school and be Ronaldo’ and my heart swelled again, proud that he is already able to LOOK UP TO RAPISTS.

3. Finish writing my book. This is more like it. A thing I can DO. A thing I can ACHIEVE and also punish myself with due to feeling endlessly untalented. My child, my darling, shining light, said: ‘Mum. You’ll never do it unless you quit Facebook’. Ah, my wise little sage, please fuck off until you are old enough to enact the adult life-skills of self-sabotage and procrastination.

4. Quit Facebook. Because my wise little sage is right. Because last night he observed: ‘Mum, every time you look at Facebook, you cry.’ This morning I have revised (aka: already failed at) this resolution by vowing to quit only certain people on Facebook. People whose lives make me cry. The 2019 Facebook mantra: block block block.

5. Anna First. I’m with Trump on this. I’m with Farage. If I don’t want to spend New Year’s Eve 2019 the same way I spent New Year’s Eve 2018 and New Year’s Eve 2017 I must begin to PUT ANNA FIRST. This will require a radical overhaul of my shambolic personality. It will mean that with every decision, every move I make, I must question if it is in MY interests, if it will make ME happy and not some other shambolic shit-head. The child asked: ‘but what about if I need pancakes?’ I replied: ‘you can make your own pancakes’. He pleaded: ‘but what about other things like going to school? I can’t take myself to school!’ I replied: ‘taking you to school IS in my best interests. It makes me very happy. It means I can spend all day living on benefits, smoking, writing my book and repeatedly crying whilst blocking-unblocking-blocking shit-heads on Facebook. And who knows? Perhaps this, my child, perhaps this lifestyle may one day lead to me being that elected, fat, rich, powerful man on a bicycle we all must aspire to be.’ The child put his hand on my shoulder and said: ‘can I have a Curly-Wurly?’ And my heart swelled again, because he knows the art of self-soothing, of the satisfying gnawing of a Curly-Wurly, especially when you have a wobbly tooth.

The child’s list of ‘Things I Want To Archive (sic) in 2019’:

1. Play more football. He’d better, seeing as Santa bought him THE MOST EXPENSIVE FOOTBALL BOOTS IN NIKELAND.

2. Be more sensible about songs. This relates to his constant moaning about my occasional playing of Barbara Streisand in the car which led to me, on a recent journey, threatening to throw his new football boots out of the window on the A14.

3. Don’t tell Mum to get off her phone. Finally he understands that sometimes I am working on my phone. That my work isn’t in an office like his Dad’s. However, if he finds me crying and looking at Facebook he is free to throw it out of the front window onto the A6010.

4. Eat more healthy things. Purple Quality Street totally count. Nuts, innit.

5. Put [insert his name here] First. Er. NO, mate. You don’t get to do that shit until you’ve spent at least two consecutive New Year’s Eve’s wailing at your kitchen table. Such adult pleasures await you in your forties if your life choices have been as good as mine.

We will both likely fail in all our resolutions. But I cannot, WILL NOT spend another New Year’s Eve in tears. My son deserves better. I deserve better. So perhaps I do have a motto for this year after all: Make Anna Great Again.

First up, I gotta build me some serious walls…

HNY, twats x

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