When compiling the review of 2019, the poor unfortunate junior journalists landed with the tedious task will more than likely immediately focus on the fourth week of July.
There can be very little doubt it was a week which will last long in the memory.
For some, it will be the glorious week that the blond saviour of the Right, or as one columnist described him, Brexit's Churchill, rode into Downing Street to claim his birthright.
To others, it was seven days to forget: when a politically toxic hybrid of Benny Hill and Fozzie Bear cheerfully bumbled his way to the very top of British Establishment, setting us on an irreversible collision course with social and economic Armageddon.
Then there was the weather.
The hottest July day on record had the less hardcore among us begging for rain while train tracks buckled and ice cream sellers afforded themselves a rare smile.
In the Tapp household, however, last week took on a special significance for a completely different reason, as I took my son to his first ever professional football match.
The footy fans among you will know what a big deal the first match is.
We all remember our first match: The result, the guttural roar of the crowd, the smell of hot dogs and steak pies, not to mention the colourful language, are all things of wonder for first time fans.
Before you know it, they will be talking to their pals about yards covered by their well-groomed idols and wearing a replica shirt with the names Salah or, even worse, Aguero, printed on the back.
If you want the tradition to be passed to the next generation, it is imperative the brainwashing begins early.
And that is precisely why his sister and I chose a pre-season friendly in Crawley for my lad’s first Portsmouth match.
Needless to say, his first time out was a hit and it won’t be long before he is a regular.
While many will remember late July 2019 for the political whirlwind that visited us all, there is a little lad who will appreciate the significance of the date for a completely different reason.