Excellent reasons to veto New Year’s Eve

Here are some outstandingly logical reasons for why New Year’s Eve is a hot gravy of dump.

People who think self-help is normal get rich
New Year’s Eve is a beacon of regeneration. The new year, a new start, and so on. It tends to form a handy little fulcrum between your new, good life with happy thoughts and all that big nice and your old, nasty life, replete with obesity or heavy drinking or sweating when you walk up the stairs. And because it is the universally-acknowledged date when Everything Good That Needs To Happen happens, it gives self-help ‘gurus’ money. Homeopaths, happy-clappy pull-your-socks-up bastards and – worse – the religious, who use January 1st as some sort of purifying ice bath to cleanse you of your hitherto incalculable douchebaggery and then stick you for £39.99 a month for some irredeemably unphilosophical horse-arse about your inner god or goddess. No, thanks.


It makes you an imperialist
If you eat strawberries in February, you’re an imperialist. You are enjoying the luxuries of an historical conflict where some perennially hot country – perfect for the growing of such fruit when English strawberries are out of season – was conquered by the white people who wanted Eton mess and strawberry milkshakes all the year around, their market smashed by the inevitable evisceration of the planet that is global capitalism. And it’s the same with the calendar. Our calendar is only our calendar because a bunch of people who later went on to conquer most of the world killed another bunch of people with a different calendar. Maybe because they used iCal. iCal is shit. I don’t know. But the point is that January 1st is not a cosmic axis on which one passage of celestial time passes to another, like an inexorable law of life. January 1st is as arbitrary as having New Year on July 1st. Except, unlike in July, it’s not freakin’ freezing when you’re throwing up on the high street at 3am.

It kills Christmas
New Year is the lingering tagnut of Christmas, like the eating of an enormous meal and inevitably having a have poo afterwards. The circle of poo. The inevitability of your futile biological system. One of the worst aspects of Christmas is the lag between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve, convinced, as we are, that we are dragging the holiday period out a little longer, delaying its end, hauling around a big, dead turkey corpse on our backs which makes the depression of January 2nd all the greater. What we really ought to do is divorce it from Christmas entirely; a nice rebrand and we’d all be so much happier.

It makes you an Aristotelian
Aristotle’s social philosophy, broadly speaking, reckoned man to be a social being. We humans can only live rationally and, well, humanely, as political actors, communicators, legislators, thinkers and so on but – most importantly – as part of a community, as citizens. So: parties are rational and human. Debate, discussion, chat, heavy drinking, MDMA – all a part of Aristotle’s rich, classical tapestry. Sort of. Except this is total fucking bullshit. We’re pretty cool on our own, thank you. Embrace the wretched irrationality of the human mind. Our instincts work well enough, our thoughts are true and just and good because we have thought them, Aristotle. You with your fucking cocktail and cheese on a stick. Yeah? Yeah. What about my subjectivism? You silly sod.

It fosters cosmic delusions
As above, New Year tends to place a little too much emphasis on the passing of time and our role alongside that slinky monkey. It has a religious aura to it – not least because it follows a major festival in the Christian faith, but also because one is often encouraged to think of one’s place in the universe. What have you done this year? What will be your future? Does any of it matter? Inevitably, cod-spiritual witch-wankers chirp up around this time of year to remind us of the insignificance of our existence owing to (sometimes) the size of the universe and the unrelenting march of time but mostly our place before God and His creation. The beauty of our place in the universe is gloriously unlimited; the beauty of our universe in your self-entitlement delusion is all smeared in shit.