You have come to the shocking realisation that it is 2017. Or rather, you have listened to everyone else banging on about how bad 2016 was and this is meant to be some magic cure. You don’t really have anything to go by so far, as you likely spent most of New Year’s Day in bed. What’s worse? You were up all night trying to make good of a bad time. But you failed. Late to bed with too much spent and no one thinks you’re fun to be around anymore. Why? Because you went to a New Year’s Eve party. And it was meant to be brilliant. However, like all before it was nothing but a big waste of time and money.
You are no closer to hopes and dreams than you were before.
Wait? Jools Holland! But, but, it was only a month ago you last saw the ‘Hootenany’. Then you realise all that has happened in the interval. David Bowie is dead. You broke up with your partner, rebounded with someone worse and failed to find new levels of employment and income. And you’re fatter. Fuck 2016 indeed. Ok. First of all, New Year’s Eve is big because you screwed up this time and next year will be different. In a way, everyone manages to deflect blame onto a single digit that will conveniently disappear. Is the hedonistic binge you anticipated NYE to be just drowning the sorrows accumulated this year for a fresh start? Past cultures have upheld the carnival (the origin of the modern kind) as a period of cleansing- by getting hammered and raiding the next village.
New Year’s Eve is a racket, a bandwagon and a curse.
That bar you like? It’s full for a New Year’s Eve party and ticketing on the door. But you weren’t just going to stay in- it’s New Year’s Eve! Friends want to go to all manner of exciting parties from Gatsby to Bond. You can’t really escape it, but sure- it’ll be fun!
You went for an unusual option and it was crap.
Masquerade Ball? Boat party? Twat. There is no way on earth that party was ever going to be good. You ignored the fact the first release of super-extra-earlybird tickets were a fiver and got the last £25 tickets. You also omitted the fact that the venue resembles a bunker with a lavatorial aroma.
Therefore, having taken three hours to get ready and arrived in a cab you find your fantastical mood halted by three phases of bouncers. They check every pocket, then you get your ticket out. The next one doesn’t want your ticket, just your ID. Your ID is then scanned by another bouncer, but you’re wearing a mask.
Inside nothing happens until midnight. How very atmospheric. Except you steadily realise those drifting in have had the sensible idea of holing up in Wetherspoons for a couple of hours. That’s why they have a mask on with their ‘outfit’ of suit jacket, t-shirt and jeans. But they’re loving it. So you head to the bar where there are only four ‘cocktails’ served in plastic beakers at £15 each. You ask for a pint instead. You get a small bottle. It’s the same price you expected to pay for the whole pint.
Sober, hot and pissed off, you cut your losses and go home.
You wasted it at a houseparty
It’s bad enough if you and your friends get let down on a night out. But what if you were invited to a house party? At least before you could invite your friends. This time you might be able to plus-one your significant other, but if you’re single you are doomed to making conversation with couples you don’t know and maybe getting lucky in a cupboard (in your dreams).
You didn’t want to turn down the invitation though. Hey, it’s free. You might get some fancy booze in return for depositing a four pound bottle of chardonnay at the table. Much better than the alternative of imbibing it at home on your own in front of Jools Holland.
It’s alright, but as it falls apart you fall under the NYE bandwagon and just wonder if you could have been having more fun somewhere else, rather than listening to Chantelle’s man troubles or why Brexit was caused by gremlins. That person you had your eye on and toasted ‘Happy New Year’ with has started snorting lines in the toilet, so you head home around 00.45.
You stayed in and went to bed
Clever person. Rather than get swept up in all that bother, you went to bed. It’s just another night. You awoke rested and revived. Oh look, the television is packed with borderline-racist films from the sixties..