There’s something magical about the promise of a fresh start.
Unfortunately, to arrive at this miraculous moment, to achieve the cleanest clean slate you’ve had for a full 365 days, you need to undergo a ritual of midnight humiliation and drunk crying. Let’s face it: nobody’s New Year’s Eve has ever gone to plan in the history of the universe and anyone who says otherwise is kidding themselves.
There is not one single night of the year that comes with higher expectations than NYE, so you just know it’s going to be a complete and utter disaster before you even start applying the glitter to your face.
It’s been a long, cold winter and now is really not the time to get glammed up and go out on the town. You spent the whole of last week repeatedly shoving as much food down your throat as your (now very stretched) stomach could handle and you now resemble a walking Christmas pudding. Spotty and round. You are also impossibly pale because of a severe lack of sun. Honey, no amount of bronzer is going to fix this mess… But yet you still try.
You have a permanent scent of biscuits hanging about your person because of the fake tan you’ve been dutifully applying for the past three days. Oh, and all your sheets are now a strange orangey-pink colour. But it’ll all be worth it in the end, right? Wrong.
If you choose to subject yourself to this evening of broken dreams, you will immediately be fined £50 just for daring to exit your flat. Ok, not literally, but that’s exactly what it feels like when you’ve shelled out a huge chunk of your monthly wage merely to attend a poorly organised NYE ‘rave’. Why does it suddenly become acceptable to spend £50 on club entry and a ‘welcome drink’, which you know will just be a shot of apple sours, for this one night?
The only redeeming feature of New Year’s Eve is that you can ride the tube without making a dent in your Oyster card balance. I’ll give it that at least.
And if you choose not to participate in this yearly torture you’ll end up sat at home on your own, pretending to have a great time with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a large Domino’s pizza while you watch all the Facebook photos and Instagram stories roll in.
For a minute there you start to think that maybe New Year’s Eve isn’t so bad after all… Perhaps it might have been fun this year, at whatever overpriced boat/rooftop party your friends all begged you to go to. Perhaps, by solemnly relegating yourself to your flat, you’ve missed out on the single greatest night out in the history of the world. The FOMO is real, people.
One of the main issues I have with this particular festive occasion is that there is absolutely no food associated with New Year’s Eve. Canapes are not food, people! No, I don’t want a mini parmesan custard. I can’t get on board with an occasion that doesn’t involve me eating far too much and ending up having a nap on the sofa in front of the Bake Off Christmas special.
No, this particular ‘celebration’ is all about the alcohol. And you’ll certainly be feeling it the morning after you’ve necked an entire bottle of Disaronno on an empty stomach and fallen down the stairs. (Yes, unfortunately, I am speaking from experience there.) Trust me, keeping those 27 ambitious resolutions is a lot easier when you don’t feel like you’ve just done twelve rounds with Anthony Joshua.
And don’t get me started on the crowds! You’ve spent all year attempting to avoid social gatherings of more than ten people. You even took your annual trip to Winter Wonderland mid-week and mid-November just to avoid the stress of a buttload of people all stepping on your feet while you manically attempt to buy an overpriced churro. Fighting through sweaty crowds of people on NYE to buy a £14 G&T is not my idea of fun.
Finally, let’s talk about the fact that NYE seems to be synonymous with glitter. Have you ever tried removing glitter?! That shit does not like to be taken off. Eventually you just accept it as part of your skin. You’re like Robert Pattinson in Twilight. You’re a real life Tinkerbell… Oh, f*ck it, I am officially too old for this kind of nonsense.
So what will I be doing on New Year’s Eve I hear you cry? Well, if all goes to plan, I will be holed up inside my flat, wearing a pair of newly acquired Christmas PJs, and nursing a bottle of Merlot. I might even belt out a rendition of Celine Dion’s All By Myself in an homage to Bridget Jones.
Happy f*cking New Year!