As shite years go, 2010 is shaping up to be seriously brutal altogether. That's as opposed to 2009, which was fairly chronic. And 2008, which was rather hairy. There was something about last week's long-anticipated Nama reveal (to paraphrase, bend over), combined with the freakish snowstorms (lest we forget, it's April, people) that reiterated yet again just how casually surreal is day-to-day Irish living.

At this point, we're pretty much taking catastrophe after catastrophe in our stride: mass unemployment, the Catholic church in tatters, devastating floods, Westlife playing Croke Park – you can't even emigrate any more, because your passport's been held up.

Many years from now, when they do the 2010 episode of Reeling In The Years (soundtracked, naturally, by Crystal Swing's 'He Drinks Tequila'), it'll resemble the trailer for a Roland Emmerich disaster flick. Here's the thing, though: somewhere deep, deep down within the collective Irish psyche, there's a part of us that's all-too-comfortable with the insufferable shiteness of being Irish right now. We were never all that comfortable with the role of triumphant Celtic Cub – bitching about the consistency your latte just didn't cut it. Having your home repossessed? Now we're talking. Face it: we've always revelled in misery: just ask Peig Sayers.