My Most Memorable New Years Eve Ever

New Year’s Eve: Love it or loathe it. Here’s a few extra-special reader experiences of the night itself.

Alcohol Clubs friends New Year Sex And The City

Everyone says it's overrated but sometimes, you just manage to get it right. Here’s a few of our writers on the New Year they cannot forget, and not necessarily for the right reasons.


Probably this year actually. I’m one of those grumpy buggers who secretly hankers after being tucked up in bed at 11.30pm, moaning about how loud next door’s fireworks are.  So to my delight this year December 31st approached without any invitations I couldn’t easily get out of and I got away with just being a grumpy bugger.  But I wasn’t too bad…I didn’t stay in all night and I did see people who weren’t my immediate relatives Or the cat.

Myself and three closest home friends went ‘out’ for an Indian (because it’s too sad to get take away on NYE, right?) and then stumbled back to mine in time to watch "Jools Holland’s Hooternanny", followed by three hours of "Sex and the City" episodes (series five if you want specifics).  We had all peaked in our drunkenness at around 9.30pm and we found the fact that it was snowing irresistibly hilarious.  At 3am we discussed life in great depth, specifically 2009; the make ups, break ups and heart aches.  We lamented how Carrie has to do no more than buy a coffee in Starbucks before stumbling across another willing suitor, lucky bitch, and assured each other that this year things would be better.

So to you it might sound tragic but to me it was the perfect way to end 2009 and I can only hope that my reputation as a grumpy bugger will continue into 2010… But the evening wasn’t without surprises, It was 11.55pm when my ex-boyfriend of about a million years ago turned up on my doorstep covered in snow (almost romantic) and announced that this is the decade in which we are going to get married. Sweet.

After manhandling the drunken mess out of my house, I sent him on his way and so 2010 began.


New Year's Eve 2008. I went to visit my friend at university in Manchester  and we planned a big gay night out (the kind that simply don't exist in Cambridge). We went to a club and things were going great: the countdown happened and we were drunkenly  hugging random strangers. Exactly as New Year is supposed to go. Then a thick smoke started to engulf the dancefloor – I just thought it was a rather extreme smoke machine but people were spluttering and rolling around on the floor. It turned out the club, in their wisdom, decided to set off fireworks indoors and they set fire to the air con unit, thus pumping thick black smoke into the packed club.

There was a call to evacuate but try telling hundreds of drunken people to leave at 12.02am. Then firemen arrived but, being a gay club, everyone thought it was a bunch of surprise strippers that were going to welcome in 2009 in style. So, the poor firemen had to contend with all of us screaming, "Strip! Strip!" The whole thing was a farce but, in hindsight, a bloody hilarious way to 'do' New Years Eve.


Those who resist getting drunk on New Year's Eve face a bloody big task justifying binges on any other occasion – but resolving to headbutt anyone who asked me to justify, I, along with some mates, decided to embark on the night sober with the prospect of a boozy weekend abroad ahead. At our chosen house party, I was to enjoy the Spaghetti Western concoction of Good, Bad and Ugly.

Good: When rugby-tackling a mate into a precious household antique saw the irate but misunderstanding homeowner spare me (the totally guilty party), and force him (the completely innocent party) into a pre-midnight taxi home.

Bad: When a bet to pull as old as we could saw somebody’s grandmother bathe my best mate in champagne.

Ugly: When a drunken impulse saw a schoolmate christen his 2008 by jumping through a kitchen window, condemning himself to a year of arm reconstructions and "Window Dickhead" nicknames.

With between us a guilty conscience, stinging eyes from the champagne and pounding ears from the ambulance sirens, we reached the solemn twilight agreement – at New Year's, always just get wrecked.


Despite notable more recent successes, the New Year's Eves I remember most fondly are probably those circa 1997. I was old enough to remember accurately, but safely young enough to feel zero pressure to even leave my own home, let alone plan the "Best Night Out EVER" in a London club. Having dumped my eight cousins and I on my willing grandmother, my parents would head out leaving us to a night of mayhem fuelled by "Now That's What I Call Music 35" and the New Year’s countdown on the telly. What could be better than having fun with your mates, running riot around an empty house whilst your guardian snored in her chair? And when I was 8, staying up until 12:15 on only full strength Coca-Cola and Skips was admired by those with less stamina and seemed fantastically late in comparison to my usual bedtime. These days, passing out at a similar hour and vomiting over your own face inspires disgust rather than awe, and renders a New Year's Eve literally nowhere near  memorable. Shame.