Happy New Year, Scot Goes Poppers. (I've heroically refrained from using the phrase 'Scot Goes Poppers' for the best part of nine years, but if America wants Donald Trump as its president, I'm not sure why I should bother maintaining my own dignity any longer.)
For obvious reasons, it's hard to look ahead to 2017 with any amount of optimism - for all but nineteen-and-a-bit days of the year, an unstable narcissist is going to have the power of life and death over every single person on the planet. And it's almost certain that the UK government's drive to drag Scotland out of Europe will shortly get underway in earnest. But there are one or two things to look forward to - most obviously, it seems highly likely that Labour will finally lose control of Glasgow City Council in May, which will be a symbolic moment on a par (almost) with the fall of Byzantium in 1453.
I'm grateful to Stuart Campbell for unblocking me on Twitter this morning, which means that anyone who signs up to the Wings blocklist from now on will no longer be automatically blocking me. Obviously I still think it's an extremely bad idea to blindly block thousands of people on Twitter without having a clue why you're doing it, but each to their own.
I'm currently attempting to make my way home from the Edinburgh street party. Last night (Friday), I went to see Alice in Wonderland at the Lyceum Theatre, and when the 'Queen' came off stage, she fixed me in a vice-like grip and planted a kiss on the top of my head (see attached picture). I made an executive decision not to wipe the lipstick off, in the hope that people might be fooled into thinking I had a more eventful Hogmanay than ever seemed likely.