NEW YEAR’S HUMBUG

So here it is again. Regular as clockwork. New Year’s Eve.

A time for compulsory fun and laughter, for queuing for the privilege of entering overcrowded and bars and clubs so you can buy overpriced watered-down drinks, for restaurants only offering revolting “Special Set Menus” wherever you look, and for every taxi being full and queues at the rank being round the block.

There are some redeeming features I suppose which can make for some light entertainment. There are inevitably a few who spectacularly misjudge their drinking capacity and are fast asleep in the middle of the road by 8.30pm, giving endless opportunities for humiliating photos, and wherever you are it’s a sure bet that someone, usually a rugby player with a nickname like “jockstrap” or some such, will try to climb on the bar, roaored on by his mates, and then either fall or get pushed off, necessitating a trip to casualty.

Other than that though I can think of no reason to venture outside of the environs of Chateau Chariot.

Happy New Year.

If anyone needs me I shall be at home, curled up with a good wife…