What is it about New Year’s Eve that makes it so special? What makes us attend parties and wish each other a Happy New Year? What makes us drink ourselves senseless on New Year’s Eve ensuring that the first day of the New Year leaves you feeling like death warmed up? Having done these things and more, I have the answer. There’s nothing special about New Year’s Eve. As Paul McCartney put it so accurately, it’s just another day.
I’m not doing anything special to celebrate the New Year. My days of going “into town” are long over and these days I can’t be bothered to head to our local for the evening, either. No. I’ll just be staying at home, consuming a modest amount of alcohol, reading a bit and watching the shitshow that is New Year’s Eve TV.
In the olden days, we had Clive James’ review of the year shows on the BBC, a rip-roaring, laugh a minute take on the year just past. Funny, clever, satirical, the late great James was the perfect tonic before the corporation slipped off to Scotland where the likes of Kenneth McKellar and Andy Stewart would ‘entertain’ us with some hogmanay treats. Lately, Charlie Brooker has claimed the mantle from James with his annual Wipe but sadly we don’t get to see that any more. Sadly, what we do still have is Jools Holland’s Hootenanny.
Confession. There was a time when I watched Holland’s annual event and spent the entire moaning about how shit it was. I don’t mind his shtick, particularly on his excellent Later shows. But the Hootenanny? Give me strength. The show lasts five hours, or at least feels like it, and features a generic mix of little known singers from Holland’s band, plus an elderly superstar like Tom Jones or Rod Stewart, who bang out the favourites. Jools himself pretends it’s New Year’s Eve, even though the show is recorded in July (this is my guess), and he wanders around chatting to studio guests who have usually had at least ten drinks too many. It’s an awful show, frankly, and I’d far rather shit in my hands and clap than watch it. But each to their own, I suppose.
At midnight, we head out the front door to join no one along our street as we bring in the New Year. There was a tradition way back when where everyone would emerge at the stroke of midnight to bangs pots and talk to each other, but I suppose when there’s the chance to watch Ruby Murray belt out some song from a hundred years ago, who wants to talk to anyone?
I haven’t gone through the schedule in any great depth yet, although I am reasonably sure there will be an episode of Mrs Brown’s Boys somewhere in the schedules. Why on Earth does the BBC keep showing it? I have never met or even known anyone who watches it, not least it because it would be like losing all self-respect, like wearing crocs or posting endless selfies on social media. Yes, it’s that bad.
Instead, I will show my class by watching something else, like Silent Witness which is increasingly noted for its incredibly realistic storylines or Michael Portillo’s railway journeys. That, after all, is what VHS videos are made for, isn’t it?
The best thing about tomorrow is that it’s the end of the reviews of the year, the best ofs and all the rest of it. While Clive James and Charlie Brooker took the piss, most catch-up shows are earnestly serious and have the air of being cheap fillers on TV and radio. Tomorrow won’t feel any different to today but at least we can start to look forward instead of looking back.
Hopefully, there will be better telly to watch, too. A future without Mrs Brown’s Boys and the fucking hootenanny is a sign of a brighter day.
Happy New Year, whatever that means.
