"2009" was inscribed on one of the many milestones that the Boyo charabanc dislodged on its Cambrian career through the last 13 moons. Each month brought new triumphs and challenges, but not that I noticed. Let us get kinkily Fabian for a moment and carry out an annual audit.
Summary: Overall, the number of No Good Boyo posts halved on the year, a pleasing result for the leader of a movement dedicated to the overthrow of the productive aspects of capitalism while retaining its viciousness.
Prospectus: This Celtic indolence won us the accolade of 47th Welshest Web Blog in the World - a stunning drop from 10th in 2008. We pledge to improve on these figures in 2010 by sending No Good Boyo plunging into the lowers hundreds - the Cantrefi Gwaelod of torpor to which all Welsh would aspire if they could be arsed.
This we will achieve by writing less frequent and longer pretentious posts, fattened as ever by abstruse foreign tags and cinematic references. The subject matter - my Neronic debauch of Eastern Europe in its man-made fibres period, plans for the same in Wales, political extremism, vague longings for librarianly women on television, and further excerpts from my 25 years of lolling at the taxpayers' expense. And that's a promise. Now, to the detail.
January saw me take on the antick duties of Cotsengi (Hound of the Ladygarden), the hereditary inquisitor of would-be-Windsor princesses, on the demise of Sir Dai Llywellyn. His spurs and stirrups have stood me in good stead, especially when assessing twins.
February we dedicated to Santes Dwynwen, such was its Welshness. The Cymru Rouge vanquished the penny-dreadful Poujadists of the British People's Alliance, scorned comparisons between our witch-peaked principality and the sodden marshes of Atlantis, and persuaded Mancunian sage Professor Norman Geras that aesthetics, eugenics, heredity, expediency and the Will of God trump liberty every time by citing the case of nudistry.
March marked the passing of the holiday-home-scorching torch of Cymreictod from one generation to another, as stepfather of the nation Sioba Siencyn wandered off among the menhirs of Lud and our son Bendigeidfran (pictured above) served notice on Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Hemps and whatever that the Day of Glyndŵr slouches closer on all fours.
April heralded the launch of the Cymru Rouge abroad, as we hammered the Scots and pledged to save the English from themselves again by completing the Cerne Abbas Giant. The harvest will be reaped at the 2010 general election with the sickle of Siluarianism, when the Thames Valley will return a shrieking phalanx of black-clad child MPs to promote Maoist-Mabonism in the maw of Mammon.
May displayed the European dimension of our native largesse as I recalled how a young Englishman was tutored in the ways of the Welsh by a trainee nymphomaniac called Delyth, several spiked ales, a ruck of rugby players and the noble Bohemian art of defenestration.
In June I continued to unravel the remaining threads of the New Labour tapestry. In a show of appeasing Baroness von und zu Kinnock, for fear that she might use her new position as Minister for Europe to thwart our holiday plans, I incidentally listed her most outstanding shortcomings. Mr Brown must have noticed this, as he rapidly shifted her to liaison with dozy countries and the UN.
Wales's own first minister, Rhodri Morgan, in July tasked me with encouraging immigration by affluent metro uitlanders. I came up with seven cracking reasons why Wales is the place to live. Morgan's resignation followed in December, and was deemed by the unkind to be an eighth.
August went down in history as the month some slackers voted me the 47th most intense Welshman on the Intern Net, and prompted me to give the following assurance:
I pledge to the people of Wales that I shall not cease from recounting my abuse of Soviet hospitality, fatal cocktail recipes, inaccurate film reviews, scorn for the public-spirited and desire to mate with various fading, and in some cases deceased, 1960s celebrities.
The reference to fading stars came back to haunt me that very same month, when Gordon Brown rejected my campaign to have Fennella Fielding's birthday enshrined as a national festival of anti-jihadist defiance. No 10 flaunted its dhimmitude by dubbing my patriotic efforts "not in accord with government policy". Just wait until May, Herr Braun; Mr Cameron strikes me as the sort of chap who appreciates a finely-turned fetlock whatever its vintage.
In September I reclaimed the name "Britain" for all of Wales, although my suggestion that Israel should rename itself "Nelson Mandela" did not win such universal approval.
I added my many voices to the campaign to commemorate Iolo Morganwg, the inventor of modern and Medieval Wales, with a cromlech on Primrose Hill. It gave me the opportunity to extol the fine Cambrian virtues of theft and deceit throughout October. We are not unique in being a bunch of lying tea-leaves, but who else has elevated it into a national epos?
Nepotism is also a characteristic that we prize, sensibly enough as some of our mountainous counties regard incest as a competitive sport, so I was proud in November to recommend my brother Steffan ap Morthwyl fab Boyo as leader of the less intelligent wing of the English Left.
He combines the timing of Arthur Scargill with the appeal of the Kinnocks, and would give Labour plenty of opportunity to get used to opposition.
And in December our daughter Arianrhod reminded me that the title of Most Welshest Boyo must constantly be defended, like Offa's Antifaschistische Schutzwall itself. While trailing through the sports and weaponry section of John Lewis, a leading Welsh workers' cooperative retail unit, out of all the misshapen baubles she chose a rugby ball.
Above my work trough hangs a draft election poster. I stare out at the voter, above the slogan "Êtes-vous plus Gallois que Lui?" Once I eyed it complacently. Now I'm not so sure.