Ah, last New Year’s Eve. The parties, the excitement, the champagne and fireworks. So what did we do? Sandra and I, party animals of yore? Had a couple of friends round for lunch, bade them farewell and a Happy New Year in the late afternoon, changed into some comfortable clothes and spent the evening slumped in front of the fire watching Margaret Rutherford’s incomparable, never bettered portrayal of Miss Marple. We finished up by going to bed at half-ten and trying – and incidentally failing – to stay awake. Happy New Year, we said, at 8 the following morning, but it wasn’t always like that.
Once, to see in the new one, we went to a hotel. Which hadn’t got a bar. Oh dear. But they said, “Don’t worry, it’s just the same and it doesn’t matter because you can sit in the lounge and ring the tinkly bell and the waitress will come and she will bring you your very heart’s desire – or at least a bottle of light ale and an indeterminate glass of wine that’s way over on the sweet side of the dry one that you asked for.” But because there’s no bar, no barman nor maid, there’s no focal point so it’s not the same thing at all and it does bloody matter.
We had dinner in the deathly quiet restaurant with about 10 other couples, all alone in romantic seclusion at our little tables for two, each bearing a flower and a couple of sad leftover Christmas crackers. As we sat in this grim fug of ersatz romance, I suggested we pull a cracker. I gave a sharp snap of the wrist and a firm upward jerk of the arm, and for once it worked. Then I looked up and saw that my prize was sailing high across the restaurant at some speed. A necklace spun and twisted its way through the air. I looked behind me as it landed with great fuss and ceremony between a grim-faced couple at the farthest table in the farthest corner of the now noticeably frosty restaurant. I pushed back my chair and it groaned and creaked over the floorboards. I rose, someone coughed, I walked across the restaurant, my footsteps echoing around the room, After what seemed like about 3 miles, I reached my destination. “Sorry about that,” I smiled, “least it didn’t go in your soup.” I reached out for the lump of junk. Not one word in reply. Not one. “You miserable 2-bob bastards,” is what I wish I’d said. But I just shrugged my shoulders and ambled back to my seat, accompanied by the still disapproval of the other diners.
Dinner well and truly done and dusted by 10PM, so we went to the bar afterwards. Or the lounge. Some people in the corner were playing a board game. Another couple were reading. “Jesus Christ, it’s New Year’s Eve,” I observed, none too quietly. I got talking to someone though. Him and his wife were down for the New Year’s Day race meeting at Fontwell Park. We chatted for half-an-hour or so. “Well,” he said, “time we turned in.” At half-ten? “Early start tomorrow,” he explained. Please don’t go, I begged, silently. “Goodnight, Happy New Year.”
The upshot? We ordered a bottle of champagne and 2 large cognacs and went up to our room. We put the tray down and jumped on the bed, with laughter and relief, and with no funny business involved at all, the bloody legs gave way and the bed caved in. Bed partially brought back on the level by wedging a suitcase underneath it, Sandra went to sleep very quickly and I sat up in bed watching Jools Holland, smoking fags and making myself ill with strong drink. Then, at about 7:30AM, the picturesque church which was right next door greeted the new dawn with at least half-an-hour of enthusiastic, some say deranged, bell-ringing. I mean I don’t mind the God-botherers joining in at Christmas, but really.
But then there was New York City, December 31st 2001. A big, big night of food, wine and solidarity. In an Italian restaurant that was straight out of The Godfather, drinking with the owner, Tony (of course) who was a huge, brash, friendly bear of a guy. 10 courses of pasta which, to this day, remain on my hips, and an impromptu party upstairs afterwards where we danced and drank with staff and diners. Well, it wasn’t always baggy pants and Miss Marple, you know.
