New Years Eve Is The Most Overrated Night Of The Year

Hi everyone, I hope you’re all well.

It’s nearly November, and so obviously there’s a few things on my mind. 1) Am I too old to dress up as a slutty Baby Spice for Halloween this year? (Answer: Yes), 2) When are M&S going to start stocking the Christmas Party Food? It’s been nearly 12 months since I had a mini beef Wellington in my mouth, and that’s 12 months too long in my opinion, and 3) New Years Eve is fast approaching.

The last time I had a decent New Years Eve, was when I was nine years old and I went to New York with my parents. On our way back to the hotel, we stumbled across a giant party in Central Park, and I partied the night away standing on a park bench, high on life and apple juice.

Since then, my New Years Eve celebrations have got progressively worse the older I’ve got.

There’s so much pressure to have amazing plans for the 31st December every year; you must have tickets to something incredible, or be attending an out-of-this-world party, or be abroad toasting the New Year in on a beach in Bali or looking out onto Sydney Opera House. Well, here’s me throwing a spanner in the works; what if I just wanna sit on my arse with a Dominos, large garlic and herb dip, a bottle of £7 prosecco and be in bed by 12:01?

For nostalgic purposes, and to bring comfort to anyone out there who starts dreading New Years the second October rolls around, I’m going to share a handful of my New Years experiences over the years with you.

Aged 17 myself and my friend had tickets to what we believed was a really cool club night, and got our fake ID’s confiscated at the door, so trundled to an absolute dive that we knew would let us in. I got rave paint in my mouth which I was convinced had poisoned me, and my dangly earring got attached to a mans shirt collar just as he started having a punch up with a fellow club-goer, meaning me and my ear got ricocheted around the room like a rag doll, resulting in my nearly losing an ear lobe and about a pint of blood.

Aged 18 I ended up in one of the most foul pubs in Brighton with my friends, where a 59 year old man called Nigel who insisted on being called ‘Big Nige’ was on the DJ decks in the corner, the carpet was stained with unidentifiable substances, and the only other punters were men over the age of 63. I had already thrown up by 9pm, and strangely not because of alcohol, but because I swallowed a piece of chewing gum and had to claw it out of my own throat. I saw the New Year in to Big Nige blaring S Club Party (to be fair to him, it’s still a classic 18 years after it’s release date) and bouncing neon disco lights off the now basically empty pub. I was home by 12.30 with a kebab and the How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days DVD.

Aged 19 I was lucky enough to have been blessed with one of the worlds most selfish creatures as my boyfriend at the time, who knew I had no plans as all my friends were with their boyfriends, but continued to go out with all his friends clubbing and assured me that no girls were going. I saw the New Year in sobbing my eyes out in bed alone with a pizza, and woke up the next day to see pictures splashed all over Facebook of him out with his mates…and all their girlfriends. Happy fucking New Year to you too hun.

As I’ve got older, and foul pubs/rave nights aren’t so much my scene anymore, I’ve spent a number of New Years at overpriced cocktail bars and pop up ‘New Year’ events, and they’ve all been equally depressing, both for the attending parties and our bank accounts at having to pay £25 admission to get into a BAR that’s free to get into every other night of the bloody year. Last year, me and my boyfriend arranged to go for dinner and then drinks with my friends and their boyfriends…however as luck would have it, me and my boyfriend (now ex boyfriend) split up a few weeks before New Years, so I attended as the token seventh wheel. I remember hysterically crying to my mum the week before, saying I couldn’t go because all the couples would kiss at midnight and I’d be left standing there on my own.

As it turned out, none of them did that, and I was so drunk by midnight anyway I wouldn’t of noticed if a full blown orgy had broken out around me.

This year, I don’t know what my plans will be, but I’d like nothing more than a handful of people I actually like, prosecco, and an Indian takeaway – maybe that’s not very Instagram worthy, and it probably doesn’t make me seem particularly cool, but I’m passed caring. New Years Eve isn’t actually about how sparkly your dress is, or how exotic the country you’re celebrating it in is, it’s about starting afresh, and putting the previous year behind you – whether it was excellent or absolutely fucking shit.

Whatever you do this year, whether you’re going all out and celebrating in style, going to bed at 9pm, working through it, or sitting on your sofa in your dressing gown, I hope it’s a good one and that it doesn’t involve shit boyfriends, shit takeaways, or any DJs called Big Nige.

Speak soon.

All my love BGP xx

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