A year of singing, dancing and improvised explosive devices

The generation known as Millennials seems relatively unmoved by the wave of carnage that swept through the ranks of the rich and famous in 2016. Leonard who? Carrie Fisher the astronaut? Princess Leia’s from, er, Sweden, right? But it’s okay. Their 2016 will come. Around 2056, I expect, when their idols and heroes start dying.

I can’t name any offhand because I don’t know any celebrities in their 20s. Perhaps there aren’t any. Perhaps that dream died when Britney Spears allowed the world a rare glimpse of her pet beaver. With any luck, though, having Donald Trump in the White House will once and for all put an end to the myth that wealth makes gods of men. Or, in the case of women, looks and sometimes even talent.

Speaking of which, I read a tweet two days after Christmas. Look, I wasn’t well. Sure, I could have picked up my urine-soaked copy of Tolstoy’s Big Book of Jokes from the bathroom floor, but I could barely cope with Twitter. It was a tweet from what I took to be a Trump parody account. It read, “The cheap 12 inch sq. marble tiles behind speaker at UN always bothered me. I will replace with beautiful large marble slabs if they ask me.” The laughter died in my throat when I realised the tweet genuinely was his own. The world is in meltdown and he’s thinking how best to redecorate the United Nations?

His state visits are going to be interesting. “Yeah, yeah, civil war, refugees, blah blah blah got it. Know what worries me? Your curtains. They clash. Not good.”

I’m not too worried that this gibbering orange scrotum on legs will start the third world war. I predict he’ll be impeached or assassinated within a year. I hope it’s impeached because we can still have many more years of fun poking him with a stick and seeing what pops out.

This was going to be a column about predictions, but, quite frankly, real life keeps overtaking satire at such a terrifying speed that I can’t possibly catch up, let alone overtake.

I do, however, predict that the leaders of Islamic State will, in August, abandon the idea of establishing a caliphate and go into show business. ISIS – The Musical will open on Broadway in November. It will be choreographed by Ivana Trump.

My money is on 2017 being a damn fine year. Mostly for the Anglo-Saxon tribe, of course, which makes it no different to any other year, really. But opportunities for others will arise, so if you’re not on a terrorist watch list or in a squatter camp, prison or city under siege, you better be woke or you gonna miss da bus.

One of the reasons I know for sure that 2017 is bound to be better than that utter bastard of a year whose name we shall not speak is that the highly respected Pantone Institute has announced that Greenery is its colour of the year. This is excellent news.

The colour of the year in 2014 was Radiant Orchard and tall buildings had to be fenced off to prevent women from jumping to their deaths after discovering Radiant Orchard made them look fat.

In 2015 it was Marsala, which I’ve always associated more with chicken bunnychows than carpets. Last year Pantone foolishly broke with tradition and rashly blended two shades. Rose Quartz and Serenity clearly angered the gods of colour who wasted no time in killing David Bowie and helping Donald Trump win the elections. Thanks Pantone.

And what the hell kind of colour is Greenery anyway?

Pantone executive director Leatrice Eiseman (what the hell kind of name is Leatrice?) explains why the shade was chosen. “Greenery bursts forth in 2017 to provide us with the reassurance we yearn for amid a tumultuous social and political environment.”

Leatrice, I’m all for bursting forth, but I am colour-blind and if I inadvertently pick, say, Reddery instead of Greenery, it doesn’t matter how much yearning I do, I’m just not going to get the reassurance I need. I’m changing my opinion. This is bad news for everyone. Being as environmentally friendly as an oil slick on fire, Donald Trump will hopefully move quickly to crush this liberal mumbo jumbo underfoot.

It wouldn’t be a new year if the Chinese weren’t involved. It’s not always about rhino horns or badger spleens, you know. There are some things that can’t be eaten or traded. At the end of the month, the Year of the Fire Rooster kicks in. It’s the avian version of the fire pool – not quite what it seems.

If there’s one person on the planet who epitomises a rooster, it’s the next president of the United States. Batshit crazy and dumber than a box of socks. I’m going nowhere. I want to see the mother of all cock fights between Donald and Vladimir when the bromance turns ugly.

For the Feng Shoowee-hey-wowies, 2017s colour is burgundy (none of this Greenery nonsense for them). This year’s crystals are amethyst for dreams and topaz for inspiration. Or, in your case, meth for confidence. Cider is the drink, which you can have with your burgundy. Fragrance for the year is myrrh. Call me. I know a guy who knows this other guy. Best myrrh on the streets. And lucky hours are 5-7pm. This is also Happy Hour at The Shrieking Peanut. Coincidence? I think not.

The UN General Assembly has declared 2017 the International Year of Sustainable Tourism for Development. Pass the Valium. Helping peasants half-mad with malaria and moonshine to sell their clay tortoises and wire cars without getting blown up or ripped off is by far the most pressing issue facing the world this year. The International Year of Fighting Fascism can be put on hold for another decade or two. No rush.

Speaking of valiant but doomed causes, that dying horse Barack Obama aimed one of his last kicks at Israel the other day. America abstained from a Security Council vote and allowed the adoption of a resolution demanding a halt to the building of illegal Jewish settlements in the West Bank and East Jerusalem. Trump tweeted soon afterwards, “Stay strong Israel. January 20th is fast approaching!”

There’s been trouble in those parts ever since Moses was found motherless in the bullrushes, but this loathsome jowly cockwomble is the man to fix it. He’s clearly heard of the two-steak solution and has decided that Israel will get the meat while the Palestinians can have the bones. Can’t get fairer than that.

Buckle up, people. 2017 is going to be a bumpy ride.

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2 thoughts on “A year of singing, dancing and improvised explosive devices

  1. I had my heart set on not making it to 2017, but somehow Ben, you give us all a reason to hang around and smell the napalm/flowers/sewerage.

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