How to have a great NYE: PART ONE

I’m going to start this off with a bold statement. I LOVE New Year’s Eve. I know it’s basically lauded as the shittest night out of the year but honestly, it’s one of my favourites. Firstly, on what other night of the year, (apart from your birthday/Valentines day/any Friday night) can you behave like the emotional train-wreck nightmare I usually am once I’ve had my quote of piss wine and still be completely excused by kind souls saying ‘ Don’t worry New Year is an emotional time’.

Secondly there’s a certain ‘seize the day’ mentality that comes with the last night of the year. Spurred on by the endless possibilities of the new, you seek to make the most of those last few hours. Quick – down your drink! Cram in that last pizza slice before your January diet (lol)! Throw yourself at that man – you promised yourself some self-respect as your NY resolution, remember?? The anticipation of the year ahead, all blank and shiny and new means you basically have this one last night to be your usual drunken, messy, spendthrift self before transforming into the zen, yoga-going, financially stable human your resolutions promise you will be. (double lol).

So with the promise of all good things to come I trotted off to Clapham, of all places, with excitement. What could go wrong?! A party with my best friends (fellow borderline alcoholics), miles away from home (hello uber), in the house of a guy who had recently dumped me (slutty outfit ahoy) and drinking was commencing at 2pm. Hurrah!

I arrived at the pub ready to make my entrance, dear BA buddy K on my arm. Did I walk in, look my ex directly in the eye and say hello with a smile before greeting the rest of the table?

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Did I fuck.

Straight in, eyes down, beeline for the bar, massive glass of wine (strong for just after brekkie), slurping it whilst trying not to go red. Inspirational stuff.

Highlights of the next few hours are as follows:

  • Many many, MANY drinks
  • Revealing some not ok secrets about myself to people I don’t know (I strongly suspect I may be unloveable…hic…)
  • Stumbling back to my friend’s house to get ready.
  • Put on new skirt. Skirt does not fit as result of Christmas excess. Throw strop about how obese I am.
  • Kindly pal lends me flesh coloured spanx. Skirt fits. Hurrah. Just must take very small steps. Which is fine because I let my pal talk me into wearing a pair of shoes that make me feel like I’m balancing on two spindly rods of bamboo.
  • Totter downstairs to impress ALL the boys. They are playing drinking games and don’t so much as blink. Playing it cool guys – I know your game.
  • Many many MANY drinks

I’m now at that point in the night where I basically think that everyone fancies me and I’ve begun to show off. Tonight my form of showing off includes downing beer, playing flipcup and inexplicably opening my mouth as wide as possible and sticking my tongue out in all pictures. YAY

Before we know it, as it always does on a night this, time has flown past us all and we are all slurrily shouting our way through the NYE countdown.

The desperate dogs (my mates and I) are scanning the dancefloor for anyone we can snog.

Safe to say we end up snogging each other.

Fast forward to later in the night and the party is in full swing and my friends and I are flitting around the party like the social butterflies we are, laughing jovially and flirting with tall handsome strangers.

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LOL JOKE – come on guys really? Did you not hear about the many MANY drinks?

The reality is thus. One of group has headed for home, celebrated NYE on her doorstep having forgotten her keys and managed to wake up her neighbours who thought someone was attempting to break in to their bulding. Another of our group had developed a crush on some awful specimen at the party and tried to impress him with some ‘break dancing’* which was not going as well as hoped and the one successful puller of the lot of us had head-butted the object of her affections whilst trying to pull off a dirty dancing lift.

*lying on the floor with her face to the ground, bottom in air. Trying to spin but instead collapsing in heap.

As for myself. Well I, at this point of the evening, am staring down any girl who dares drape herself around a guy I went on three dates with. In a sober state I wouldn’t give two hoots (ok maybe like half a hoot) but now that my drunken alter ego Maud has arrived at the party, I’m on a one-way train to pity town.

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So, in a rare moment of rational thought I decide to take myself home and head to extract my jacket from the melee on the sofa.

‘What have you lost? Will I help you look?’

Is what the tallest, most handsome man I have so far seen in 2015 says to me. At the time all I hear is

‘Sexy Irish accent, sexy Irish accent, look at my beard and my dark hair and blue eyes.’

Hold on to your knickers everyone. It’s about to get real serious for Maud.

‘What have I lost…ummm’

Sorry Gerard Butler circa ps. I love you with hints of Colin Farrell pre-paunchy days I was too busy mentally undressing you to be able to formulate human words.

Him: are you ok? Like actually ok?

Me: HAAA HAAA (mad laugh) yes I’m fine just you know…hanging out. At the party. Having a party. Currently.

Him: oh…right

Me: What do you do?

Him: ‘Sexy Irish accent, sexy Irish accent, look at my beard and my dark hair and blue eyes.’

Me: Oh great sounds soooooooooo interesting

Him: What do you do?

Drunk Friend: OOOOHH who’s THIS then? (prods at sexy man)

Me: Just FUCK OFF (shoves one of oldest friends so hard she falls over her own feet, ignores her pain and stands infront of her) haahahahahahahhaahahah so, do you want to get out of here then?

Him: ok.

And that my friends (although hugely paraphrased – there was a lot more idiot rambling from me) is how I started the early hours of 2016 walking hand in hand with Gerard Farrell down a moonlit street, wearing his jacket feeling like I was in a film and not playing the boozy and sexually loose best pal role.

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TBC – tune back in for Part 2 – who knows where this will lead…..*

*SPOILER alert – I fuck it up within the next 48 hours. HA – HA. YEAR OF ME.

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