LOTS of people don’t like New Year’s Eve parties.
They shudder at the idea that they MUST have a good time and that they MUST get trousered and they MUST kiss absolutely everyone when Big Ben strikes midnight and that they really don’t enjoy crawling into Dry January with a head full of wallpaper paste and a bit of sick on their shirt.
Well, I’m sorry, but I LOVE spending New Year’s Eve with as many people as possible and drinking what a doctor would call lethal amounts of booze and not really coming round until about January 11.
A few years back, I was at a huge New Year’s Eve party and, as the clock struck midnight, I found myself jammed in a hall face to face with the pursed lips of Michael Gove.
And I even enjoyed that.
So this year, after the loneliness of lockdown 12 months ago, I was determined to get into my drinking trousers and let rip.
So, as soon as Boris gave us the green light, I was out of the blocks, rounding up all the people who at this time of year are normally on a beach in Barbados or skiing on an Alp.
Within days I had 100 people who said they’d come. Great.
But then Omicron got its running shoes out, so within a couple of days, it was 70.
Then it was 12. And then it was five.
“No matter,” I thought. “More sausage rolls for everyone.”
Nope.
Because then my partner’s eldest daughter tested positive, which meant we had to paint a plague cross on the door and not let anyone in.
I was not going to be beaten by this, however, so I called a friend and said she should have the party at her house.
This was a brilliant idea.
But she said we’d all have to do lateral flow tests beforehand and that wasn’t possible because every shop within 100 miles had sold out.
Just when all seemed lost, I got a call from another mate saying she was having a do at her place.
Excellent. I booked a taxi immediately . . . and then cancelled it even more immediately because she went down as well.
Every day we are given official figures showing how many people have tested positive — but they are wrong.
Completely wrong. Because when someone catches Covid, they go to their bedroom for a week and, most of the time, don’t even tell a doctor.
So far as I can tell, the only person I know who’s seeing in 2022 in robust good health is me.
Which is why, last night, I celebrated the New Year on my own, with a poached egg on toast and a glass of sherry.
AS I have a holiday booked later this month it is imperative I catch Omicron now so I can be done and dusted with it by the time I leave. Which is why I shall be spending the next week touring all the hospitals in my area, licking the buttons in the lift.
HOW was your Christmas break? Better then mine, I suspect, because you don’t have cows.
For the past few months I’ve been trying to get two of the youngsters pregnant, which is trickier than you might imagine.
Mainly because I don’t have a bull.
What I have to do is wait for the cows in question to come into season.
I was told I’d know when this happened because all the other cows in the barn would go berserk.
It would be a festival of anything-goes cow porn with added Barry White.
But it turns out cows are like people. They don’t engage in sexual activity if someone’s watching.
So I had to glue scratch cards to the rear ends of the two young lady cows, which would turn red if they’d been mounted in the night.
And yup, you guessed it. They went red on Christmas morning.
Which is why, as you were sitting down to your turkey, I had my hand in a Shorthorn’s back bottom, while a mate pushed a syringe full of semen into her bottom at the front.
Farming eh?
CHARLOTTE CHURCH, who is famous for doing something or other, is trying to turn her seven- bedroom house into a “wellness retreat”, where guests can sit under trees while humming and swim in a nearby river.
It all sounds too ghastly for words.
But I appreciate there are a handful of Liberal Democrats who like this kind of thing, so I wish Ms Church well.
Sadly, however, her local council does not share these views and says her plans will increase traffic on nearby country roads.
Really? There are only seven bedrooms, so it’s not like she’s building a replica of the MGM Grand in Las Vegas.
And what’s more, the sort of people who want to spend their holiday time at a wellness retreat in Wales will probably walk there anyway.
WE are told that in the whole of December there were only 27 hours of sunshine.
But I think that figure is wrong.
Because round where I live, there were NO hours of sunshine.
In fact, there hasn’t been a break in the clouds for what feels like about 200 years.
AT this point, I’d love to wish you all a happy New Year – but there are plenty of people out there saying 2022 will be even worse than 2021.
We’re told Russia will invade Ukraine, China will attack Taiwan, new variants of Covid will come along, inflation will spiral out of control and everyone will lose the job they can’t get to anyway because of all the loft insulation protesters.
Still, look on the bright side: At least you’re not Prince Andrew.
THREE months ago, a local dog breeder’s labrador had puppies – and I bought two of them.
And immediately, everyone said: “You can’t have two puppies from the same litter.”
I was told they’d form a bond with one another and pay no attention at all to me.
Naturally, I dismissed this as nonsense and set about training them to sit, and stay, and do their business outside.
It’s not going well.
Because if I bribe one of them to sit, the other will slide round the corner and park a dog log on the nearest bit of carpet.
And when they’re out for a walk, they simply will not come when I call them.
Partly this is because they are refusing to learn their names.
But mainly it’s because they’re labradors, which means they can only ever think about food.
I do love them dearly, despite everything.
But I have a word of warning if you’re thinking about getting some dogs this year: Get them from different litters.
