Wishing everyone a happy new year…except for…

December 31, 2010

New Year is rubbish.

It was rubbish when I was 17 and had no parties to go to. I still have no parties to go to. There are fewer invites, I find, the older you get.

The last party I went to (when I was 22, incidentally) was with Ruby, the red-haired goddess with conical spherical breasts.

I agreed to accompany her to the Hammersmith Palais with what I now realise to have been far too  much enthusiasm. There should have been at least five minutes of  “let me check my diary” but I was too scared to let the opportunity of New  Year’s Eve with a girl (albeit a redhead) pass me by.

I  bumbled some kind of acceptance, all pink faced and flustered and agreed to meet her at Hammersmith Station at 9.

I won’t go into details (well, I can’t remember too much now anyway), but suffice it to say that Ruby managed to lose me within twenty minutes of the party starting, and despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find a pair of conical breasts anywhere.

It turned out that she just needed a boy to get her into the Palais (those were the days) and I was redundant once that deed was done.

I left before eleven and trudged home, past the whooping party goers. I was in bed by twenty to twelve, lights out, waiting for the neighbours to set off their fireworks and make me even more bad-tempered. If that were at all possible.

So that is where I am now, many years later. In bed. On my own. I forgot to buy the ear-plugs so will no doubt be woken by the neighbours setting off their Catherine Wheels at one minute past midnight.

I wish you all a Happy New Year from my Brentford flat (unless your name is Ruby and you have conical spherical breasts, in which case I hope you have a miserable time).

To everyone else, may 2011 bring you joy and happiness and at least one shag. If you ask me, tomorrow will be the same as yesterday, only somewhat more expensive, what with the rate of VAT going up.

Oh, and you will have a terrible hangover, but you know that already.


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