Come at me, 2019, you numbery bastard!
- Spend more time with the people I love, despite what that restraining order says
- Train to become a dentist, and then realise that’s a lot of hard work, so just do it as a hobby instead
- Start rearing donkeys – it’s getting too dangerous to do oral with them
- Learn how to juggle, and then just never juggle again, as a snub to hard-working jugglers everywhere
- Stop kicking the cat so much
- Come up with a better nickname for my eldest child than ‘The Cat’
- Get a cat
- Kick it
- Develop more and more ingenious ways of smuggling sic (sic) into my writing. Eyema (sic) puppy when I get going. Would you like a pup(sic)le? Nah, fuck that. I’m sick (sic) of it already.
- Get my new child’s toy – the Trama-Doll – into shops. One lick, and your kid’s guaranteed to sleep through the night. And maybe the next night too.
- Develop a time machine, and use it to go back in time to change the previous item on this list to something really embarrassing that will make my younger self look like an absolute prick
- Go back in time again to just after the point where my future self has altered item number ten, and delete it.
- Go back to 2008 and destroy the time machine so this can’t happen again. Hide for ten years until the 31st of December 2018 and then resume normal life
- Get angry at myself for not doing something a little cooler with the time-machine, like turning up to a young John Wayne Gacy’s birthday party dressed as a clown, giving Karl Marx a £60,000 Rolex for Christmas, or taking a camera back to get footage of Christ’s crew(sic)fiction.
- Take the kids on holiday to France. But then realise how expensive that is, so just bribe everyone in a small hamlet in Perthshire to wear berets, and walk around clutching baguettes, and saying ‘ze’ instead of ‘the’ for a week. The daft little bastards will never be able to tell the difference.
- Learn to cook with cats – either using them as ingredients, or teaching them how to work the oven, whichever is funniest
- Kill Kenny
- Aim to have a city named after me within the first six months of 2019
- Get bored with that by March, and then just change my name to ‘Dundee’
- Hit the Jim (sic) more often. Jim’s such an irritating cunt.
- When people comment that I’m out of shape, remind them that I’m actually a full ten years older than I am thanks to a time-travelling accident.
And below are last year’s cluster of resolutions, which of course I stuck to most rigorously.
- Become a tiger. This is not a metaphor. I’m going to become an actual tiger. I just need to find the money for the surgery. Then I need to learn how to play golf. Which will be difficult with four paws, but that’s part of the challenge.
- Pose nude for page 3. Any amateur can do that in the Daily Sport. I’m going to do it in Angler’s Monthly. Catch THAT, JR Hartley.
- Become nationally famous for the catchprase: ‘WOAH! WHO ORDERED THE SPANISH FRITTATA OVER HERE, AM I RIGHT?’
- Reduce The Krankies by three-quarters.
- Get Pixar to commission my sequel to ‘Up’. In ‘Under’, a grief-stricken Russel will take to the clouds for one final adventure atop Mr Frederickson’s balloon-powered coffin, with only the stuffed corpse of his talking dog and 600 paracetemol for company.
- Steal money and then invest it ironically. I’m especially looking forward to funding a golden archway for Peta’s headquarters using McDonalds’ billions, and launching the Vatican’s new condom: ‘Pope one on, Pope it up.’
- Become a Scientologist. And then escape from them, and get my own TV show about it. Which will be co-hosted by a quarter of a Krankie.
- Become a celebrity medium, and then wait long years for Les Dennis and Beyonce to die so I can use my fucking brilliant jokes (‘If he’s up there, I’ll give you the money me’self’ and ‘Are y’all here for the Seyonce?’) and then retire.
- Run for parliament. And then at the last minute veer off so I don’t break my nose or get shot by armed police.
- Not die. I’ve been pretty good at this one so far.