Even before it actually began, the year 2013 has been preparing to accede to the wishes of the vast majority of Britain's 60 million hacked off inhabitants. With nothing remotely good at all likely to happen during its 365 days, 2013 has bought a stout pair of hiking boots so that it can fuck right off, borrowed a rope to enable it to just fucking die and grown both male and female genitalia so that it can go fuck itself.
'I can only apologise,' said 2013, 'but I have nothing to offer Britain except unemployment, pissing rain, Manchester United back on top of the league and the remote but still scary possibility that the US actally will deport Piers Morgan back here. In the circumstances, I would probably avoid happening altogether if I could. Unfortunately, the space-time continuum appears to make that impossible.'
Britain has told the three years since the downturn began to do one in increasingly venomous terms. 2011, for instance, is now permanently disabled after agreeing to demands to shove the coalition up its arse, while 2009 died after a failed operation to extricte the entire banking industry from its own.
2012 was grudgingly given a chance. However, the brief feeling of contentment caused by people in lycra cycling quite well has now passed, to be replaced by profound gloom at the realisation that they are actually going to celebrate the Diamond Jubilee of the frigging coronation.
'All I'll say in my defence is you may as well sit through me,' said 2013. 'After all, 2014: the usual World Cup exit on penalties in the quarter final, Scotland votes for independence, meaning a big Tory majority in 2015 and probably forever after. And all in the same year as the 600th anniversary of Agincourt and the 200th anniversary of Waterloo. Oooh, the Daily Mail is going to love that. Think on.'