Happy New Year! Tonight is the desperate party. It’s also my last time in the nightie. Good old Scrooge. A reminder that we can all get out of whatever cage we’ve built for ourselves.
When my parents were alive I used to go to dad for New Year – usually in Switzerland. Aged 14 I’d end up on the dance floor of The Dracula Club until 2am when dad would drive us home down a flight of stairs. London always feels too crowded – not alpine enough. I’d much prefer to be in St Moritz being cold. There’s skiing and The Cresta and less catshit. Perhaps we should take Christmas Carol out there one year and do it in The Sunny Bar of The Kulm Hotel. I need to go back to swill some whisky on dad’s stone and see if I can get even vaguely close to my old best times from top. Or more likely break my neck trying. Maybe I can somehow get out this season. But money… But as I said, we can all get out of that cage.
I’m writing this early because I suspect I’ll get incomprehensible quite soon after the show. I’ve also got to lay down two self tapes before work and somehow transfer them to my manager from my phone before I fall over.
I’m probably going to spend new year in a warehouse in borough, surrounded by people dressed as flappers while I’m wearing a ski jacket. I haven’t dressed up for the show, and I’ve got no change of clothes. If I didn’t have friends who are going to the warehouse, I’d be seriously considering getting on an aeroplane and flying to some anonymous youth hostel in a cheap hot country to confuse my body clock and swim in the sea. Or maybe I’d just cash out the boiler fund, and hack through Zurich towards a sports room at The Steffani to see if I can get a reasonable handicap in the Baron von Oertzen whilst keeping all my fingers.
But no. I’ll need that boiler fund. 2 more months of winter… So it’s too many people in a warehouse. That’s the plan. And a hope for a good year ahead with no boilers breaking. I’m not too worried about 2018. I think it’ll be a good year. It surely can’t be worse than the last two, unless Trump finally manages to get us all killed.
I’ve made it to Gatsby. I’ve mostly been slinging around crates of alcohol, building the after party while the main event takes place above us. I’m full of a desperate need to just chill the fuck out and I might cross London to do just that. But Brian has just appeared in a gold suit, which simultaneously looks like a statement of intent and a full body sweatrash.
I’m going to sign off and work out what party I need to have. Everyone reading this, I wish you a huge positive change in the coming year. I’m hoping for one myself.