Happy New Year – A Short Story

God I hate New Year. What is it after all, the fag end of Christmas. Everyone by then is sick of booze and stuffing themselves and now they’re forced to shove even more down their throats!

 There you’re at the local pub, the music’s so bloody loud you can’t hear the conversation, which truth be told is a definite bonus but if you hear Hi Ho sodding Silver Lining one more time you swear your going to throttle the DJ.

The bloke who invited you has cried off sick and you’re stuck with people you don’t want to be with in the first place, all pretending to be having a jolly good time. So you get totally pissed, just to improve the company.

Then the dancing starts. ‘Oh God’ the world suddenly thinks they should be on Strictly and you see life’s pathetics bouncing up and down believing they‘re Anton Du Beke. They really look like stuffed marrows on wheels!

 At 12 O’clock the corks pop and out comes the cheap cava or revolting Asti Spumante and you sing Auld Lange Syne, not that you know the words and back slap people you can’t stand. Sad old woman kiss you somewhat more passionately than they’d care to remember the following morning and you can guarantee one of them stinks of vomit because she had a couple more than her usual small glass of sherry.

 You walk outside for a breath of fresh air and see the next door neighbour groping his daughter’s best friend. He glares at you as she runs off covered in embarrassment, and sheepishly slurs, ‘Well she is eighteen’ – he’s 58!!

 Of course there’s the New Year’s Resolutions, ‘I’m going to lose weight’ I’m going to give up smoking’ ‘I’m going to be kind to old people’ Don’t worry, you’ll be sober tomorrow and have forgotten them all

Some twat decides he’s got a  Scottish ancestor so everyone should go ‘first footing’ – that is knocking on some poor soul’s door and scrounging yet another drink, as if you haven’t had enough! Not content with that you’ve got to give the bloke a piece of coal, it’s tradition. Can you imagine being woken up at 2 o’clock in the morning by a bunch of drunks and being handed a bit of Arthur Scargill’s heritage?

 Well you get to bed at 3, drunk as a skunk and wake up the following morning with your tongue feeling like sandpaper. Your head’s throbbing and you vow that you’re never going to drink again.

This year I’m staying in to watch Jules Holland on tele

Happy New Year!

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