So here it is, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, and we’ve just about managed to scrape it in on time… or at least in time for our heartless Christmas jibes to make any sense before December 2014.

Yep, 2013 is almost over and the country is still shit and everyone is still leaving. Although we heard on the radio today that everything’s going to be fine now that the bail-out program is over and done with. *snigger* If you believe that you’ll believe that the sign-language translator at Nelson Mandela’s funeral was actually transmitting messages from the voices in his head and that rich people’s blood doesn’t actually consist of black bile. In slightly more uplifting news, rabble HQ – funded by all you fucking legends earlier this year – is fully up and running and is proving a huge help making each issue a much more cohesive and streamlined affair (this might be a slight exaggeration but it definitely makes using alcohol as inspiration for the Take-Fives and the Horoscopes a much less lonely affair).

It’s also starting to look like some people might actually like us. Our 10,000 print run is disappearing faster each issue, our social media sites are racking up a huge number of fans (not to mention detractors and hecklers, but sure we love them too xox), and our online print versions have received thousands of views. We’ve also been contacted by a huge number of people who want to contribute, each of them explaining how much rabble has inspired them and given voice to their own anger and frustration, and how this voice is next to impossible to find anywhere else… which is all leading us to believe that, contrary to popular belief, people aren’t happy to just sit on their holes and accept the immense, nonsensical, pitiful and degrading embarrassment we find ourselves in the midst of, like one of Santa’s elves in the ILAC Centre, waving at bemused toddlers and trying to smile while wearing little pointy elf ears and curly-uppy shoes with bells on them and having to unbutton a striped onesie every time we need to go for a piss.

No, we’ve taken a look at ourselves in that jax mirror, taken off our stupid costume, robbed the collection box for the Central Remedial Clinic, used the money to buy a few bottles of whatever you’re having, and when we’re done, we’re going to fuck the empties through Brian Conlan’s windows. Then we’re going to rob his telly, sell it, use the money to buy a bag of yokes, drive his car into the metaphorical wasteland of our minds, whack on Bob Marley full blast, get mashed out of it, burn the car out, get the first bus back to Dublin, and get a taxi to our ma’s gaff just in time for Christmas.

See yis in the New Year!!! X