FRIDAY 1 FEBRUARY
I’m sorry this posting is so late. I’ve spent a couple of days writing it and now that it’s done, I’m not entirely sure - or even sure at all - that it’s the kind of thing you would expect to read in a blog like this. I just wanted to ‘externalise’ the feelings I’ve had since the events in the story took place. It seems that, for the moment at least, I’m a strangulated writer looking for a place to tell a story. Because that’s what this posting is - a story. The ‘events’ I mentioned are few and, to anyone else, no doubt insignificant. But, to be honest, I don’t care. It happened to me, and I’ve been unable to forget it. Not that I’ve tried very hard. So please take it at face value and make of it what you will. It happened on New Year’s Eve, which to most people is already a distant memory. But not to me.
Here goes.....
NEW YEAR’S EVE: A MAN AT MIDNIGHT
I’ve never been one for ‘forced jollity’. You know the kind of thing. Any event where the only frame of mind permissible is unbridled enjoyment; where it’s regarded as curmudgeonly to refuse another drink; and where intolerance and bitchiness (it always seems to me) increase with the amount of alcohol consumed and the number of cliques that form. And that’s why I’ve never been a fan of ‘organised’ New Year’s Eve outings.
Celebrating the arrival of the New Year is, of course, an understandable thing to want to do, and I’ve gone way over the top doing it many more times than I care to remember. However, almost all my adult life, I’ve very carefully avoided going to pubs, bars and clubs on New Year’s Eve. I’m not as serene in this respect as my brother and his wife, who close and lock the doors at 8pm and don’t open them for ANYONE. I have, though, spent most of my New Years getting quietly - or even very noisily - sozzled with a few friends at home. That way lies what I regard as genuinely good cheer and good ‘crack’ in good company. And, in a way, what happened to me last New Year’s Eve proved to me that I ought to have stuck to the routine that had served me well for so long.
My partner and I had decided that we wanted to spend the evening with two of our closest friends - a lovely young couple who are getting married during 2008. They, in turn, had made arrangements to spend New Year’s Eve at
The Hyena comedy club in Newcastle with us and two other couples. With my predilections and prejudices about New Year’s Eve, I should have known better than to accede to the plan. ‘Forced jollity’, you see.
As it turned out, it was forced jollity of the very worst kind. The audience had to be at their tables by 7pm. This meant that, by the time the comedy actually started at 9.15, most of them were well on the way to being drunk already. I, on the other hand, was rapidly sinking into a trough of utter despond. I was exactly where I didn’t want to be on such a night - with a very rowdy crowd of unruly, tipsy, loudmouthed, and bigoted losers bawling their heads off at any remotely crude wisecrack made by the truly atrocious ‘comedians’ on stage. Audience participation - of the ‘Is there anyone in from Sunderland?’ ‘Yes’ ‘You poor f***er’ variety - was unstoppable.
The food made it worse. £10 (yes, I know, it was only £10) bought me six sprouts, three slices of carrot, another unidentifiable root vegetable, one small roast potato and a chunk of meat that looked as if it had been eaten already. It was all completely cold and remorselessly tasteless - like the cabaret. A dustbin would have been too good for it.
The ‘comedy’ finished at about 11.15, when we were all supposed to troop down to the dancefloor for more expressions of fun-loving
joie-de-vivre.
Not me, I thought. No way. Maybe (I thought) it’s because I’m by far the oldest person here, or perhaps I’m just tired and/or emotional. But creaking arthritically on a cramped, vomit-strewn dancefloor is very far from being my idea of welcoming 2008.
I made my excuses and left the youngsters to their frolics. My partner John looked a little crestfallen at my decision, but he knows me well and must have realised that, if I had stayed, I would probably have killed myself and several other people in an orgy of New Year’s Eve mayhem.
It was 11.40. We live just over a mile from the city centre so I folded my overcoat collar up against the wind and began to walk home. Barrack Road then the turn into Stanhope Street through Arthur’s Hill. As I walked, the streets got quieter and quieter as party-goers made for the venues where they would see in the New Year. A drunken couple were having an argument on the other side of the road as it started to rain. It was that all-soaking drizzle at first. Then it poured more heavily. By the time I turned into Brighton Grove I was cold, wet, tired and utterly miserable. No cars on the street now. And no people either.
Except....
At the corner of Bentinck Road and Westgate Road I stopped to light a cigarette. As I did so, the only car on the road hooted its horn at me. ‘Happy New Year!’ ‘Yeah, right’ I muttered. Very happy, yeah. Alone - lonely - in the wind and rain. ‘This’ I thought ‘must be the alltime worst New Year’s Eve in the history of New Year’s Eves. This is awful. I've been snobbish, intolerant, sullen. This is truly AWFUL....’
At exactly that moment, I noticed a man emerge from the gates of the General Hospital over the road. Like me, he was hunched up against the chilling midnight weather but as our paths crossed, he wished me a Happy New Year. ‘Yeah, right’ I said. ‘Very happy’. By now I was, I think, actually sulking. I was wallowing in disgruntled self-pity and my tone of voice must have said it all.
The man stopped and turned round. We were only a few feet apart. ‘Bad night, huh, marra?’
I said ‘Yes’. That’s all I said to him. ‘Yes’. He walked back towards me until we were almost eyeball to eyeball. That’s when I noticed how tired and sad he looked, close-up. He looked worn-out.
‘I’ve just spent the evening in
there’, he said, pointing to the hospital over the road. ‘I’ve been holding an old gadgie’s hand. There was only me. He doesn’t have anyone else. They reckon he won’t get through the night.’
He stared at me, eye to eye. ‘The way I see it,’ he said ‘
we are out
here and
he is in
there.'
I couldn't think of anything to say. It's many years since I've felt so self-consciously ashamed.
He continued, speaking very softly. 'I don’t have much to be thankful for myself, marra. But right now, the poor owd bugger in
there has nowt. So you and me - we have the biggest gift of all.’ He didn’t move a muscle as he stared at me. ‘Agreed?’ he asked. ‘Agreed’ I said. ‘Yes’.
He reached out, shook my hand and wished me a Happy New Year again. ‘Yes’, I said. ‘And the same to you.’
He turned and resumed his walk home. I stood and watched him as he trudged along the West Road, entering and leaving my vision with each streetlight he passed under. Then he was gone.
I don’t know who he is, of course. I didn’t ask. Nor do I know what happened to the ‘old gadgie’, although I can guess.
As I walked the rest of the way home, I found myself smiling a little. And hoping that, on that cold, damp New Years' Eve,
three men may have been liberated, uplifted and set free.
When I got home, I texted John and told him I loved him. No matter what.
CONTACT ME
Post comments on this blog or contact me in any one (or more) of these ways....
ian.robinson@bbc.co.uk
ianstuartrobinson@googlemail.com
text 07786 200954 (while the programme is on-air)
call (between about 0545 and 0630 Monday to Friday) 0191 232 6565
Ian Robinson, The Nightshift, BBC Radio Newcastle, Spital Tongues, Newcastle-upon-Tyne NE99 1RN
NOTE
Please bear in mind that the views expressed in this blog are my own and NOT the views of the BBC.
THURSDAY 28 FEBRUARY
