“Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to miiiind.”

We are stood around my coffee table having just watched the New Year fireworks, and now the nine of us are stood, arms crossed and with hands held, singing that classic New Year song, “Auld Lang Syne”.

“Should old acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne.”

So far so good. I have been twenty-twelve for about three minutes and so far no-one has tried to force some horrendous drink upon me. Just as we approach the chorus, my University friend, The Claw (not hooded), looks at me with an evil grin.

“For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.”

A few unsure glances are exchanged among us, and this confirms to me that no-one knows the tricky second verse. It is like tying a bow-tie or flirting, how can you be expected to remember how it goes when you only try it once a year, at the very most.

Like millions of other people up and down the country, we decide to sing the first verse again.

“Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to miiiind.”

I try and get everyone to sing the first verse for a third time, but we eventually finish and some brief snogs ensue and I try and kop a feel from my female friends. It is OK, it is my birthday so it is allowed. Expected, even.

Then the nightmare begins.

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Angry, Happy Birthday to youuuu!”

This is a song that it is generally nice to hear, especially when it is sung to you. Unless, it directly follows Auld Lang Syne and the room is filled with more booze than at an any other point during the year.

“Drink this!”

“Neck it.”

“Down it you fucking girl!”

All birthday greetings you do not want to hear when you’ve just entered your very late twenties.

The Claw walks over with a pint of what looks like Orange squash. I have known The Claw since my first days at University, and one thing I could be sure of, I was not going to enjoy this drink. And I didn’t. Or the next one. Or the one after, that tasted a bit like a smoothie, recently regurgitated by an alcoholic homeless person.

Later, as I lay on my bed, fully clothed and drifting in and out of consciousness, just 45 minutes into my twenty twelfth year, I wonder if I am a little bit to old for this.

Downstairs someone has plugged in my electric guitar and has begun playing, very badly, that other all time New Years Eve classic, “She’s Electric” by Oasis.

In an attempt to escape the spinning bedroom, I pass out.

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