Try as I might, I can’t generate much enthusiasm for Hogmanay.
I always go a long way to avoid parties since I’m habitually as sociable as a scorpion in a sock.
That’s somewhat strange because when I was a wee lad, our family home was the Hogmanay hub for a remarkable range of relatives, friends, visitors and various ne’er-do-wells who were passing-by but knew where to find a decent dram.
The painfully boring day-long process began early with house tidying, hectic hoovering, sandwich making, baking and setting out drinks and glasses on the sideboard. That included bottles of Schweppes bitter lemon, Crabbies ginger wine and Warninks advocaat, each now probably as likely to be seen at a party this Hogmanay as the PM himself.
The day progressed through endless cushion flumping and last-minute adjustments, often to myself who was so sartorially shoddy that people thought my parents had adopted an animated scarecrow.
At least in today’s hygienically heightened times, mums no longer apply hand-propelled hankies to errant son’s faces, vainly attempting to remove whatever has become ingrained there in the instant since the same face shone like a new moon after being washed.
Or do they? I hope not. Yugh.
Later, as an adult, my antipathy to Hogmanay was deepened by BBC Hogmanay shows during which the magnificent jigs and reels of the inimitable Aly Bain and Phil Cunningham created a splendidly celebratory mood in the closing few minutes of the auld year, only for Jackie Bird to puncture it during the final seconds for a period of reflection in memory of those who’d passed away during the previous 12 months.
Oh, whoop-de-do. All we needed when glasses were raised and the bells imminent was a sombre, sob-filled silence injected at the key moment.
It’s like booking a once-in-a-lifetime luxury cruise and discovering when you set sail that you’re on the same dinner table as Nigel Farage.
To avoid punctured Zeppelin syndrome, feel free to have a contemplative moment, but please schedule it for 10pm, not 11.59pm.
To escape the New Year nonsense, Mrs F and I once headed up a hill near Fyne Place for midnight to enjoy things in peace, quiet and beautiful surroundings. Well, it would have been beautiful were it not for the rain, sleet, snell wind and snow-covered ice underfoot.
Armed with slabs of soggy cake, a hip flask of whisky and our two dogs, we huddled together at the top awaiting the Big Ben bongs on my wind-up radio. We charged our glasses as the seconds ticked away, each holding a dog’s lead in the other hand. Just as the bells began and I braced myself for Mrs F’s annual celebratory snog, the darkness below erupted in fireworks. I hadn’t anticipated that, nor had our dogs who took off in fright, dragging us helter-skelter down the hill like Torvill and Dean with their Bolero outfits caught on the tailgate of a speeding truck.
Impressively, though, I eventually slithered to our door still holding my dram in my free hand without spilling a single drop. Sheer survival instinct.
So, with now just a few hours to go until it all happens again, doubtless Fyne Place will see its share of cushion flumping, sandwich making and drinks preparation, even if we are the only two people here.
Despite my solitary sense of unavoidable unease, I’ll certainly recall 12 months ago when we were isolated in lockdown, unvaccinated, fearful for the future and uncertain if we’d all make it through intact.
Well, we did, in no small way due to the heroics of those who developed the Covid vaccines, the selfless staff and volunteers who administered them brilliantly at such short notice and everyone at the NHS and elsewhere who went many extra miles to secure our collective safety in 2021.
I’ve no idea what 2022 will bring but Mrs F and I send you our New Year greetings with wishes that it’s one more healthy, happy, hopeful and highlight-filled for you than last year.
Now, though, I face enduring long hours of hopelessly hyped-up Hogmanay until next year finally arrives. I wonder if I can meantime unearth an ancient bottle of advocaat from our sideboard. Cheers.