2020 is at last behind us. The year started in the shadow of my father's death. We did at least get to give him a memorable funeral before the darkness of Covid engulfed us all. By government dictat we spent much of the remainder of the year cowering in our homes - could it have been handled better? Well yes possibly but no plausible candidate for stewardship of the ship of state suggested him or herself. Perhaps the only political illumination in the year came last week when the largely risible Michael Fabricant kept referring to Keir Starmer as a smarmy lawyer.
My golf did get marginally better but paranoia sufficiently clouded governmental sense to mean that we could hardly even lock ourselves away in the Anglesey home we own and on which we pay punitive tax. What did they think we were going to do - run around the village coughing our nasty English germs through people's letterboxes?
Anyway, it's over now and the new year does at least arrive with the hope inherent in the new vaccines. And in nineteen days Donald Trump will cease to be President of the world's most important country. Do you think we ought to tell him he lost? Loser.
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