Annus Horribilis

According to the philosophers among us, misery loves company. That may well be true, judging by the turnout at last year’s Whiney Bastards Convention (standing room only, and all the sour grapes and bitter lemon you can stomach). As I recall, the keynote speaker’s take-home message was ‘when it rains it pours’. Not something I’d usually go along with I confess. That was until 2025, where chez Haviland it’s been veritably pissing down!

The late Queen (God bless her) once mentioned her annus horribilis, thereby guaranteeing even thickoes like myself could incorporate a little Latin into their general conversation. That was back in 1992, when the Royal Family was beset by scandal: Princess Anne’s divorce from Mark Phillips; Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson’s separation; the publication of Andrew Morton’s sensational biography of Diana; the fire at Windsor Castle; the obvious rift between Charles and Diana (which would escalate to an official separation by the end of the year), and, no doubt worst of all, the uncomfortable news that Her Majesty would have to pay Income Tax for the first time!

The Queen, naturally, summed it up with beautiful understatement:

Not a year on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure

Reluctant as I am to criticise Her late Majesty, she never knew how good she had it! In my own case, 2025 will undoubtedly go down as pessimus bastardis anno semper (worst bastard year ever). I say that, because to top it I’d have to, well, top myself. Thus far (January to March), I’ve managed to pack in a rather impressive set of achievements: the divorce from hell; bankruptcy in all but name (seeing as I am, rather masochistically, funding both sides of the interminable litigation); attempted (although not quite successful) alienation from my beloved daughters - and, the icing on the cake - jail, when I dared object. I was released in March, just in time for some local git to trigger the worst wildfires in Korean history.

The fires spread to within an inch of my door, and although many people were evacuated I was going nowhere. One of the many peculiarities of Korean society, is that it’s nigh on impossible to buy home insurance. Had the house gone up in flames, I’d have gone up with it in protest - thereby at least wringing some satisfaction by contributing to the mess the authorities would have had to clean up.

To give you an idea, this was taken around dinnertime - that’s smoke you can see, not fog:

According to the Air Quality Index, air pollution is measured from 0-500. Basically at which point, it’s fatal to breathe. As a comparison, London was just 2 at the same time:

The situation was so bad incidentally, that my former penal colleagues had to be evacuated and sent to another prison. Poor bastards! Clearly I got released just in the nick of time, otherwise I’d have been clinging to the cell bars, reminiscent of Maggie’s famous Downing Street defenestration.

Fast forward to April, and things were looking a bit dull to tell the truth. That was until six of Korea’s finest decided to have a few sherbs, and start some trouble with the local foreigner (me). Not a good idea under the circs, seeing as I go from 0-genocide these days with the merest provocation. Unfortunately for me, another peculiarity of Korea (specifically, Korean Law), is that one is essentially not allowed to defend oneself without appearing ‘equally guilty’. Cause and effect be damned! If the worst comes to the worst (and let’s face it, that’s pretty much a given on current form), it could mean deportation.

Clearly, whichever way 2025 decides to go, a healthy cash injection would be welcome - seeing as I am currently so skint that (to echo Only Fools and Horses) I am drinking tea with no tea in it. Employment opportunities are alas rather thin on the ground, which necessitates a certain creativity in terms of money-making. I had a trial as resident gigolo for the RNIB, raising a grand total of £1.50 before the complaints started coming in. And thanks to the kibosh recently imposed by the Supreme Court, I’ve also had my hopes of becoming ‘ladies’ over-50s middleweight boxing champion dashed!

Still, you’ve got to roll with the punches. Seeing as we’re only just over three months into the year however, it does make me wonder what remaining tricks God has up ze / zir / zirs sleeve. What am I to look forward to next: Cancer? Gang rape? (Fat bloody chance!) A brain tumour? (Precious little left up there to worry about, truth be told).

It could always be worse, as my friends never tire of telling me. What ghastly eventualities are they conjuring up? A Damascene conversion to Islam? Or worse still, the Labour Party? Taking out a subscription to The Guardian? Becoming a soy latte-sipping pansy, actively engaged in BLM and Jews for Jihad?

If anyone’s got any suggestions, I can be contacted at Tony Blair’s old address: ThingsCanOnlyGetShitter.com.

Keep smiling, it could always be worse - you could be me!

Frank Haviland is the Editor of The New Conservative, and the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West.

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