Lowlights of 2011

Here are The Arbitchuary’s least favourite things about the past year:

-Not getting laid for the whole of January.

-Being shhh’d by a room full of doe-eyed, romantic patriots whilst making facetious remarks during coverage of the royal wedding. I missed the actual ceremony, because I didn’t realize it would be on so early.

-Americans relishing the hi-octane execution of Osama Bin Laden, reminding me that we live in a miserable age where violent resolution of conflict is still celebrated by the majority, and international politics are approached with moralistic overtones akin to those of a Stan Lee comic book.

-Not getting laid for most of February.

-Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and a host of other cinematic disappointments, such as The Rum Diary and The Tree of Life, which played out like a 140 minute Nokia advert.

-Marlboros costing within the range of £7. It’s been Pall Mall (£5.30, if you’re lucky) for the last six months. Ugh.

 Farewell, old chums!

-The death of Nate Dogg. His soulful baritone crooning provided a fitting soundtrack to my youthful days of marijuana intoxication and hustling Pokemon cards. He will be missed by myself and the rest of the O.G community. 

-The death of Gil Scott Heron, one of my few genuine heroes.

-Being told off for not having heard of Downton Abbey, then being told I was arrogant for not having a television.

-The London riots. A time when people of all races, genders and classes came together and united, in the name of…free trainers?

The thrill of speeding down Portobello Road, one hand on my handlebars and the other on a 999 call, pursued by a faceless mob, was outweighed by the fury I felt, watching my city immolated by hordes of greedy lowlives looking for plasma screens. My then flat in Ladbroke Grove was surrounded by teenagers brandishing makeshift weapons. Thankfully, they weren’t aspirational enough to loot the high-end furniture shop downstairs, and I live to tell the tale.

-Having to pay £15 to watch the re-release of Jurassic Park at a Vue in central London. 2014 prices for 1993 cinema?

-Bob Dylan. Seeing him live for the third time, in Sweden in June, was a disappointment hat-trick. The Tom Waits impression - and total disregard for his fanbase - that he’s adopted into his repertoire, made it the third distinctly average performance of his that I’ve seen.

-The Box, in Soho, being full of Hermès Belt wearing fuckheads every time I’ve been there. It supposed to be a seedy burlesque hideaway. Where are Lemmy and all the tattooed pornstar babes?

-Not being able to get a proper view of 80-year-old Mr Burns impersonator, Rupert Murdoch, being smashed in the face with a novelty cream pie during live televised questioning. However, his crazy wife, Wendi Deng, did not disappoint with her Hundred Hand Slap, learned courtesy of classic Street Fighter character E. Honda.

-The increasingly successful career of Drake. How have we let this cunt become so wealthy and popular?

The last point probably sums it up. That’s where we’re headed for o’twelve; more smug fucks bragging about their money through autotuned vocoders – in and out of the music charts – while the rest of us smoke Pall Malls and kill each other for free Reebok Classics.

...Bye bye, two-thousand-and-eleven!