The year: 2009. You know what I mean.

The time: 4.23 AM sharp.

Status: Beat, bushed, aching, sore, graaah!, feet…, shoulders…, vocal chords…

It’s been 10 minutes, roughly, since I got back. It’s been eight nine almost ten hours since I left. I am tired. Please forgive short sentences, bad grammar, sp. mistakes. Can’t be bothered atm. I ache. From around 8.45 till the end of the year, I was at Victoria Embankment, mostly rocking on my heels to ward off the cold in (I think) -2 Celsius temperatures. With only a handful of Fox’s Glacier Mints for sustenance. Uh huh.

Anyhow, I was with a bunch of ex-Wesleyans, Albert, Kenneth, Kuo Jian and some others. Together we saw in the New Year. All the while avoiding horse shit; drunks spouting nonsense; lovers joined at the hip and unwilling to separate under any circumstances, thus forcing us to walk around them; noisy kids trying to speak faux-Chinese at us. It was like Hell, if Hell was frozen over. If England was Hell and Hell was England, maybe the English (Hellish) would have more to talk about than the weather.

I’m not trying to give the impression that I regret going, though I only made the concious decision to go at about 6.30. (I was lazy.) The music was bad, the DJs were obnoxious and the fireworks were awesome. That’s a helluva lot of money going up right there, was what I was thinking. But dazzling all the same. Apparently LG leased the ‘best projection system in Europe’ and put up a looping slideshow on the Shell building behind the London Eye. Towards the end, though, the individual projectors started lagging and going out of sync.

Ah, there were some kind words put up on screen by the Mayor of London; an older woman who, I believe, is in the USA and blew kisses at everyone (disturbing even the second and third times); The Simpsons (best one, obviously, lots of fun stuff about the recession and American bailout schemes.); Rio Ferdinand (why, just why?); Jamie Oliver (ditto.); an ex-hippie lady (OH, SAVE THE RAINFORESTS! IT’S 2009! SAVE YOURSELVES!); Rod Stewart (what?); some BBC person and Michael Caine (again, what?). This looped twice and was changed a little for the final broadcast.

Eh, well, eventually (it seemed like a lifetime) Big Ben’s minute hand (MOVE FASTER DAMN YOU!) got to the 12 when the hour hand was nearly there. Then a timer with a fuse running round it showed up on screen and I was stuck remembering V for Vendetta. Then it was 10, 9, … etc. 0. YAY 2009. BOOM. Nah. Not really. Things like that never happen in real life except for things like 9/11. Oh well. I enter the 20th year of my life. Whoop-de-doo.

Kenneth and I went to Victoria Station, reaching there around 1.25. We had McD’s. I left at about 2, towards Temple, where I thought I’d catch a bus back. Dead wrong. It was 2.30 when I realised the police were putting up cones so the cleaner trucks could do their thing. So I took the District line back to Embankment station, switched for the Bakerloo and went down to Elephant and Castle to catch my bus. I arrived there at about 3. The bus didn’t until 4. And the people. Oh my god.

So I arrived back at halls in a rather tired and foul mood, thinking nasty thoughts about the 1812 Overture and putting on my best smile for the receptionist. Anyhow I came up with a couple of lists, since people should list down what they want to forget.

9 kinds of drunk people:

1. Drunk and spouting profanities
2. Drunk and making out (straight)
3. Drunk and making out (not straight)
4. Drunk and can’t walk straight
5. Drunk with a harmonica (Oh, my ears…)
6. Drunk kicking a box (Ouch, my leg…)
7. Drunk and throwing up (On the bus…)
8. Drunk and saying ‘Happy New Year’ (Multiple)
9. Drunk and smoking (and almost set fire to himself)

That’s all for now, TTFN. Sleepy time.