New Years Eve

New Years Eve
I bloody hate it.

I’ve always bloody hated it ever since that party at a random strangers house when I got bladdered off my face on Teachers Whisky and went out into the garden for a piss, like you do, and fell over a motorbike that some idiot had carelessly left lying around – yes, left lying around, I mean, who on earth lies a motorbike down in their garden – a special sort of idiot thats who.

Keith something, I sort of knew him from someone I sort of knew at school, yes, we were still at school, about 16 or 17, his parents went out on New Years Eve and put some food out on the table for this Keith kid to invite some of friends around – about four hundred turned up and I fell over a motorbike in his garden and smashed my face to smithereens, I still have the scars to prove it, or maybe those scars are from when I went over the handlebars on our Neds new bike, whatever, it was a rubbish party and I woke up in the garden an hour later with blood everywhere and caused every able bodied male at the party to roam the streets for the rest of the night looking for the vicious gang who I said had beaten me up, well, you couldn’t tell them you’d been taking a piss and fallen over a motorbike in the garden could you ?

So that was a rubbish New Years Eve then and every one since then has been too, the ones that we used to “celebrate” in the working mens club when I lived in the North East, those were rubbish too with everyone concentrating really hard to get completely shit-faced as quickly as possible,

“I’m shit-faced me” they’d say
“No you’re not” their also shit-faced mate would say, “I can still understand what you’re saying”
“Oh bloody hell” they’d reply, “get another round in then, its nearly 9pm”

New Years Eve is the night when everyone tries to be as drunk as possible in the forlorn hope that it will make them highly amusing to everyone and people like me who don’t drink alcohol sit and glare at them thinking “fookwit” and the only reason you are in that pub/houseparty is because your wife has told you that that is where we are going to “see in the New Year” even though you fookin hate the place and the event, you sit around drinking fizzy pop until midnight at which point all the drunks in the place try to get you to join in a song that no-one knows the words to beyond the first line “Should auld aquaintance, la-la-laaa, dee-dee da-da daaa-dah…”

“Can we go home now ?”
“Don’t be such a miserable bugger, you’re the first foot”
“Fuck off, I did it last year and look how that turned out”

And she gives you a lump of coal and a glass of whisky that you can’t drink because you’re allergic to it,  shoves you outside into the cold and slams the door in your face shouting through the letterbox “And don’t come back in ’till we tell you to”

Half an hour later you’re still sat on the doorstep and wishing you’d put your coat on before you were evicted when some drunk in the house remembers something “Who was our forst foot ?” he’ll call out (but more drunkenly than that) and they’ll remember you and all crowd around the door, flinging it open with a “Happy New Year”.

“Fuck off the lot of you” you’ll respond merrily, “I’m off home now…”

I bloody hate it.

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