This is the age of the slogan, the soundbite, the snappy phrase in place of considered argument. Thought is dying; reason’s gone critical. In bookshops and magazine racks we’re told only what we want to hear: we’re told it in neat, bullet-pointed affirmations of our own worth.

No more. This is the fightback. The resuscitation. This is the slogan as explainer of the world. One a day for a year. Three hundred and sixty five phrases, soundbites and bullet points with which to make sense of the way things are now and point to how things could be tomorrow. Read them and weep.


Monday

49. Nothing is certain except death and taxes

And the fear of both can keep you awake at night, chewing fingernails, staring at nothing, replaying the same fatalistic scenarios in your head in the vain hope that just once the outcome will be different. It won’t. Get an accountant; get a priest. You can’t beat this. All you can do is try to minimise the damage.
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