Sunday Independent (Ireland) - Living - - FRONT PAGE -


THERE are a few days of the year when it is best ad­vised to stay as far away from the rest of hu­man­ity as pos­si­ble — one is Valen­tine’s Day, one is the lu­di­crously and un­de­servedly pop­u­lar night­mare that has be­come Black Fri­day and an­other is New Year’s Eve.

This, I re­alise, is an un­pop­u­lar opin­ion. We’ve been con­di­tioned to be­lieve we have to mark the last night of the year in some way (usu­ally with a tray of shots and a face plant with some­one you might have gone to col­lege with). I get why peo­ple want big blowout par­ties, corkpop­ping count­downs and such. We need punc­tu­a­tion marks in our lives to stop us feel­ing like it’s just one con­tin­u­ous crawl from the cra­dle to the grave.

For years, I went along with the crowd and queued for ter­ri­ble night­clubs and pre­tended to be ex­cited about the ap­proach of mid­night. I don’t re­mem­ber who I was with or if I had a good time but I do re­call it al­ways ended with me out­side the Im­pe­rial Ho­tel in Cork at 3am while taxis sped by in the pour­ing rain.

New Year’s Eve is the most anti-cli­matic night of the year. Yes, you drank too much and have al­ready bro­ken the quit smok­ing res­o­lu­tion by go­ing out for a fag be­fore the last verse of Auld Lang Syne. But worse than that is the fact that you’ve wo­ken up with the per­son you pas­sion­ately kissed at mid­night snor­ing next to you and 2018’s dishes still piled in the sink. Noth­ing’s changed ex­cept your bank ac­count is now in over­draft.

So, I’ve taken a very un-me ap­proach to New Year’s. In­stead of drink­ing through the pain (my go-to), I stay in, sober. Last year I got into bed at 10.30, pulled the du­vet over my head and was asleep by 11. This year I’ll be do­ing the very same thing. Nighty night 2018.

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