If you place your hand on the swollen, stretch-marked belly of 2019, you will feel the tumult of the at-term foetal year, impatient and irascible, unmistakeably pissed-off at the complete fucking shambles that its now moribund older sibling has left for it.
No need for the Kiellands forceps, 2020 will burst snarling from the womb, filled with the misplaced confidence of youth in its ability to set things right.
But its blinking eyes, unaccustomed to the smoke and glare of the burning planet, will slowly discern the immoveable triptych of Trump, Johnson and Morrison, the creators of its inheritance, each standing with arrogant defiance, each of them an image of Ozymandias before his fall.
Look upon their work, 2020 and despair.
Happy New Year to us all.
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