Review of the year that was.

Well, that’s that then, 2022, nearly at an end and what a year it’s been- Three Prime Ministers, Two monarchs, a World Cup in December (wi’ a Final Hat Trick for the loser)- Nurses strikin’ for the first time in- ever, Government corruption under oor noses, gaun unpunished, mayhem in the Whitehoose and an invasion and war in Europe- and aw that before PELE died. Hibs have been up and doon like the Assyrian empire- One minute they’re knockin’ the Ba’ aboot like the 1970 Brazilians and the next minute they lose Two goals and get a man sent off. Scotland were awright this year- still didny qualify for the World Cup in the Desert, but we’re a better watch, these days. Jock Stein said that tae qualify for the World Cup ye wear yer workin’ claes and ye put on yer Sunday best for the finals- ah’m quite sure that, had we qualified, this tournament wid’ve ended up like aw the others where we’ve no’ taken any claes at aw. The Three days of mournin’ for King Charles’ beloved Mama( ah mean, who even talks like that these days?- Fuck off) was the longest Six months of ma life- ah felt as if ah was in a nightmarish Acid trip that ah couldny get away fae. Like aw ordeals, it ended and we had the fiasco of the Three Baw Bags- Johnson, Truss and Sunak tae follow( or in the middle of it ah suppose).  Aye, it’s been a Shite year. Bordeaux in late March and early April wi’ Davy and Callum was great- apart fae the abject discomfort and misery of walkin’. Ah was glad tae get back tae sittin’ on ma erse in Pumphy. Ah woman in front of Davy and I at the Airport on the way home thought ah was havin’ a heart attack and got a queue person tae get me a shortcut through the crowd. Nice One. Since then ah’ve continued tae abuse ma body wi’ tobacco, Grass and Whisky- too late tae stop noo, ah suppose. Ah’ve had a bit of bother wi ma feet and legs and the odd dizzy spells, but other than that ah’ve been fine- apart fae this Cunt of a cough that ah’ve had for weeks. Ah only cough when ah smoke. Ah’ve got a fat belly and it gets me doon- ah canny walk far, so ah canny walk it off. Anyway, another year wi’ naebody close bitin’ the big yin and that was good. We’re aw at that age where we could drop deid anytime. 11pm- an hour of the auld year left. For the year ahead- “ah hope tae see another summer, cos if ah dinny, it’ll be a Bummer, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes, tae miss them wid be an awfy waste”.  That came intae ma heid the other day- ah should concentrate on ma website instead of the Pusbook. Ah have tae stop bein’ the Henry Gondorf who was pissed in the bath and be the Henry Gondorf who won at cairds on the Train( the Great Escape is still great and Trains play a part in that,tae)- a bit more exercise, cut doon- on the fags, stop eatin’ biscuits and Chocolate and sweeties – stop bein’ a Tit.–Ah’m Sixty in a Hundred days time- ah’m still the hairy ersed laddie ah was when auld Scud died.  On the Eleventh of this month auld Scud wid’ve been a Hundred- so, a wee Uigeadail will be sipped in his memory. Ah often think aboot what he was daein’ at ma age- he was an unhappy man in an unhappy marriage married tae a woman who probably took Ten years off his life. Ah’m no’ very happy or contented masel and ah’m waitin’ tae die if ah’m bein’ honest. Ma Strings or Angioplasty thing wid be life transformin’ for me but ah’ll probably get the OK letter for it the day efter ah die. Ah’m stoppin’, noo, just in case this develops intae a suicide note.