What may have been an outstanding New Years, as the only other kind of outstanding new years I’ve witnessed is when I’ve worked in bars, turned into a shit show like it was run by Perth organisers.
BBC News reports of the night prior say the events in Edinburgh and London went off without a hitch.
As soon as I entered the event grounds, I was consumed by the crowd…
The idea was to head out with the parents and meet up with mates, closer to midnight.
It began foully.
A wanky Australian ran commentary from a nearby stage. The amateur failed to gage the overpopulated audience and introduced tracks, similar to Like Mike and Dimitri Vegas would’ve-the poorest act at Creamfields. The DJ spun dated tunes that called for bouncing, jumping, pumping and a variety of movements ideal to a sparser crowd. The masses obliged, and shit got real.
By then we (parents and I) had been separated by the will of a motiveless mass. The skinny, lanky cunts behind thought It’d be an idea to herd of unsuspecting people in front of them, as to create a movement that would cause a favourable outcome in direction. I felt like Mufasa in The Lion King. Others even more so.
Despite my polite and assertive efforts to inform my surrounding peons that there was a beverage present, the “Jump up, jump up and get down” catalyst emitted from the speakers… Professionally, the beverage was saved, despite the plastic container I was told all beverages must be contained in. There is skill when collecting a peon as they launch their weight in the air, nudging them with the shoulder as to redirect their landing position. The peon cannot plan for that, as it’s mind is feeble, hindering most pursuits.
Elbows were justly rotated into the unsuspecting but deserved faces of the relentless pushers and shovers. They could barely react out of shock. Though, once understood and although enraged, all new the outcome of a brawl in these surroundings. Nearby short asses, ignorant of their standing, began to freak as the force of mass from behind hurried them forward and down the hill, causing their stunted legs to work out of comfort zones. I thought It’d be best to inform them of various landmarks and interesting things we were passing, as you would to the blind or small children. This was of comfort to some. I found myself leaning backward at a 45 degree angle to compensate for the force of the stampede behind.
Eventually the proximity of unwanted affection subsided. It was then that I reached into my jacket for the newly purchased pewter flask, containing a very delicious Bruichladdie 10 year; the very first sip of anything since the Innis and Gun Original, contained in the plastic cup, finished and dropped a half hour earlier. This swig served it’s purpose, soliciting nerves and emotions alike.
Nothing could prepare me for what was next.
This’d be the second time (off memory) that I’ve referred to The Walking Dead in my travels. The first, referred to the patriotic American’s in Montanita, more braindead than the title suggests but their appearance holds similarity. This second referral to the Walking dead story is in regards to the sheer amount of bodies that occupied the streets, two hours before the countdown. There was no movement apart from a gentle shift of weight from one foot to another. They stood waiting, much like the-wait for it-hoards of witless zombies in The Walking Dead. There were less Americans this time round, but they still held a percentage of the crowd.
… It was and hour and a half later before I made my way to Rose Street-the fabled exit. It was too cold to sniff the rotting flesh between the ears, but the limp jaws and mouth breathing routines indicated the presence of what I could not smell. The last two obstacles, only meters from the exit were a group of portly women, and an old man whom had grown fond of an adjacent barrier.
The women should have been of no consequence, but the fattest was adamant that her position would be respected and that of her lesser, but still exceeding regulation, obese entourage. After trying to force my way through, that being after 2 minutes of polite requesting and aggressive denials, the queen of fatties asked me if I wanted to start a fight with five women. I wasn’t sure if she was playing the moral high ground, hinting as that to being uncouth and wrong of me as a male; or was she insinuating that she intended to, and was convicted that she could fuck me up. Before I could calculate, an associate lanky male presented himself. He asked the problem, I told him my bit and he kindly gave up his position to allow me to pass. He was skinny, but there was sufficient room to ensure a swift pass. As I did, my previous query was answered. Flabby fingers went to pinch the back of my arm and stubby but gordy legs kicked out for my shins. The fat five managed to land a few shin shots but the pinches were ineffective. They must’ve forgotten I do not possess the arms of a canteen mum, and they’re digits were so thickly layered with grease that grip on such textbook triceps would be like grasping at a block of slate with two thick sticks of Mozzarella; the foundation to most pizzas, and incidentally, pizzas being their foundation.
The fellah with the barrier wanted to lecture me of the rules and purpose of the barrier. After the Asses of Attitude and Abundance, I had little time left for the elderly. After hopping that fucker I swiftly breached the perimeter. There was some noise made from Geriatric Joe, but I am selective of hearing.
I’d had enough of people.
I decided to take the long way around the castle and enjoy my time over the new year cusp. With the freshly bought pewter container and the remnants of Scotland’s finest 10 year, I did.
Fireworks cracked and cackled as I was walking the sullen streets in shadow of the dark side of the Castle. I didn’t even look up. Truth be told, it was a little magical. I pulled out the phone and sent a message to one of my mates, wishing him the best for the New Year and wondering how he rolled, as he had worked it. 5am Australian time for him, he had a decent enough night-bit the shit show-but enjoyed his time. I’ve never understood New Years celebrations, this event not being the stage of enlightenment I’d hoped for.
When I got back to the room, my mother and I compared how many elbows we had thrown over the night. Bless her, she had won.
All I had wanted was a catchup with friends and acquaintances, knock out a few watery pints and giggle my way into the new year. It ended up with a bunch of cunts, no bar, and a strong pining for a punch up with the AAA.
The next morning, I had looked at the map of the event, whist watching the boastful news stories. Indicated on the map were a number of bars and public facilities. None of which I saw or had opportunity to seek out. I wondered what the organisers had in mind when they failed to cap the number of tickets sold. I looked up to the tube to see the firework displays all over the globe. Shanghai had a doozy.
When the broadcast reached the UK I was shocked to see a featured London organiser commenting on the remarkable turnout, despite a few miscommunications with the English punters, stating that they would take it into the following years efforts. No reports of over crowding, no reports of deaths, fatalities, injuries or unsocial behavior. Nothing was mentioned of Edinburgh, nor a notion of overcrowding. They did however rasp on about how they wanted the UK celebrations to be a standout.
I guess they can’t have that reputation with a report of overcrowding and poor policing of their grandiose event. Where do I fit into to their report? Well… I guess I made the whole thing up.
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