BEING a realist (not negative or miserable, obviously), I’ve always found New Year a bit of a difficult time.
It’s not just the enforced and somewhat fake jollity and optimism that causes the December 31/January 1 melancholia — though it must take its fair portion of the blame.
There’s that void between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve that just tends to be filled with drinking and waiting for something undescribable, unattainable even. Something that won’t happen. That magic thing that will click into place at midnight as Big Ben bongs its way into January.
Except it doesn’t materialise because you’re either in the pub (not generally the case since many of the few that are left now charge for entry) or watching Jools Holland prance about shouting “Hootenanny” every two seconds. He’s obviously not doing that in real time as he’s tucked up in bed in his castle somewhere having recorded said programme some time in the summer.
The radio plays the couple of songs cynically written for the occasion — not as cynical as mercenary tax avoider Gary Barlow’s regular Christmas albums, mind — and it’s on to Auld Lang Syne. Game over.
Next day, same ****, different year. Hangover, terrible weather, work on the 2nd. All hope gone. Resolutions on the back burner for another 12 months.
It’s become a sports’ commentator’s cliche, but it is the hope that kills you. The word “new” promising exactly that, but delivering nothing in the way of a sparkly dressed fresh year to come, only a dusted down dead man’s suit from the cheap rack in the charity shop.
This year though I didn't watch Jools Holland or play any crappy post-Christmas festive music or rubbish games.
Instead I ushered in 2022 by ignoring it in the hope that, like a big attention seeking no-mark, it will respond to its shunning by over-compensating in the way of making it the best year ever.
For, when you give it too much attention — such as going to an NYE fancy-dress party for instance — it just laughs in your face, like when some prat called Matthew tripped me up and kicked me in the you know whats causing me to lose the tea towel off my head that, along with a white sheet, enabled me to perfectly resemble, well, someone dressed in a tea towel and sheet. To rub it in, the next year he pushed me into the pub piano and walked over me on his way out (Weird, as he was usually okay. Perhaps he hated New Year’s Eve too).
I made no resolutions, no promisse to change my ways or achieve anything notable. At least not to anyone but myself.
Obviously, should I have any sort of success I will be the first to say it was planned all along.
Generally though, I find the new year more a time for reflection rather than looking forward with any new found and unjustified optimism.
More a case of happy or unhappy old year, though, of course, I don’t expect everyone else to think like that and wish all — well, not quite all, but you know what I mean — the very best for 2022.