2004. A house party in Lucan. Myself, Fitzbollix, the Crazy Cat Girl and all manner of other revellers drinking all manner of lovely potions to the point of inebriation. This here weblog was just a whelp.
I did a New Year's Eve countback the other night and reckoned that night, seven years ago, to have been the last time I counted down among a crowd as the year became another.
2005 - 5X came over. We watched Eddie Murphy's 'Raw.'
2006 - I got drunk the night before and failed to make a trip to, ehm, somewhere near Ballybunion.
2007 - On own. Charleville Road. Six Feet Under.
2008 - On own. Charleville Road. The Wire.
2009 - A couple of pints in Downey's and then on own, Charleville Road.
2010 - My first New Year's Eve with herself, on us own, on the quays.
To 2011, to the Horseshoe Bar with Johnny and Glenda (friends again), to Odessa, to partying into the small hours with the Xposé girls to the not having the energy to continue this charade.
We stayed in, we paused The Snapper while we ate a tea of fine cheeses, meats and wine, we watched The Snapper until the magic telly acted the bollix and then... crestfallen (we lost it at the bit where Dessie and the wife are about to have the ride)... we were left with Miriam O'Callaghan fellating her drunken colleagues on live RTE.
This fucking country and its state broadcaster, interviewing itself to within an inch of its life, Des Cahill looking like the inebriated first cousin of John Kenny in Father Ted, and more woe besides. Brendan fucking Grace. Some Afternoon Show bint. Glasses of champers on the table. A mild case of depression.
I can't really say why we stayed up, especially as Facebook now negates the need for anyone to phone each other or even send a text, but we did in a car crash sort of way. We were, at least, a force of two griping at the telly, a force of two wishing each other a happy new year in the home we now share, a salve to the forced enjoyment of another night of bombast.