twenty18

“For last year's words belong to last year's language 

And next year's words await another voice.” - T.S. Elliot

As the calendar year prepares itself for a software update, the world pauses to take a poignant glance over its shoulder. On life's treadmill, we are relentlessly instructed to look forwards whilst seconds, minutes and hours rush by under our feet. The turn of the year presents us with a rare opportunity to slow down and reflect on the produce of the last 365 days. We revisit the good, the bad, and the ugly of 2018, and evaluate how iOS19 will patch the shortcomings of its predecessor.

So, what does 2018 look like? Whilst 2017, 2016, 2015 and co. await the arrival of the history book's latest member, who is preparing to walk through the door? The answer is undoubtedly subjective. 

For some, 2018 is a brash, regressive and condescending, with thinning yellow hair and a sickly orange glow. For others, a panicked, uninspiring figure, unable to give a concrete answer to those that rely on it. Maybe it doesn't walk through the door, but instead rides in topless, on a horse. When the power players of global politics represent the cast of a bad seventies sitcom, media scramble to caricature them into the face of their annual review, but do we really want to remember 2018 as the year of Trump, Brexit and Vlad?

We write our own history, and our memory of the year is no different. Let me paint an alternative representation of 2018: you hear it before you see it, as it splutters out a song about a man called Gareth being 'the one'. It wears jean shorts, sunglasses and a replica of the shirt Gazza wore at Italia '90. It is slightly sunburnt and appears to have a tear rolling down its cheek at all times. Its right hand holds a plastic pint glass, whilst its left carries a large pitcher of Budweiser. Its behaviour is excitable to the point of irritation, particularly when flinging beer into the air.

The summer of 2018 was unprecedented. England greeted its hottest ever summer, as the country opened the curtains to bright blue skies and scorching suns for weeks on end. Everyone's favourite royal bloke Prince Harry married Meghan Markle from Netflix. Theresa May danced onto the Conservative Party Conference stage like David Brent. Elon Musk called a diver a 'pedo' for heroically rescuing 13 Thai school children from a cave. We even threw in a World Cup semi for extra measure.

The cataclysmic sense of doom, radiating from the industrial output of social media, climaxed in a summer that will forever bring a wry smile to the faces of those who lived it. Sure, the country is exiting the EU like a drunk tightrope walker and the leader of the free world is a man that boasts 'grab her by the pussy' as one of his tag-lines, but we will always have that moment when England won a penalty shoot-out and the nation believed football was coming home.

With the musty scent of beer soaked pubs still lingering, we once again return our focus to the future and contemplate what the latest series of Earth will bring. Parents wonder if their kids will ever stop playing Fortnite. Radio DJs wonder if they'll ever stop playing Drake. Mankind wonder if girls will ever stop clinking glasses on Instagram. Will 2019 Donald trump 2018 Donald for parody material? Will Brexit ever happen? Will Liverpool win the league? Some fears aren't worth contemplating.

The unknown is often branded as a murky abyss, but when the Christmas number one is a song about sausage rolls we can afford to laugh and run towards a year of modern culture's finest new delicacies. Until then, we can appreciate 2018's story and await the world's latest voice to read out the words of 2019. 

Thanks for reading. Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.