New Year's Revolution

At 20:17 men of sounder mind were no doubt readying themselves for the night ahead, an annual event that has become both the capital letter and exclamation point of the social calendar. And whilst the first swipes of Mascara were applied, and fizzing droplets spilt onto chests left bare by unseasonal blouses, I was sat studying the circuit board swirls of Google Maps, desperately piecing together the shattered remnants of what I maintain was an epiphany.

For moments earlier with 20:13 had come a bold, swaggering specimen of contemporary problem solving. Born of the righteous indecision of with whom to spend my final moments of the decade, the solution came to me like a champagne cork rebounding off the cornice. I was destined to attend 10 parties, each for 10 minutes at a time, before waking up to the first morning of 2010.

By 20:45 I was ready to go, armed with a scrawled itinerary of 8 prospective parties, some with addresses, most with invites. Facebook helped make the research process breakneck, as did my healthy allocation of inclusive text messages, this was a modern approach to a problem that must surely have previously perplexed the socially promiscuous...

I started at a simmering pre-party for a collection of brave souls prepared to later pay scenesters haunt Motion £35 for the privilege of watching their clock. Despite boasting spades of trendy basement chic, a quickly negotiated group shot and a smattering of Jelly babies were all I had time for. One down.

Next was the self-styled gathering of Horfield's social elite, spanning the generation gap, nay chasm, of 6 months to sixty years old. This is where the niggling flaws of my epiphanic party-hopping plan first became apparent. No sooner had I entered into a promising conversation with an enthusiastic reveller did I have to make my apologies to leave, and though given my plight it was understood, it was here I came to realise that my attendance was purely novelty, for them and me. Bummer.

I arrived at party 3 semi-invited, and greeted starkly by a contender for most-original-but-hardest-to-participate-in fancy dress theme: come dressed as your new years resolution. I promptly explained (argued) that my resolution was to become a Vulcan timelord, and through meditative cognisance, develop the canny knack of being everywhere at once. This revelation was met with polite, knowing nods before a wonderfully posed group photo and a fine glass of fruit and barley squash propelled me through the door with a renewed vigour.

My fourth stop, the house on the hill, represented perhaps my most tenuous social connection. This is where the blissful convenience of my epiphanic party-hopping plan first became apparent. Manic arrangement of the most conceptual group pose saw 10 minutes fly by, take that awkward silence.
I was now ready to go cross-city, hurtling heroically towards the halfway mark of my courageous quest.

Party 5 boasted the greatest combined age of it's contributors, owing to the mostly middle-aged status of it's cliental. It also offered me the most potent enticement to stay, encapsulated by the gentle form of an enigmatic continental maiden. However, my unflagging devotion to my mission outweighed the desire to stumble upon a soulmate, and with the help of a woman I can only assume to be a headteacher, the most orderly group photo of the evening was judiciously arranged.
Bring on 6.

The sixth party came with what would normally be a perfectly adequate prearrangement

“not sure what number house yet, we're not there till 8ish. Give us a ring upon arrival. xx”.

I arrived, and rang, and was met with what I considered at the time to be the most mockingly polite answerphone message conceivable. With the road too long to start optimistically knocking on strange doors, I decided I didn't have time to waste willing the Vodaphone network to increase it's signal strength. Party 6 would have to be found elsewhere.

The eventual sixth party came at a demoralising lull in my previously burgeoning momentum. This was the wildcard of the pack, a house stood aloft the priggish terraces of Redland, with only one familiar face to name. However it was amongst this unfamiliarity that I found myself counting down the final seconds of the decade. Warmed as much by the unexpected company as the ceaseless undulation of the bonfire flame, my sixth visit provided the welcome calm of the self-induced storm I had bludgeoned through for 3 hours previous. Through conversation, photography and willing embrace of the unknown, it was here under the full moon, that I found the most rewarding and most pertinent moments of my night.

But now was no time to ponder on pertinent, I had only one pre-arranged party left to attend, and despite my new-found Buddhist contentment of self, the unabashed, swashbuckling crusader in me needed to step up my efforts to reach my self-imposed target. The treacherous drive down the Indiana Jones alley of drunken revellers that is Park Street saw me to a solitary house at the foot of Cabot Hill and the aftermath of every landlord's nightmare: the indoor conga-line. I was surely at my final party, full of messy, bubbly, but pleasingly recognisable characters. For more than a moment I contemplated relinquishing my quest, however with a flat above and below the host apartment, it seemed a shame not to soldier on.

Before I knew it, I found myself stood nervously before what I hoped would be party 8, and at the opening of the door rallied off a hastily constructed disclaimer, explaining in full the reasons behind my turning up at a strangers house to beg my way into their party. The wavering eyelids of the swaying door-opener told me that a rousing rendition of the philosophical arguments of my new years lifestyle choice were falling on deaf, ringing ears. I was invited in and treated to a prime view of a special game of 'run and then slide along the laminate floor'. Post match, as I regaled the occupants with tales of my endeavours, they marvelled at the valiance of my mission, they celebrated the courageousness of my sobriety, they were flabbergasted by the retractable legs of my telescopic tripod. Party 8 were easily pleased.

I arrived at the next party wholly uninvited, and some bargaining later I was able to appreciate, through the shards of my hastily-eroding Buddhist outlook, their Yin to party 8's Yang. One group photo of the civilised company, standing gingerly between Pictionary board and tastefully decorated christmas tree later, and I had attended my ninth party of the night.

And that, it so conspires, was all I was destined to attend.

It's perhaps fitting that my end of year quest was indefinitely unfulfilled, always leaving more to be achieved and improved the next time around. Maybe I could learn that it's not where you are, but who're you're with that really shapes the quality of your experience. But the one thing that I left that last party feeling certain of, was that I was grateful to have had the chance to enjoy what is really quite a special evening, with such great people.

Apart from party 7.