The human perception of time is a strange phenomenon. Looking back over the past year, it seems like aeons ago when we celebrated the turn of the new year, and looked forward to 2010 being somewhat better than the total rubbish that was 2009. So much has changed since then. Not least the abolition of optimism.
It seems incredible now, but back in January the nation was covered in snow, airports were closed, and even the replacement bus service between Ilford and Braintree was struggling to negotiate mini roundabouts. And look at us now. How far we have come. Er, covered in snow, flightless and trainless, and blaming the Government for not stocking up on their grit supplies. 'Twas ever thus.
The General Election campaign began in earnest, and to be quite frank, bored most of us to tears and/or bigotry. We all knew Gordon Brown was about as popular as a fart in the confessional booth, but we also knew that David Cameron only had to turn up in order to win. Provided they didn't do anything mindnumbingly stupid, like (say) order a massively expensive run of posters that were too easily satirised, an overwhelming Tory majority was pretty much nailed on.
Conservatives and right-wingers often like to tell us that Government is useless, while they rapidly dismantle the state's ability to support its most vulnerable citizens. And this lot were so keen to prove that point, they couldn't even wait to be elected to show just how useless they were. The lies and personal abuse reached levels that only residents of Alaska wouldn't be shocked at, and the Tories' number 2 man George Osborne seemed to go missing down a Chilean mine for several months, in the hope that people might not realise he would imminently be running one of the world's largest economies. Off the edge of a cliff.
The world turned. Stuff happened. Nick Clegg was still, back then, an anonymous posh man that most people had never heard of. Greece still had an economy, and English fans generally still believed we had a chance of winning the World Cup.
Me, I blogged matters canine in a vain and fruitless attempt to gain more hits. I have no shame. Or talent, to be fair.
Three explosive events captured the world's attention over the space of just one week. On April 14, newsreaders across the nation cursed their luck and came into work an hour early to practise pronouncing Eyjafjallajökull. On April 20, BP executives around the world cashed in their shares as Deepwater Horizon exploded, killing eleven workers and making the Gulf of Mexico the world's second oiliest entity, after George Osborne's personality.
[I never thought I'd use the the word "personality" so close to the words "George Osborne". Never let it be said that blogging doesn't introduce you to all sorts of new and unforeseen experiences.]
I said three explosive events. Of course the third, and by far the most inane (and therefore the only one of the three that I blogged), was the first in a series of three leaders' debates in the UK general election campaign. (It was three, wasn't it? I honestly can't remember now. Nor do I care.)
And finally, with a sigh and a whimper, it was over. Gordon Brown returned to Fife, and the evolution of Nick Clegg's short political career from zero to hero to villain began in earnest. It all began so well. It's difficult to believe, now, but back then the phrase "I agree with Nick" was so popular that some people actually discovered who Nick Clegg was. Then the election happened; the Tories snatched a best-loser position from the jaws of an easy victory; and one sunny day two well-scrubbed former public schoolboys joshed happily in the garden of 10 Downing Street. The electorate outside looked from Liberal to Tory, and from Tory to Liberal, and from Liberal to Tory again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.
The world watched in awe, amazement and ennui as a collection of highly paid men in brightly coloured shirts kicked a leather ball to the soundtrack of a swarm of angry bees. Yes, it was time once again for the quadrennial ritual of British tabloids printing bizarre xenophobic chest-beating articles about how "our boys" would thrash the mighty Hun, followed shortly by "our boys" being righteously thrashed and humiliated by, er, the mighty Hun.
In retrospect, I believe this is also the only month of 2010 which didn't involve the wrong kind of snow falling on the Southend Victoria to London Liverpool Street line. Although I may be wrong.
Was there a July this year? Are you sure? Can't say as I noticed. It just goes to show - if you didn't blog it, it didn't happen.
Oh yes, one thing did happen of some note. Wikileaks - you may have heard of them - published the Afghan War Logs, simultaneously scoring a major coup for free speech and openness, and also proving what we already knew: that we are losing the war. Somewhere just across the border in Pakistan, an old man with dodgy kidneys pissed himself laughing.
Actually, I'm beginning to wonder whether I was in a coma this summer. Apart from a short holiday, I can't remember a single thing about August. Not a thing.
I'd like to think that, while I wasn't watching, the new coalition Government finally decided to properly regulate the banks, that Simon Cowell was imprisoned for crimes against humanity, and that a keyboard-playing cat was elected Prime Minister of Italy. At least one of these events will probably happen in 2011. Yes, it's the cat one. But you knew that didn't you.
What actually appears to have happened - according to a short and decidedly lazy bit of research on my part - is the World Bog Snorkelling Championships in Lungwort Wells. Now I'm beginning to wish I had paid more attention.
The year, rather like this blog post, limped wearily into its latter stages. The actor Tony Curtis died, triggering the first of two occasions this year when Twitter was dominated by the #IAmSpartacus hashtag. Showing FIFA how it's done, Britain staged the Bognor Birdman Competition and the World Gurning Championships in short order, and without a vuvuzela in sight.
Elsewhere, 33 Chileans went to hitherto unseen lengths to avoid having to watch the X Factor.
The Chilean miners re-emerged in designer sunglasses to cheers from around the world. Incredibly, there was some good news on the telly for once. Right in between reports about natural disasters in countries that Americans can't find on a map, and reports about the disappearance of the British welfare state. And manufacturing economy. And money.
In other news, I turned 42. Much gin was consumed. Canny hedge fund managers could have made a small fortune on the temporary shortage of Bombay Sapphire.
Are you still there? Good. Not long now.
What a cracking month November was. Aung San Suu Kyi was finally released from house arrest in time to watch England's surprisingly competent start to the Ashes series. Apparently she had some other business to attend to, but I can't remember now what that was. Something to do with dictatorship and genocide. Details.
Researchers at CERN trapped antimatter for the first time in human history, unless you count the accidental meeting of the Lib Dems' manifesto with the harsh glare of reality. In homage to the Prime Minister and his old Bullingdon chums, thousands of students converged on London to trash the gaff. Amazingly, this time no newspaper vendors were killed.
Don't ask me. Look out the bleedin' window.