Sometimes it is better to wait a little before rushing into New Year’s Resolutions. A bit like buying the new shiny spanking paddles and butt plugs before finding out on the first date that, while being a sack-tiger hung fit to pull a plough, one’s latest boytoy is unflavourably vanilla, making resolutions before one gets the ‘flavour’ of the New Year dooms one to frustration and probable embarrassment.
Having said which, my “must masturbate more” resolution is going enormously well. I am a consummate masturbator, tho’ I say it myself. When I masturbate, I squirt now. No one else makes me squirt. And I am unsure that I am bothered enough about that to go and find someone who does. Not when I am so very talented, and so charming and so available in the masturbatorium of life, to say nothing of being so understanding about the whole “this is just sex” thing. I have resolved to see myself (and see to myself) on a regular basis and see how the relationship goes before cheating on myself with anyone else. After all – I’d be bound to find out.
My ‘ early January’ resolutions have been guided by events. And, thus informed, have, I feel, a reasonable likelihood of making it through the year.
1. Just because someone is a self-seeking, irritating, self-aggrandising, bumptious verbal bully whose skills, both intellectual and literary are grossly over-valued in the world of journalistic opinion, it doesn’t mean they are always wrong and should be discounted. So keep an open mind. I find myself on the side of Julie Burchill in the hysterical miasma of outrage she has conjured with her piece in The Groniad in defence of Suzanne Moore. The LGBT community and all her right thinking chums have risen to the attack as one giant harpy of indeterminate gender and sexual orientation, appalled that Jules should call them names and criticise their wigs. Grow up girls. For fuck’s sake. However and whoever it is you want to fuck. Julie … I still think you are more ego than ability, but this time I think you are right.
2. Always remember the words of the great, great philosopher and intellect Stephen Sondheim “if you have no expectations, you will never have a disappointment”. My expectations were myriad as I paid my £10 for a seat to watch Les Misérables (the movie) at Shepherds Bush Vue. Loud as the soundtrack was, I could hear over it at almost every turn, the sound of those expectations being dashed and crushed under the feet of Hugh Jackman (a lightweight, middleclass, actorish Valjean; a boy trying to do a man’s job) and Russell Crowe (a passionless, intellectual toddler of a Javert, as hopelessly outfaced vocally as he was emotionally by the role. Crowe turned Javert’s polished, tortured, black heart to dull, pre-stressed concrete). Eddie Redmayne’s Marius is sweet but watching him sing I found myself comprehensively distracted by the uncontrollable vibrating of his chin any time he belted out a chorus in high chest, and thinking of the fun that might await Cosette should he add a rousing verse or two of One Day More to his performance of cunnilingus. Even the glorious performance of Ann Hathaway could not put my expectations together again. But now I know. 2013 looms expectationless and so lacking in disappointment … or is that in itself an expectation ?
Bloody complicated, these resolutions…