Here's a pair of anagrams to get your post-Christmas brain working again: 'weary whines' and 'haywire news'. Remember them, please. We'll return to them later.

This week's column was going to be about Bertie Ahern. I was going to rant about him being on the council of state, advising our president about the bank stabilisation bill. Then I thought "sod it", it's not fair to get you angry so soon after Christmas. I'll rant about the New Year's celebrations instead. (The venting should be cathartic for both of us.)

I detest New Year's Eve. It's always a depressing anti-climax after the Christmas celebrations. The lead-up is one big gamble as you plan for The Best Night Out Ever. This means not committing to any invitation until the last minute in case you wind up having The Worst Night Out Ever. Which, inevitably, you do.

The Worst New Year's Eve Ever involves being slobbered on by strangers in Santa hats, ignored by barmen and having sticky drinks spilt over you. You're elbowed, hugged and possibly punched, as you struggle to the loo, where someone pees all over your new Christmas shoes.

This is followed by insincere, forced bonhomie as we "celebrate" the clock moving forward, as if it's some personal achievement. "Hurray, hurray! It's midnight!" So what? It's just another day to the Chinese and the Muslims. And there's LOADS more of them than there are of us Paddies.

Two minutes later, the sound of party poppers is replaced by the clickety-beep of texters overloading their mobile networks. "Quick, must text mum Happy New Year – although I saw her only three hours ago."

At the height of the boom – in 2004 – we sent more than 118 million festive texts. That's 118 MILLION. Ireland sounded as if it was being over-run by coke-crazed road runners. Beep-beep. This frantic messaging is more about guilt than well-wishing. It's based on the fear that not sending a text will be perceived as a snub. Post-Catholic Paddy has replaced sex guilt with text guilt. Vodafone is the new Church of Roam and its collection baskets overfloweth at Christmas.

New Year is a marketing illusion to squeeze the last of our money out of us before the budget kicks in. Night clubs and restaurants jack their prices higher than an Ivor Callelly expense claim – and the public tolerates it. What is there to celebrate anyway? Another year of being screwed? It's like lemmings throwing a party on the edge of the cliff.

You're screwed if you decide to stay in on New Year's Eve too – chiefly because of the crap TV. Out of the past decade, RTÉ's 2001 Countdown set the benchmark/skidmark for New Year TV crapulousness. It featured a 'Euro Quiz' where depressed-looking audience members guessed the price of various items in the new currency.

"What," the host asked, "is this worth in euros?" There was a frisson of near-borderline under-excitement as the object of his probing was revealed. It was... a turnip. RTÉ televised a vegetable asking vegetables about vegetables. Now, as the euro's in trouble, are they planning a 'What's this turnip worth in punts' show for 2011?

If New Year's Eve's TV is bad, New Year's Day's is even worse, as advertisers start guilt-tripping us into buying their products. You're on the couch, beach-ball belly popping the buttons off your shirt, when a voiceover announces: "New Year, new you! Join Blobwatchers, you fat bastard!" This is followed by a sun holiday ad featuring beaches strewn with beautiful bodies. Guilt, guilt, guilt, control, control, control. Christmas parties are advertised in summer and the festive season starts at Hallowe'en. January sales begin in December and summer holidays are advertised in January.

Eat all you can over Christmas, you greedy pigs… STOP… Christmas is over – start purging. Look at the weight you've put on. You'll look like a whale on your beach holiday. And stop smoking, it's bad for you."

"But I'll put on weight if I do."

"Try this: it's the Slimline Blobwatch Nicotine Patch – only €39.99 (while stocks last)."

Get in shape. Whose 'shape'? Are we all supposed to be the same shape?

Here's some advice: ignore all that New Year, new you, rubbish. We're ALL going on a diet this year. Bertie's bankers will see to that.

See what I did there? I started talking about Bertie after promising not to. Next thing, I'll be get all misty-eyed and say that 2010 was the year we stopped dreaming of a white Christmas. So sod this New Year talk, I'm off for a pint and a weary whine. Remember those words? I threw them in at the start so I could turn my weekly 'weary whines' about the latest 'haywire news' into a 'New Year's wish' for you. (You twigged they were anagrams, didn't you?)

The wish is for you to have as good a year as you possibly can.

Thanks for reading. Now get the pints in, lard arse.

dkenny@tribune.ie