Click. Bang! It’s no coincidence that the sound of someone cocking the hammer of a revolver and shooting themselves in the head is eerily similar to that of being reminded that it’s time to submit your review of the year for the hotpress Christmas Annual.

Click. You open the mail (subject: “End of year review”) from the editor’s assistant in a state of cautious optimism. Bang! Your head slams off the edge of the desk when you realise that it’s not actually news of an enormous pay increase for months of mediocre to poor service, but a dictat from on high stating that – yippee do! – it’s time to suck furiously on a Biro before passing judgement on the events of the preceding 12 months. It’s much more difficult than it seems, particularly if like me you can still remember the catchy chorus of a German song that didn’t win the Eurovision song contest 13 years ago, but are at a loss to recall much of what went on between January 1st and last Tuesday. And I don’t even speak German.
So how do you review a year? Unlike a play or movie, you can’t really judge 2003 to have been “a major change of direction for God but an ill-advised one that is anything but triumphant. Yes, it contained enough twists and turns to keep our interest, but flagged disappointingly towards the end.” No, your average year review has more in common with a Westlife album critique: “Repetitive, dull and turgid. Similar to every year that’s gone before it in that having to sit through it was for the most part a tolerable but unpleasant grind.”
Obviously I’m being glib. Judging by year reviews passim, the object of the exercise is really to whinge self-indulgently about all the things you meant to do since January but didn’t get around to – give up smoking for more than a week, cut down on booze, find out where the gym you’ve been a member of for two years is, and get fellated by Christina Aguilera – before writing a witty and incisive analysis of world events from the last 12 months.
Which is why I’ve spent the last two days frantically racking what pass for my brains trying to recall what, if anything, of note has happened in the past 12 months, pausing occasionally to write things down on a scrap of paper as I remember them. Operating on the theory that if I can’t remember something it can’t have been too interesting, I decided that this tatty archival document in my arse pocket would form the cornerstone of my article: use the words and phrases I’d written down as headings and compose a paragraph on each after the obligatory long-winded introduction to take up space. It’s a classic journalistic device which is often mistaken for laziness by those not familiar with the complex machinations of the publishing industry.
So, without further ado… some things I remember from the year just passed.

the junior eurovision
song contest
An odd selection, but worthy of inclusion if only for the fact that I happened to watch it shortly after consuming a large bag of magic mushrooms. I had never experienced the horrors of hallucinogens before and don’t plan to ever again after sitting through this fungally-enhanced horror show. Imagine the proper Eurovision song contest in all its technicolour glory, but one where every number is crooned by peculiar little creatures with over-sized Daniel O’Donnell heads on little 12-year-old bodies. Then there were the male performers.

the tour de france
I’ve long been an armchair fan of the Tour de France. There are more skilful and interesting summer sports than cycling, obviously, but until hurling finds some way of marrying breathtaking scenery and suffering to such entertaining effect, watching grown men huff, puff and grimace their way over Alpine peaks on push-bikes will always have a special place in my heart. This year was even more special than usual: Lance Armstrong’s 576th consecutive win was small beer compared to the achievement of Tyler Hamilton. The Australian broke his collarbone early in the three-week race , but flew in the face of medical advice and sanity in general to complete the race in agony, finishing fourth and exposing the Spanish bloke who pulled out after breaking his leg and arm in 36 places for the spineless wimp he so obviously is. As laudable acts of heroic sporting futility go, Hamilton’s feat almost surpassed that of a jockey chum of mine who once went for a ten-mile jog in 25 degree heat wearing a woolly hat, a bin-liner and several layers of clothing, just so he could go on the beer without having to worry about his weight. The poor fucker was so drained from his exertions that he had to be carried out of the pub shortly after that difficult third pint had rendered him unconscious.

skindive split up
An Irish band I’d tipped for greatness decides to call it quits after their excellent album fails to trouble the charts. Who’d a thunk it?

the paris hilton video e-mail
“Why do all these people I don’t know think I want to see video footage of a French hotel,” I wondered to myself as the 45th unsolicited Paris Hilton email spammed its way into my in-box with an annoying thud. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me. Now I understand.

the war on iraq
More intelligent people than I will write more interesting comments about this ongoing farrago elsewhere in this annual, but no review of 2003 would be complete without giving it a perfunctory mention. It’s been so long since I lost my temper that I’m not even sure if I have one, but it normally takes something more horrific than needless bloodshed to get that little Roy Keane vein in my forehead throbbing. Being forced to sit though an episode of Pop Idol, maybe, or opening the fridge to discover there’s no milk. However, George W Bush’s decision to invade Iraq got the beast inside me so riled up that his visit to London almost saw me go on my first ever protest march. Sadly, it was raining so I didn’t bother.