For a number of years now I’ve been writing an end of the year round up of events – mainly as a way to get some frustration with the human race out of my system. Looking back at them they always start by expressing disbelief that the year was actually crazier than the year before.
2022 is no different.
The year kicked off with its very own ‘gate’ – Partygate! Press revelations shocked absolutely no one by reporting that the Hooray Henrys populating 10 Downing Street had been treating it like Anabel’s nightclub whilst everyone else had been stuck at home watching Netflix and clapping out of their windows. Suddenly a hitherto unknown civil servant was catapulted into the limelight – step forward Sue Gray. Apparently she was the sort of no nonsense lady who would get to the bottom of things. I was imagining her doggedly interrogating Boris Johnson at every opportunity, much to his chagrin, and just at the moment he thinks he’s got rid of her she turns with “just one more thing…” and delivers the killer question. Sadly my Columbo fantasy was not to be. Just as the conclusions were about to be revealed the report got kicked into the long grass by being referred to the police. And what was their devastating method of detection? Polygraphs? Fingerprints? DNA? CCTV? Nope. It was a chuffing multiple choice questionarre. Holmes would be spinning in his grave – if he wasn’t a fictional character. Soon everyone had gate fatigue and what did it matter if they broke the law anyway – there was a war on.
Yes, Vladimir Putin the man who for years had seemed like a murdering psychopath decided to fulfil his destiny by going down in history as one with his decision to invade Ukraine. Boris Johnson was quick to turn this into a PR opportunity. “You can’t get rid of me! Not while there’s a war on!” He kinda left out the fact that it was elsewhere, we weren’t fighting in it, and there’s always a war on somewhere, but faster than you can say “I’ve impregnated an intern” he was off to Ukraine to offer some much needed photo opportunities.
Meanwhile all the Russian oligarchs that had been using London as a kind of upmarket Cash Converters were told no more tennis with Boris Johnson and their funds were going to be confiscated in, er, 30 days. Phew! “Sergei, load up the gold bars, we’re taking the yacht to the Cayman Islands.”
Video’s featuring performative meat artist Salt Bea began going viral this year. He owns a bizarre restaurant in Knightsbridge (where else?) that can set the hard working hedge fund manager back £1,450 for Golden Giant Tomahawk steak alone. The whole point of the restaurant seems to be not to enjoy the food but to demonstrate to the group of colossal wankers you’re dining with what a colossal wanker you you are. If you spend enough Salt Bea himself will come and serve your steak – looking like a hit man for Fray Bentos he’ll do a sexy little salt shaker dance before sensuously sliding a slice of dead cow down your throat. It’s the ultimate Instagram dining experience.
Autumn witnessed the Clownfall of roisterer in chief Boris Johnson. It was always going to end in ignominy for Johnson because he was only in it for the LOLZ. He might have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for that pesky pandemic. Prior to that his one job was to stick his thumbs up and bellow ‘Rule Britannia’ as the good ship Brexit steadfastly sunk into the English Channel. He was a sort of national ‘vibe man’ at a gig – a Brexit Bez. The moment he had to shoulder some responsibility it all became a bit too much for him and he swiftly retreated into his old habits of boozing and procreation.
There followed yet another Tory leadership election (I’ve lost count) featuring an assortment of the cabinet of grotesques that Johnson had assembled around him to make him look good, and a few backbenchers so unknown that even they weren’t sure who they were. Astonishingly the front runners soon became the meal deal of death guy and the Instagram hat model. During the campaign someone must have whispered in Truss’s ear “Liz, you only have to appeal to the Tory party members” because her tactic quickly became to turn up at debates and say things like “French people smell of cheese” then gawp in wide-eyed wonderment as the audience applauded and cheered.
One can surmise that Truss’s popularity with octogenarian members of the Tory party was that her density was equal to that of of black hole and thus time slowed down as they approached her event horizon. Unfortunately the combined denseness of Truss and Kwarteng sent them spiralling into a collision unleashing gravitational waves of destruction on the economy. Their ‘Reverse Robin Hood’ plan was such a terrible idea even the markets baulked at the promise of being given even more money, lest the entire edifice collapsed, and went into meltdown. Liz & Kwasi performed a U turn so quick that I’m not even sure Vin Diesel could have pulled it off in a Fast & Furious movie, but it was too late – back to Instagramming hats for Liz.
It was all a bit much for The Queen who decided to shuffle off to the great palace in the sky. Who could blame her? And while it did feel like a genuinely historic event, every TV station went into Queenovision mode with weeks of 24/7 interviews and obituaries. If this had happened in the 70s I think the coverage would have been much more restrained – they might have pulled an episode of The Two Ronnies in order to run an extended episode of the news and that would be it. But now every station had to out-royal every other station. The problem was there weren’t enough people who genuinely knew The Queen to go around so you ended up with people like Christopher Biggins talking for two hours about how he once saw Her Majesty using a spoon at a garden party.
In the end it was decided that there was only one right and proper way for the British to pay their respects and that was by queueing. Forget tea & biscuits, James Bond, the Proms, fish & chips, Morris Dancing, Chicken Tikka, losing at football, etc – queueing is the most British thing ever invented. And what a queue it was! There were even queues for the queue. Surely centuries from now the queue will be woven into the tapestry of British folklore along with King Arthur and that bloke who burnt some cakes.
Strikes came back into vogue in with a vengeance this year. It’s a bit like the 70s but they’ve clearly been influenced by Marvel superhero films and assembled a much greater cast of protagonists. Everyone’s at it – rail workers, bus drivers, nurses, ambulance staff, postal workers, civil servants, driving examiners, firefighters, teachers, lecturers, lawyers, even the factory that makes Twiglets is at it – it’s almost as if people have simply had enough!
Elon Musk went from being Tony Stark to Tony Stark Raving Mad. Apparently reducing carbon emissions and space exploration weren’t lofty enough goals and Musk decided that what the world really needs is a platform for douchebro memes. $44 billion is a lot of money to trash your own reputation, most of us can do this for free by getting drunk at a Christmas party. To try and recoup some of his cash he introduced a plan to make available for cold hard cash something which was previously earned by achievement and talent – thus providing a neat analogy of modern life. The plan soon backfired when people realised you could set up blue tick accounts like @el0nmusk and post ‘Free Teslas today for any Maga who brings a raccoon to our showrooms.’
Surely the cultural highlight of the year was Matt ‘I fell in love’ Hancock taking part in I’m A Celebrity. In a production choice akin to casting Harold Shipman in Casualty the former Health Secretary went into the jungle to “raise awareness of dyslexia”. Poor Matt must suffer from it so badly that he was unable to read the note he’d written to himself saying “don’t forget to mention dyslexia you stud”. Hancock managed to perform the basic function of a politician – that is to convince people to vote for you based on the thin veneer of an affable personality – but still came third ensuring his book ‘Everyone Else’s Fault But Mine’ instantly graced the 99p shelves of Bargain Books and he announced the end of his political career in order to find “new and exciting means of communication” (presumably he means Strictly).
So humanity dives headlong into 2023 just as bonkers as it started. I’ve stopped saying ‘next year has got to be more sane hasn’t it?’ and am simply preparing myself for whatever comes next…
…please be aliens.
