The burden of being Scottish on New Year’s Eve
Being Scottish I feel it is my civic duty to enjoy New Year’s Eve – it is after all the biggest event in our calendar year. We are expected to party so hard that we are given two public holidays to recover, unlike our more sober English counterparts who have to return to work on the January 2. Christmas is merely a minor diversion, a more sedate cousin to the party animal that is Hogmanay.
I’m spending this one in Edinburgh and haven’t even thought yet about what to do or where to go. It would appear that my curmudgeonly attitude to the event is not in isolation as some of my friends are either opting to work on the night if they can, or are already planning their television viewing schedule for the evening. I still have a guilty feeling though, as if I’m ‘letting the side down’ and that I should don my best party gear and hit the party circuit.
It was so much simpler when I was little and had no say in the matter. I would be bundled off to my aunt’s village to bring in the bells with an assortment of relatives and random neighbours. In finest Scottish tradition Andy Stewart’s annual Hogmanay show The White Heather Club would be on the TV in the background (he of the excruciating ‘Donald Where’s Your Troosers’ song and source of national embarrassment to those of us under 60).
My brother and I would eagerly anticipate the glass of Crabbie’s Green Ginger Wine mixed with water (urgh) or, a heavily diluted advocat and lemonade that was given to us as a treat. A ‘wee spread’ would be put on consisting of the ubiquitous sausage rolls, rounds of ham sandwiches and, of course, shortbread. Once we had brought in the bells, my cousin, armed with lumps of coal, would be despatched to ‘first foot’ around the village.
The ‘first foot’ is the first person to step over the threshold after midnight and – bearing coal/whiskey/a slice of bread, or preferably all three – is said to bring good fortune to whomever he visits if he is tall, dark and handsome. Despite my cousin only meeting two of the criteria, he was still a popular first foot given that my aunt’s village is so tiny and has only a handful of residents below the age of 80.
When I was old enough to realise that Crabbie’s Green Ginger was more akin to a punishment than a treat, I would forgo the excitement of Andy Stewart and shortbread and hit the streets of Edinburgh with my friends. The preparation for this would entail us queuing up at the off-licence late afternoon to ensure bagging supplies of Merrydown Cider/Tennants Lager/Bacardi Breezers before they sold out. We would then attempt calling a taxi firm – only to be laughed at for expecting any cabs to be available on New Year’s Eve despite them levying a charge of around £50 for a three-mile journey. This meant a very long walk ahead of us, and we would be forced reluctantly to ditch the high heels for trainers that, although far more practical, looked ridiculous with the party dresses we had bought especially for the occasion.
We’d then set off for town, battling the wind, rain, sleet and random over-affectionate and completely pickled strangers, to reach our destination, The Tron, a square in the heart of Edinburgh’s Old Town. We would hang out there with several thousand other revellers who, like us, would be standing around looking like they didn’t know what to be do with themselves.
Taking regular swigs from our carry-outs whilst trying to stave off frostbite, our conversation would go something like:
“This is really cool huh?”
“Yeah, brilliant.”
“Um, what shall we do now?”
“Er, let’s go and stand over there.”
And so we’d spend the next couple of hours shuffling along different parts of the square until the bells would ring in the New Year, which would unleash an exuberant stream of affection from our fellow party goers. Not long after the bells however, the novelty of being slavered over by various eejits wearing traffic cones on their heads would wear off and we’d begin the tortuous journey back home, convincing each other along the way that we were having fun.
Arriving back home we’d tell our parents, who were clearly so square for choosing to spend their night in a warm and cosy house with their closest friends, that we had had the best Hogmanay EVER.
Sadly Edinburgh’s street party is a less spontaneous affair now with party-pooping health and safety regulations requiring tickets to enter the city centre. These have to be applied for months in advance, and even then there is no guarantee of getting one as they are issued on a lottery basis. Bah humbug. So, no more braving the elements and dodging over-amorous compatriots.
Instead I’ll probably end up having the kind of Hogmanay I spent as a child. At home with family, friends, sausage rolls and shortbread. But definitely not Crabbie’s Green Ginger.
