Fuck New Year's Eve

Faux jollity. Over-drinking. Unwanted kisses. What's so great about New Year's Eve?

Deflated hopes. Dashed dreams. Tainted memories. Cheap booze. Strange parties. Unseemly embraces and advances. Liverpool. London. New York. Bangkok. Kathmandu. Wherever I find myself in the world, the advent, ritual and unrealistic expectations of New Year's Eve have always filled me with dread. 

Stroll on, killjoy. What about a nice, memorable blow out to kick off 2020? Are you having a laff? I'd rather retire to bed with a pretentious concert on BBC Radio 3 and a seedy book. New Year's Bloody Eve. Alcohol. Adults. The mob mentality. Is there any other night of the year that fills me with such foreboding? Nope.

1986. 1987. 1994. 1997. 2007. Manic. Frenzied. Hysterical. I've had lots of memorable New Year's that didn't end up in the freezing cold fountain of Trafalgar Square at the stroke of midnight. Overseas, in foreign posts, I always keep an eye on the clock. When it strikes midnight in England, it's usually the start of my new year wherever I am in the world. But do I have a genuinely good time? I try, dear reader, I try. 

My Grinch like reaction to New Year's Eve began this night 10 years ago. It was Bangkok. 2009. And we'd got invited to a penthouse apartment on the river. It was the home of an expat English tycoon who had made his fortune flogging barbecue grills in South East Asia. The biz must have been lucrative. The pad in Bangkok was a huge, split level wrap of glass and steel with Buddhas galore and panoramic views of the city and its flowing river, the Chao Phraya. 

In the countdown to midnight I worked the room and made small talk. This was Bangkok. Some people were keen to see you, some not. Ganja brownies were next to beers in the kitchen and some posh kids from England were banging moody coke from Soi 2 in the bogs. The party soon decamped to the roof to witness the firework display which lit up the inky night. It put November in the UK to shame but there was something else gnawing at the mind, What was I doing in a strange house with strange people whom I hardly know on New Year's Eve? There must be a better way to do this, right?

New Year's Eve is a big bore in Scotland. Dancing in the street and riotous drinking. The Presbyterians up there think Hogmanay more important than Christmas. I've never seen in the new year north of the border but a few bits of Celtic folklore trickled down the gene pool. The necessity of a "first footer" to enter your home on New Year's Day, preferably a tall, dark man with blue eyes, carrying a lump of coal. None of this seems to endure in the ghastliness of the modern age that we live in.

No more ensuing dramas and attendant expectations. I elect to spend all of my remaining December ends at home. But what about a nice New Year's resolution to kick off the Roaring Twenties? Dry January? Run a marathon? Nah. Leave off. I turn 50 in 3 days. Might be a good time to start fibbing about my age.