I always wanted to meet Aslan. Reading the Chronicles of Narnia as a child, I would fall asleep every night dreaming of being cuddled up next to the mighty lion. I was too young to know about the Jesus imagery.
The one time I tried to celebrate new year’s eve it was so bad it wasn’t even ironically entertaining. I convinced a load of friends to go to this Narnia themed party at a gay club in Soho. They were planning to kit the venue out as Narnia; with ice sculptures, characters in costume and even a wardrobe to clamber through. It sounded awesome.
We couldn’t even see the fireworks as we queued round the block while the clock chimed midnight. The club looked like a tornado had ripped through it, spraying tenuous costumes, vomit and broken glass everywhere. We accidentally got in the middle of some angry, brawling lesbians, many with the aforementioned broken glass, dodgy costumes and / or vomit. I’m usually more than happy to be in between lesbians, but these women were tanked up on WKD and dangerous. The final nail in the coffin of that night was seeing ‘Aslan’ leaning on a wall, puking in the gutter as we made our exit.
I hated NYE way before the doomed Narnia night, and before this depression. There was always too much pressure to have fun. I also hated the reminder of everything I had set myself to achieve in the year and not accomplished. It was only ever fun when I worked, because I could get drunk, not enjoy myself and still come home with a load of cash.
This year I’ll be sober for the first time in about 13 years. Lucky for me I’ll be flying across the Atlantic while everyone else pretends to be celebrating. I might even treat myself to a few Lorazepam in transit. That way I should wake up at Heathrow on 1st January having been blissfully unaware of the entire, dismal event.