I saw in the last new decade at the worst New Year’s Eve
party of all time. I lived in the Caribbean. I got free tickets to it.
It was a
man with a terrible band playing terrible songs and occasionally firing off a
gun for some reason.
Apparently in the 1980s he was something to see, this bloke,
and used to also have tigers on stage. Real tigers.
We live in more enlightened times. Except for the gun bit.
And the bubbles were lukewarm, some kind of Chilean cheap shit
that made us feel absolutely nauseous even whilst we tried to get drunk so we
could at least take the piss.
It made us tired and crotchety and crabby.
I think the following few years we probably stayed at home. In
2011 and 2012 we watched the fireworks from our balcony, which was 50 yards
from the Caribbean sea, and 10 yards from a swim-up bar which was our local
pub. By 2013 we’d moved to Dolphin Apartments, even closer to the Caribbean
sea, and a smart little flat with our two now-permanent little rescue cats.
At some stage someone broke in and stole 100 bucks out of my
wallet. I’m not sure, cause I can’t tell for certain, but in the morning we
couldn’t find the kittens. They were cowering under a nearby bush, so had
gotten out somehow. I shat myself thinking they were gone. Yes, they get under
your skin don’t they. Little buggers.
They’re both clanking about in the house now. Maybe they
remember it. They’re not too bad with fireworks as a rule, which is probably
due to where they grew up.
We moved back to the UK and I think on NYE 2013/4 I had to
phone the police because the Chinese lads next door were chucking firecrackers
around at midnight or thereabouts. It was fine, but they were also landing in
the garden and setting fire to things. That house had bad dry rot and the
landlords did fuck all about it so we left about a month later.
They disputed the fucking deposit as well, because we hadn’t
replaced the lace curtain things with the exact same fucking pattern. I mean, how
petty. I did replace them, and asked for the original replacements back cause
they were new. And then I gave them to the nearest charity shop. The hope was
that the landlords would see it.
Shitbags.
I think NYE 2015/6 was a good one, in the South of Spain,
where we had Spanish dishes and tapas and celebrated UK-wise and Spanish-style
with one grape for each bong of the clock at midnight. Then we got absolutely jarred
by the Mediterranean, looking across at a haze which hides North Africa just a
few miles south. We danced to Elvis and rock and roll, and drank complex cocktails
that were more and more generously poured by a happy bar dude.
I don’t remember getting home; the house is at the top of a
fuck-off steep hill which usually in the heat is an absolute bastard. I think
we probably danced up.
Recent ones I spose I’ve been miserable, giving it all the “Oh
this is the worst fucking night of the year, part timers all out, you can’t get
a drink, the pubs are full etc etc etc”.
This year I might just raise a chilled glass – a chilled-out
glass – and quietly toast those who aren’t here to do the same, and quietly
toast those who are still here by luck, design and sheer bloody-mindedness.
It’s not an important day really. Nothing really changes. But for a few moments at least the possibilities ahead seem achievable and close at hand. Those moments are precious.
And that, if nothing else, is worth celebrating in a world that’s burning under our feet.
Be safe, try and be happy, and see you next time, insha Allah.
It’s not an important day really. Nothing really changes. But for a few moments at least the possibilities ahead seem achievable and close at hand. Those moments are precious.
And that, if nothing else, is worth celebrating in a world that’s burning under our feet.
Be safe, try and be happy, and see you next time, insha Allah.
