Well hello me hearties yo-ho and welcome to 2025 which thus far looks a lot like 2024 but with more hangovers. Not for me though, oh no, I was too smart for all that nonsense this year. Last year. Yesteryear? Oh who gives a shit, 2024 deserved to be forcefully prolapsed with a sex toy made of angry wasps and I, for one, voted against the application of lubricant. Out with the old, in the with psychologically satisfying yet ultimately same old.
Still, one has to show willing and to that end I spent New Years Eve chatting to friends on Discord, making a few calls to loved ones, seething with an internal fire of hatred for humanity that burns with the heat of a thousand newly born stars and also inhaling a simply cracking plate of crumpets. I also hatched a plan. A scheme. A wizard whizz, some might call it, but if they did i’d have to slap them and tell them no. My plan takes the form of a very simple New Year’s Resolution and is based around this enchanting looking disc of shiny metals below…
My resolution? Before 2025 sputters it’s last and we stare aghast at the mewling, mutant creation that slouches forth from it’s tattered anus and names itself “2026” in a voice like chains and entrails being dragged through a pit of broken glass and children’s tears, I shall turn this simple one pound coin into £10,000. Easy enough, right?
Well, the internet is full to bursting with self important little twots spouting shite like “I saved £2000 a month while living in my mummy and daddy’s third most lavish holiday mansion and within two years bought my own house, it’s so easy” and other arrogant fuckwads born with a silver spoon in their mouth and a platinum plug rammed so far up their shitpipe you can see the shine on their tonsils when they yawn who tell those of us who are struggling to just “be less poor, peasants” so I decided to set myself a modest yet still somehow ludicrous financial goal and in a year, I get to cram my failure down their wealthy throats and fatten them up like sorrow stuffed foie gras geese.
All of which bile-soaked blathering brings me to my second point. Want to help?
I am willing to sell this delightful pound coin for any amount higher than it’s face value, plus postage. I’m also open to swapsies. Got a priceless Faberge egg knocking about, gathering dust? You could get more use out of a quid. That Ming vase just turned into yet another place for Uncle Davey to piss in while drunk? A pound would get you a bag of sweeties and Davey can piss in the garden. You get the idea.
I’m also willing to share fascinating* facts** about the pound coin. In fact, for every Ko-Fi donation I receive from now until someone takes the wee nugget of pocket shrapnel off my hands, i’ll post one such delightful and informative snippet to Twitter (get knotted Elon, i’m not calling it X, no-one is ever calling it X) with the hashtag #QuidProQuote which sounds clever until you think about it and realise it’s bollocks.
Seriously though, I will. A tweet for every donation and i’m looking to upswap this pound to at least ten grand but honestly, the sky’s the limit. If I can turn this simple coin, which will barely buy a Freddo in this economy, into a delightful Edwardian five-bedroom with outbuildings and a sea view, that’s just gravy baby. Get in on the ground floor, people. It might not make YOU any richer, but it will be great for me and at least you’ll have a lot of laughs telling your friends and then less laughs explaining it again and then exhaustedly sending them the link to this blog while screaming “YES ALRIGHT I THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY AT THE TIME AND NO I CAN’T GET GRANDFATHER’S JEWEL TIPPED PENIS ENHANCER BACK!” and isn’t that truly riches enough? No. The answer is no. Still, it’s something to do ‘ey?
*Probably boring
**Almost definitely a load of old donkeypizzle
