Of all the New Year celebrations I have known there is only one that is completely unforgettable. Not surprisingly, it was in Scotland, for when it comes to going wild on 31st December, the Scots have it down to a fine art.
Strictly speaking, according to quantity of alcohol consumed, my Scottish New Year should be the one I’m entirely unable to remember. Well admittedly there are parts of it I’m not sure about. Did I really sit on that man’s knee? Did that Christmas tree really fall over or did I dream it? Did I really sing “Quare Bungle Rye” and screw up the third verse?
I was 17 and had a Scottish boyfriend. He was spending Hogmanay with some relatives in a small Scottish village and I was invited. Apart from forgetting my underwear and buying paper ones in the airport (can you still get such things?) I mainly remember monumental preparations in the days leading up to Hogmanay. Armies of formidable Scotswomen appeared to be cleaning entire houses from top to bottom, and filling them with food and drink in quantities that would have fed a regiment of pipers. All evening of New Year’s Eve last-minute sandwiches were being frantically prepared as though lives depended on it, glasses polished and food laid out. Already drink was being knocked back by the tankerload and I was practically on my ear. The party was in full swing. Until suddenly at 10 pm one of the aunties emphatically declared:
“All right everyone, that’s IT! No more drinking. No-one’s to drink anything else.”
“Haha!” I laughed heartily, then immediately froze. The room had gone silent and everyone was staring at me.
“Really! Not a single drink until midnight.” And they meant it. Not a drop was touched until the midnight countdown on television was complete and the fireworks started. The New Year had officially arrived and all hell broke loose. Drinking, eating, shouting, kissing, hugging, dancing, singing Auld Lang Syne – everything was happening all at once. I could barely hear myself think. People were arriving in the hall and I was told it was time to go visiting. The entire street of houses had open doors. In fact probably the whole of Scotland did, but luckily we were only expected to visit everyone in that street, of course having one or several drinks in each house. It was more alcohol than I had ever consumed, before or since. I think I finally passed out at about 4 or 5 a.m., but no-one else did. I groaned my way downstairs the next morning around 11 to find the party still going strong and aunties, uncles, friends and neighbours still laughing, eating and drinking.
Perhaps it was those pre-Hogmanay scrub-the-world preparations that give me that feeling I get year after year, that I should clean and tidy the old year and pack it away neatly in catalogued drawers by December 31st. All undesirable experiences, memories, bugs & illnesses etc., will not be granted entry permits to this nice, clean new year, but must remain in the dirty, old, used year.
I said I get the feeling. I didn’t say I actually do it.
The Blethering Ant 