In the end, I only just made it past midnight on New Year’s Eve. I did tons of not-very-good writing, read a bit, enjoyed a couple of glasses of red and that was pretty well it. I used to go to the pub on NYE and in more recent times stayed at home and watched TV. The state of my mental health these days means I cannot face packed and raucous gatherings and the decline in quality of NYE TV makes it all but unwatchable.
The BBC at least make an effort, albeit a piss poor one. Craig David on BBC One performing to an audience of 100,000 Londoners was a definite no no, not least because I don’t know a single one of his songs. And Jools Holland’s ‘Annual Hootenanny’ on BBC Two, where everyone pretends it’s NYE when it’s likely that the show was probably recorded many months ago, is about as fresh as the remnants of the Christmas turkey. ITV and C4 didn’t really bother at all, instead broadcasting a few repeats, presumably in the hope that viewers would be too pissed to notice.
So, at midnight I ventured onto the pavement at the front of the house. There was greeted by a cacophony of explosive devices called fireworks, specially designed to make as much noise as possible and frighten everyone’s pets. In days gone by, people around here ventured onto the street to wish each other best wishes for the coming year. Now, perhaps, they had finally twigged that the new year would be every bit as shit as the old one.
Boris Johnson would still be prime minister, people would still be living on the streets, millions of children would still be hungry and Britain would continue to enjoy its new found status as the laughing stock of the world. One night of excess alcohol and fireworks would change nothing.
I am not a good example of someone who looks forward to the New Year. In fact, I am thoroughly depressed with it already. I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning and I don’t particularly want to go out. I worked out long ago that all that festive bonhomie was just bullshit. Well-meant bullshit, for sure, but bullshit all the same.
I had started a long list of predictions for what might happen in 2020, but after a short while quietly abandoned it. It contained all manner of political and sporting predictions but after a while I came to the conclusion that people will still get sick and die this year. 2020 won’t be all sweetness and light. To that end, I’d make a dreadfully dreary newspaper columnist, with grim prediction as to which royal might die in 2020 or which legendary rock star. For every new album by (insert a legend’s name), there would also be the tragic death of (a legend). In the end, I went for the delete button.
In this brand new year, it is of course cloudy and dull, with fine rain heavy in the air and barely a breath of wind. Actually, it’s a brand new year but it feels little different than yesterday. That’s because it isn’t. It’s yesterday once more.
