New Years is a holiday I never quite got the hang of. That’s probably due to the way it’s marketed: fancy people in fancy clothes posing in front of fancy meals, celebrating that an arbitrary counting system is moving from one final digit to the next. And then there’s the next morning, the utter mess left everywhere by slobby revellers and their explosives. Not to mention all the shell-shocked dogs.
At least Christmas pretends to be about something — the birth of demi-gods, the goodness to all men — even though we all know it’s really about ravenous, unsustainable consumption. But we can still play along. Plus Christmas is cosy and warm, while New Year is just shiny and cynical, with all those gyms screaming at us that we need to get in shape, pronto, or nobody will love us.
It’s interesting how shops make most of their income in December, while gyms make theirs in January. And flower shops in February. And Irish bars in March. And egg-sellers in April…
Anyway, back to New Years. One in particular spring to mind for me. It was 1994 (going into 1995). I had recently quit a PhD in astrophysics, having discovered that I was not willing to pour more of my life into academia. Instead I’d gotten a job as a ambulatory marketing specialist for an alternative Dublin nightclub, Fibber Magees. Okay then, I was the guy who stood on street corners and gave out discount flyers. Hey, it got me out of the house, gave me free entry to a cool club, and allowed me to meet angry girls with studs all over their jackets, and also goths. So win-win there.
What I did was stand on Grafton Street, handing out flyers to any people who looked alternative, or who I might like to hit on later at the club. Then around midnight I’d relocate to O’Connell street where I’d hand out a few more. And between these, I’d usually pop into Bewley’s cafe on Grafton Street for some warmth and a pot of tea. And this is how, on December 31st 1994, I was sitting in Bewley’s, pot of tea before me, book on table, when the clock struck midnight.
I don’t remember how it was announced, but when it was, I looked up and realised that the café was almost deserted, and everyone in it was sitting at a small table by themselves. Everyone. These were clearly the people with nowhere to go. No parties, no families, no friends. Possibly they were homeless. Some certainly looked it. They stared at their mugs, or at their books, or just into space.
I’d love to report that I gathered everyone together at one table, kicking off an impromptu New Year’s party, making everyone’s life a little brighter. Or that I went table to table, shaking hands. But romantic comedy stuff rarely happens in real life. I didn’t. Instead, I gathered my stuff (by stuff I meant my bag and my book) and headed back out into the chill, turning north for O’Connell street.
And that is the only specific New Year’s Eve I remember. Maybe because it was so different, or so sad. That’s how memories work: sad things stick around, while all the happier times float away like bubbles in the sunlight, or flyers in a breeze. And in the end, when the lights finally fade, all we’re left with, alone in the empty café that is our lives, is the sadness.
Happy New Year!
/ Paddy
Paddy K 