Spring will be a season of belt-tightening, of marches in the rain, of half-considered suicides and unlikely celebrity couplings.

Maroon will make a comeback. Maroon 5 will not.

Someone will at some point die and the internet will be blamed.

Channel 4 will broadcast footage of a desperate Frankie Boyle kicking a man repeatedly in the face and crying.

The Royal Wedding will be remembered largely for the seemingly endless hours of helicopter footage of a procession of cars driving slowly through the streets of London.

The summer will be long and hot and we’ll think of police manhunts and novelty singles and the something happening far away.

People will be ponder in irrational detail how the last decade will be remembered.

A young pop starlet will universally be proclaimed as the next big thing, causing widespread interest in her debut album that in turn propels it into the top 10, prompting those who proclaimed her as the next big thing to pronounce loudly that they were right to do so.

A tiger will escape.

Football everywhere will continue to happen.

It will be revealed that Bono is a hoax.

A big-budget sequel will have its opening weekend undermined by the unexpected death of a popular television star.

Soldiers will die nearly everywhere.

We will endeavour to remake everything that ever happened in the 1980s, beginning with a broken promise on New Year’s Eve and ending with the re-re-unification of a newly dismantled Germany.

God will reveal him or herself in a series of images on toast, snow, mirrors, chairs, abandoned factories, burnt rejection letters and the underside of a crap fairground waltzer.

Shark attacks will be big this year.

An author will dismiss the work of a series of other authors in an article that no one reads but everyone hears about.

A sports star will rape someone in the bathroom of a nightclub and she will think of it in the morning as just one of those things that happens.

Things will happen.

173 articles will proclaim the death of twitter.

Warner Bros will discover and patent the fourth dimension.

People will think fondly of VHS.

Drone aircraft will float almost soundlessly over grasslands and mountains and places we can’t even pronounce.

Fidel Castro will die and the newspapers will fill with grainy images of cigars and military caps and theatrical gestures belonging to another age.

Pay walls will rise and fall. Other walls will remain largely intact.


Birds will continue to fall out of the sky, followed by red squirrels, minke whales, polar bears, children’s books, quangos, soup kitchens, illegal immigrants, students, anarchists, benefit cheats and finally HMV’s flagship Oxford Street store, gently covering an area the size of 14 football pitches in colourful fragments of discounted DVDs, band t-shirts and Brett Easton Ellis novels.

Good things will happen to bad people.

Bad things will happen to good people.

There will be floods and stories of hope and charity and many photos of people looking stoic in waist-high brown water.

Images of star bursts and supernovas and clouds of light swirling across an ocean of deep black, broadcast from so far away we have to measure it in time rather than distance and we’ll look up and be lost in wonder for a second.

A member of the band Kasabian will do something fucking stupid.

Many people will think they see ghosts.

Foxes will grow braver.

Bands will reform.

People will grow older.

A small village somewhere will fizzle into public consciousness, transforming the lives of everyone who ever lived there in some small way.

Someone will surprise us all.

On an unlikely day in the middle of summer, it will briefly rain.


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