The big night approaches and this year everything will be different ... or will it?
The rigmarole of dressing up to go out in weather that laughs at anything not the colour of sludge. Why bother? The cold, cheerless journey that deep down you already know is not worth the hassle. Whose idea of a good time is this? Ticket prices so inflated they would make a Weimar German balk. Door queues long enough to feature as a traffic incident. The enforced jollity of a battery farm of party-goers, few of whom know each other well, let alone like each other. The Olympic sprint to get as drunk as possible (despite the extortion at the bar) before The Big Moment. And of course, the bit when everyone cheers the bongs of midnight, as if they carried any more real-life significance than any other midnight. Why do we do this? The alcohol-marinaded man who flails around for a hug before confidently laying down this nuanced judgment: "Next year cannot be any worse". (His forefathers predicted the same in 1065, or 1938.) The two hours wait for an Astra masquerading as a minicab. Giving up and accepting volatile (but inevitably seatless) transit on the prison-on-wheels they laughingly call the New Year's Eve nightbus. The silent totting up of how much this expedition has cost. And to what end? Running the gauntlet of still-stewed revellers on the road outside your house. The grey daylight peeping in through the curtains. The certain knowledge that a quiet night in with the radio would have been better spent. The solemn resolution that next year you will do just that.
Nice bit in today's Guardian on what (not?) to do tonight. :o)
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