A List of Shit I’m Going to Do This Year Unless the World Ends, Which It Probably Will, Because Donald Trump is a Moron

Yo yo, no pissing away time with introductory paragraphs on this blog. Nah, here we go, a straight up list written in an impassioned frenzy while listening to Thin Lizzy.

  • Join a gym, get fit again, develop buns of steel, abs of marble and guns of granite.
  • Join boxing classes in order to become DEADLY with my fists to the point where I need to get them registered as concealed weapons and obtain a permit to have them on me at any point.
  • (Assuming Donald Trump doesn’t accidentally-on-purpose destroy life as we know it) Buy a moped for whizzing around the city like a bat out of, uh, Leeds.
  • Visit 10 new countries, specifically including Morocco because I want to ride a camel drunk through the desert while scream-singing ‘Arabian Nights’ until everyone tells me to fuck off.
  • Visit every club in Berlin, because it’d be rude not to.
  • (If we are not incinerated in a nuclear holocaust courtesy of bumbling onion-hakwer Donald Trump) I will sort out the damned hole in my tooth that has been on/off hurting for about a year.
  • Convince my dad that Jeremy Corbyn isn’t the bastard he bizarrely thinks he is, and that Socialism is actually quite a good and pleasant idea.
  • Do not sit quietly and tolerate any more pro-capitalism arguments that are silly and nonsensical, including:
  1. Socialism is just leeching off rich people! (No it isn’t, but capitalism is leeching off poor people)
  2. It’s always been this way! (No it hasn’t)
  3. There will always be rich people and poor people! (No there won’t)
  4. Socialism will never work because of human nature! (Nope, humans are a product of their environment)
  5. But it’s my money! (Kim, there are people that are dying)
  • Stay angry, stay passionate, hold onto my ideals, and advocate positive change in the world.
  • Keep listening to the Clash.
  • Make a shitload of weird new friends.
  • Take up graffiti. Seems fun. I could write choice Clash lyrics. Or draw dicks!
  • Try out a new haircut (just kidding, I’m not going completely mental).
  • Make an arch rival, a nemesis, someone who I can occasionally do battle with, etc. I feel like it’d be a good motivator.
  • (If Donald Trump hasn’t already destroyed literature and held mass book burning rallies) I plan to read ridiculous amounts of books and get really smart and stuff.
  • Either buy a guitar or fly my own over from Blighty. Start a fucking great band and make songs about how shit everything is and do Joe Strummer proud.
  • Get more articles published – Vice and the Guardian are the two I’m aiming for, and they have thus far met my pitches with agonising silence. God dammit.
  • Keep in touch with my friends back home and don’t change into an arsehole just because I live in Berlin now.
  • (If there are any left that haven’t been hurled into camps) I will help refugees, help the homeless, volunteer and try to make things generally better.
  • Get involved in more political activity, maybe get arrested and shot for my beliefs after making an incendiary speech that echoes down the annals of history and eventually leads to the uprising that will free the poor and downtrodden from their shackles, something like that, idk.
  • Never pay that stupid rail fine even if it means I am slung into a gulag and forced to swing a pickaxe for the next 80 years. FUCK THE MAN.
  • Be a successful vegetarian. Learn to cook wicked veggie meals and get buff off of vegetables and prove everyone wrong that said I would fail miserably and look unhealthy and be all pale and skinny. I will eat no meat and I will be a bronzed Hercules.

‘Look, it’s cold in here, okay?’

  • Pay off my overdraft and for the first time in five years have a bank balance that doesn’t start with a ‘minus’ sign.
  • (Assuming Donald Trump’s greasy fake-tanned finger hasn’t slithered all over the Big Red Button and turned all to ashes) I plan to become more attractive. To either sex. All attention is good.

And last but not least, the most noble of my aspirations for the coming twelve months: get laid in a Berlin nightclub. But, again, that’s not likely to happen, as we will probably have all been machine gunned to death by swooping drones because someone on Twitter called Donald Trump a bull-frog-throated cock ring with a voice like Porky Pig that looks like someone skinned the Honey Monster, then reanimated it’s swollen corpse using a brain taken from one of those small yapping dogs everyone hates.

Good grief, what a visual metaphor.

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