Hello, 2018.

Hello, 2018.

A new year, a whole new you. That’s usually how it goes, right?

No more downing prosecco like the shortage prediction is about to occur. No more spending money on unnecessary Ubers and overpriced candles.

These silly shenanigans will be replaced with gym sessions and (equally overpriced) green juices – and why don’t we chuck away all our leftover Celebrations in favour of carrots while we’re at it?

It’s the same story pretty much every year.

Except… this year, I’ve decided I’m taking a stance against the snore-fest that is most people’s January.

Because, while I’m all for setting goals and making positive life choices, I don’t understand why everyone does it to themselves. Surely January is bloody well hard enough, without giving up the purest of life’s pleasures?

We were all willing to throw caution to the cheese board come mid-November – why does the start of the New Year spell so long to all the fun?

And I mean ALL. THE. FUN.

I’ve spoken to people this week who can only think (and moan) about the amount of calories they are consuming. I’ve overhead discussions about setting 5am alarms to ram in exercise before work. Clearly nobody listened to Marie Lloyd for long enough to discover that moderation, all-year-round, might just be the key to success.

I say, by all means go forth and consume less than 200 grams of sugar per-day, but leave some room for dessert so that January doesn’t have to mean total deprivation and downright misery, yeah?

I’m taking a different tack.

I say to hell with vacuous virtuousness, and hello to a decidedly damp January.

Give me a glass of wine, a bag of Minstrels and I bet you’ll see the happiest face this side of the first spring bloom. I might leave room for the odd bit of broccoli, because you know, balance and all that… but I reckon it’s enough to be getting on with.

Who’s with me?