Me and a pizza

Seeing in 2014 with a Sloppy Giuseppe. 

I spent new year’s eve alone. Did I mind? Not really. True, I’d have preferred to be with my other half – she was still away on holiday; I'd had to return early – but in the circumstances I was just fine. Why? Because new year’s eve is and always has been just another day to me – the only difference being I want it over with as soon as possible. I’ve never enjoyed the relentless hype, the countdowns, the overly packed bars, the overall fakeness of it really. Even Jools Holland’s annual Hootenanny celebration is filmed at least a couple of months in advance.

Back when I was single – and I spent many new year’s eves as a single man – I thought it was probably just a case of me being bitter at seeing so many couples so joyously happy as the clock struck midnight, but that’s proved not to be the case and I’m actually pleasantly surprised by that. I assumed I would steer down Fickledom Avenue once I entered a relationship. But no, just watching the BBC and endless images of people flocking to the Thames is enough to stress me out.

It’s easy to overthink things, of course, but from where I stand you very rarely win on new year’s eve. If you’ve had a great year then brilliant, but there’s a whiff of sadness that it’s about to be archived. Obviously when the calendar ticks over it doesn’t mean everything good is about to go pear-shaped but it’s difficult not to indulge in at least a bit of emotional reflection. On the other side of the coin a bad year can provide the opportunity to say a triumphant good riddance, but that means having to suffer in the first place. 

That’s not to say there haven’t been enjoyable occasions. In fact, perplexingly the best one was actually the biggest – the millennium, an event I had absolutely dreaded months beforehand. Thankfully plans were heroically left unmade. With little time to spare me and my best friends from school in Northampton decided we didn’t want to pay astronomical prices for some sweaty party in the town centre, and that we’d have a private house party instead. Preston may not be the most glamorous of places (not that Northampton is either) but one of the guys was working there at the time and we all trekked up north for a gathering at his place. Just five of us, a shed load of drinks and the best homemade curry ever.

Was I glad to see the back of 2013? Pretty much. It wasn’t all bad – there were two short but very sweet holidays abroad and I saw my beloved Southend United play (albeit lose) at Wembley – but it was dominated by health issues. Before June, bi-annual appointments to analyse my strange brain following a scan had traditionally been relaxed affairs, to the point where my neurologist would all but put his feet on the desk and chat to my other half instead. But following a more in-depth scan, I was told in the most it's-probably-ok-but... of terms that it was possible there had been a potential misdiagnosis and I would have to go under the knife for a biopsy three months later.

Fears of a serious problem were thankfully eased in the end but while I was stuck in a hospital bed for three days having blood pressure, temperature and oxygen levels taken every hour, I couldn’t help but think back to times when I felt fit, on top of my game and basically at my peak. For those 72 hours I was anything but that person.

Happy halloween, ladies and gentlemen.

Do I begrudge other people enjoying new year’s eve? Of course not. I like Christmas, for example, but know many people who don’t, and with good reason. Mind you, I essentially skipped Christmas this year by spending it in a country that doesn’t celebrate it and found it enjoyably surreal, particularly being able to indulge in spectacular sunshine and spend Christmas morning swimming 40 lengths in a hotel pool before being caked in mud in a spa.

In an ideal world I would have stayed and experienced seeing in a new year in a different country as well. Maybe next year. This time it was just me and a pizza.