Hate New Year's Eve? It's your own fault, says Stylist's Alexandra Jones
The beginning of December is when many people start banging-on about how much they hate New Year’s Eve.
“Everything’s too expensive. The clubs are populated by utter w*nkers. There’s too much pressure to use the word awesome.”
But I bloody love New Year’s Eve.
It’s basically an excuse to get a crew together, get merry and flop around like drunk seals (or just dance).
It’s an excuse to careen through your house with a bottle of Cava in each hand, shouting “f*ck this sh*t, next year will be THE BEST!”
It probably won’t, but you might be just drunk enough to believe it.
It’s an excuse to hug your mates, even the ones that are on the periphery of your group, the ones who lead you down conversational cul-de-sacs with stories that end in “anyway it turned out to be a pigeon”. Even them, you hug them and think to yourself “well, here’s to another year of mediocre friendship.”
NYE man, it brings people together.
And as far as I’m concerned if you can’t be bothered to make it great, then that’s your own fault – but don’t be casting aspersions on those of us who have put in the planning time. I start in October by weeding out the friends who won’t or can’t commit.
Then the core group picks a city, finds an Airbnb and, in late December, we head off for all the lols. Last year I went to Amsterdam; it was fun. This year it’s Copenhagen. What’s not to love?
As far as naysayers are concerned, New Year’s Eve should be treated like any other night and if you spend your cash on a ticket to a club or on a five-course dinner with wine pairings and an in-house magician, then you’re basically a sad old loser who, like, doesn’t know how to be spontaneous (this was said to me by a man in a pub once).
Around now, these naysayers will start spouting on about the joy of a stress-free, quiet evening, where you stay in to watch the countdown on TV but fall asleep at 6.45pm to prove what a massive anti-climax the whole thing is.
And usually I’m all nodding along, and sighing at the correct junctures and rolling my eyes (because as most people will know, getting into a wine-fuelled debate with a man in a pub is the conversational equivalent of falling into a giant, evil vortex from which you’re likely never to emerge).
But this year, I’m not having it: if you can’t stomach the idea of an evening dedicated to wishing others well in an atmosphere of utmost jollity well, then you can just bore off.
I’m going to have an awesome time.