Years ago, a newspaper compiling a festive feature asked some so-called celebrities, me included, for their greatest wish for the New Year. I quickly told them something and forgot all about it.
When that paper hit the streets, an array of well-kent Scottish faces informed readers of their dreams which included: finding a cure for cancer, ending world poverty, equal pay, stopping wars, and so on. My wish – to own a black Porsche 911 – did not do me any favours.
Ever since then I’ve always been wary of festive round-ups – especially the ones that ask for your New Year resolutions. You’d think I’d have learned from the world peace debacle, wouldn’t you? But no. Another year I stupidly said I wanted to take part in a triathlon. Within days a triathlon club was on the phone inviting me to come to their next training session.
Within weeks I was ploughing up and down a swimming pool chasing the gnarled toes of the oldest triathlete in the class. Within months I was cycling hairpin bends on country roads (I am useless on a bike and petrified) swearing loudly and praying not to die.
I eventually completed the triathlon and vowed that in future, at this time of year when newspapers called, I would keep my enormous trap shut. So, when the editor of The Post asked me to write about my New Year resolutions for 2023, I wavered.
Could I instead write about the many things I definitely won’t be trying to do in the coming year? Yes, he said, as long as you don’t offend anyone.
So, with apologies in advance to just about everyone, here goes:
BECOME A CULTURE VULTURE
At this time of year many otherwise well-balanced folk decide to up their game on the culture front. Maybe it’s those suspiciously erudite bookshelves on Zoom calls (Jeffrey Archer has sold 320 million novels but I’ve yet to see one in an interviewee’s background on Newsnight).
A peek at my Sky planner with its Sex And The City episodes and Terminator movies may lead you to believe I won’t be hosting Last Night Of The Proms any time soon, and you’d be right.
If you discount Christmas pantos, it’s been years since I went to the theatre and even longer since I watched any theatrical production the whole way through. The last show I went to wasn’t exactly three hours of Shakespeare either but one of those touring farces where things are supposed to go wrong with “hilarious” consequences.
I sat stony-faced as the audience around me rolled in the aisles and left at half-time. The fact I’m calling it half-time, incidentally, tells you all you need to know about my knowledge of the arts.
Then there’s opera. The scene in Pretty Woman where Richard Gere flies Julia Roberts to the opera in his private jet has a lot to answer for. The underlying message seems to be: you may be a lady of the night but if you like shouty folk on stage you’ve got class. If I want to listen to women screaming I’ll go to a shop with changing cubicles which have angled mirrors showing your back view in all its glory. Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the wee donkey! Who owns those stretch-marked buttocks and that fatty back? Now that’s screaming.
Ballet. Love the athleticism, hate the dancing. It starts well with good-looking Adonises in skin-tight clothes but why can’t the dancers stick to a proper beat? I blame Tchaikovsky. Great tunes, no rhythm.
TAKE UP A NEW HOBBY
This time last year I booked a dressmaking course for January in the hope that I would be writing this whilst sporting Jackie Bird Couture (think Victoria Beckham but without the £50 million company losses and the odd-looking husband). Instead, I am still in Primark joggers although I now have a clothes-peg holder and I can just about thread a sewing machine but…err, that’s it.
LEARN GAELIC
I once joined the January intake at a Glasgow college to begin a course in Gaelic. The director of the Hogmanay show – a Gaelic speaker – had spent years trying to get me to say Happy New Year in Gaelic without offending swathes of the Highlands and Islands. Two weeks later, by mutual agreement, I ended that course and Cathy MacDonald is still hoovering up all the TV work I had earmarked.
© BBC Scotland/Alan PeeblesLEARN TO DANCE
A plan to waltz/foxtrot into the New Year is a perennial favourite. Strictly has just ended and all you can recall are the glittering finalists and not the terror-stricken stompers from the early stages of the competition.
Learning to dance is so popular at this time of year that there’s more chance getting through to your GP than to a reputable dance teacher. No one appreciates how your ability to retain information, ie steps, deteriorates as you get older.
I used this excuse as my husband and I argued our way through dance lessons before our wedding. On the big day the music started and I forgot everything. The resulting routine owed more to Burke and Hare carting off a corpse than a romantic first dance.
GO GREEN
We have a rainbow array of bins beside our house and I only know the exact purpose of a few of them. Going out in the dark on my icy path to discharge the dregs of my soup pot is just not going to happen. I want to save the planet but not if it means my frozen carcass is discovered by our postie the next morning.
As for an electric car, no amount of fancy advertisements showing sexy 20-somethings plugging in and zooming around Europe are going to make me buy one, not until there are more chargers than Greggs. I’ve got enough worries in my life without adding so-called range anxiety. Motorway service stations are horrible enough without having to spend an afternoon at Tebay because the only charging unit that works has been hijacked by a family who’re still in the restaurant polishing off their Triple Whoppers.
STOP DRINKING
January is the most miserable month of the year: it’s dark by lunchtime, it’s cold, and allowing the family to take off their duffle coats on Christmas Day has sent your gas bill stratospheric. Is this really the moment to give up one of life’s few pleasures? I may have to shout “jam jars” as I deposit my empties in our bottle bin and haul it up the drive under cover of nightfall, but that’s my business.
The experts say that those who skip booze for a month experience health benefits. However, those who spend the month telling everyone they’re skipping booze experience everyone else hating them.
GET FIT
Deciding to kick off the New Year with a new fitness drive is an old favourite but for most people it lasts about a Truss (no longer than six weeks – do keep up).
As a runner I’m still pretty fit but I have the hamstrings of a 90-year-old so that’s going to end pretty soon. Earlier this month I tried my first circuit class for a long time. The enthusiastic instructor asked when my last class had been.
“Before you were born,” was my honest response. She didn’t laugh. She would have laughed two days later if she saw me still being helped on and off the loo.
However, I will be avoiding those less-than-demanding fitness alternatives, or the pretendies, as I love to call yoga to my yoga-fanatic daughter. I’ve tried Pilates and yoga and I’ll never get those hours of my life back. Anything that counts breathing as a key part of your daily routine can’t be that beneficial, unless you’re in intensive care.
SIMPLY BE HAPPY
I suppose the only thing to do as this crazy year draws to a close and goodness knows what is in store for us, is to get on with it. After all, as my gran used to say – what’s the alternative? She also used to say, “It’s better than a slater up your nose,” but I don’t quote that one as often.
So, to all you yoga-loving, dancing, booze-avoiding, electric car driving, Gaelic-speaking readers out there: keep calm and carry on. Have a great Christmas and a Happy New Year.
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