Where are you? I assume you’re at yours or someone else’s computer. But what are you doing there? Obsessively ‘F4’ing (appleR’ing for applites) your Live Feed? Wrenching out the final 4 minutes before lunch like the final cubic millimetre of toothpaste? Or simply waiting for porn to download? That’s right. I can pretty much guess whatever it is you’re up to in three. Scary isn’t it?

Well New Year’s Eve, all bets are off. There’s only one thing you’ll be doing. And that one, popular thing, is sat about (you might and more than likely will literally be stood) waiting for midnight so you can cheer like a murderer in a mental institution, scream the non-words you have no idea of, to a song you don’t know why exists, grab the nearest / sexiest / mainly nearest person and force them to kiss you because ‘It’s New Year’ and they have to, then join the rest of the 60 million strong population in a queue for the taxi rank as long as Phoebe – the nervous bystander of Saturn’s rings.

Did I get it? Of course I did. Unless of course, you’re one of the minute percentage of people on Earth who didn’t bother. And before you start, I know you’re not, because that group consists of one. Me. Last year.

Especially this year. ‘Where were you for the new decade?’ Everyone wants a thrilling story to make people “Wow” and “Ooh” don’t they? Where were you 1999? Exactly. Gazz was stranded in a field running back to his Mum’s lest he incur her wrath for not being home for midnight. He didn’t make it, but he’s (and now I have) got a story out of it. Plus, larking about in a field, surrounded by a sky resembling the Blitz is pretty cool.

As I mentioned, last year I managed to stay at home, in bed, and watch Jools Holland. I say I ‘managed’ to do so because I was lucky enough to avoid everyone’s pity stories of ‘awwww you should’ve come out with us, it was brilliant’ – because it wasn’t. Was it? I knew there’s no way I’d be so lucky for 2010. I’ll say I spent New year home alone, and you look at me with your big, stupid eyes wondering which foot the tag’s on. Well fuck off. The only way I’m out on New Year’s Eve is to a house party where I know if not most, then a lot of people, with my journey home taking less than an hour and costing less than January’s salary.

31st December 2009 had the cheap return sorted, ‘all-night’ free travel on the blessed London Underground seeing so kindly to that. As for the house party, Nick was the one who had been kind enough to deliver, himself living in a lovely little flat, spitting distance from the Thames (to the annoyance of hundreds of Saturday Morning River tourists). He billed it as a New Year’s Eve party. Drinking, dancing, music, and Ross.

Another of the reasons I don’t really ‘get on’ with New Year’s Eve, is traditionally it’s the one night I can never get drunk. No matter how much, or how fast I drink… I’m not even close. I’m sure it’s a psychological thing by now, but even so, it always happens. So the drinking may not hold much influence for me. With the dancing, I could fairly assume knowing Nick & Gazz’ (So just Nick’s) friends, that my bottle would be the only one on the kitchen table. Also being privy to Nick’s music collection, I knew what’d be offered there. A mixture of early century pop and 80’s/90’s power ballads and cartoon theme songs.

So far, Ainsley fucking Harriet couldn’t do anything with these party ingredients (although Ainsley Harriet never actually comes up with anything to cook). I’m about to just click ‘maybe attending’ and think about it no more until the 30th, before considering a few more options. Finally I continue, lazily reading the final part of the invitation. ‘Ross’. Civilian-bound bullets have left US infantry guns slower than me clicking ‘attending’ with a big fat grin on my face like Vanessa Feltz stood on a tightrope.

As the days rolled on the news began to unfold itself. The truth started to unravel like used toilet paper spun back onto the roll. No party, no people, no Ross.

And so ends the write-up for this event. I realise I haven’t actually talked about the night at all. But what’s the point? No Ross, no party. The only explanation required.

People, if you really want to throw a party… forget about the booze, the music, the other people, just make sure Ross is there. Everything else will fall into place from then on.