Daily Archives: January 2, 2008

Avaragado’s rubbish 2008 predictions

Scandalously I’m posting these with two days of the year gone already. Still it’s a leap year.

Only four years to go
Total number of gold medals in Beijing for Great Britain: seven; one of these in athletics, either Radcliffe or Ohuruogu. The display by next hosts London in the closing ceremony is excruciatingly embarrassing and involves hundreds of pearly kings and queens.

No quarter-final exit for England this time
At Euro 2008 Germany beat Italy in the final on penalties (1-1 AET).

First first gentleman
I’m plumping for Hillary Clinton/Bill Richardson as the Democratic ticket and eventual winners. The Republicans go with John McCain/Rudolph Giuliani.

Here it is
A citizen journalist dies trying to get a story. I am truly amazed this hasn’t happened yet.

Red Boris
Ken Livingstone is re-elected as London Mayor. Boris Johnson is his usual shambolic laughing-stock self and nearly loses second place to the Lib Dem candidate, Brian Paddick.

And finally, again
News at Ten returns on ITV1 to fanfares and indifference, and is gone again by the autumn. Sir Trev retires. (Note to future self: no points for it actually returning, since that’s long-planned.)

Now the weather
Britain has a scorching summer. Temperatures reach 100 F (37.8 C) in parts of Kent. TV reporters perform the traditional compare-and-contrast manoeuvre – showing clips of themselves from 2007 standing in several feet of water then cutting to the same, baking hot location of 2008.

See p2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, yours for a tenner
Subject of a thousand Daily Mail headlies (do you see what I did there?), the house price crash actually happens. And then prices start to rise again, of course.

“General”
There’ll be a major skirmish, perhaps even a small war, between India and Pakistan. It’ll be the fault of Bush’s “ally” in the War on Trrr, President Musharraf.

Celebrity deathwatch
One point each: Richard Attenborough, Richard Briers, June Whitfield, Michael Foot, Nancy Reagan.

I look forward to your scorn in December. Or any time, really.

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