New year, new nutter.

A while back, Gill casually mentioned that she'd invited some friends up for Hogmanay, and would it be fine if we had a smallish New Year's Eve party? Ali said that was fine, but she'd be in Australia. Dave and I mumbled assent while watching The Mighty Boosh for the n^th time and immediately forgot all about the party.

About a month ago, I panicked and spammed everyone I knew on the off chance that they hadn't already organised something for Hogmanay. I heaved a sigh of relief that I'd finally remembered to do something about it and then forgot about it once again.

Around half past three on the afternoon of the 31^st of December, I remembered about it for a second time, panicked for a second time, bought a couple of crates of beer and some ice and went back to playing GT4 for the rest of the afternoon. About half past eight that night, in the midst of a drinking game and with a playing card stuck to my forehead, the reality of the situation finally sank in and I hoofed it back to the flat in case anyone turned up.

Turns out the best way to organise a party is to studiously avoid organising it. People turned up in droves and it was, by all accounts, a rather good bash. I spent most of the time wandering round thinking "It can't possibly be going this well", given that we'd spent a grand total of half an hour preparing for it. The bells came, we trooped outside to watch the fireworks and then back to the party until people starting drifting away around three or four.

By five, things were mostly quiet: a few people were dancing in the living room (which had assumed the role of techno room thanks to Gill's new, tranced-up iPod shuffle); a few more were in the kitchen (the ambient room) and a very, very drunk guy called Simon was starting to get a bit lairy. At six, we were down to the flatmates and a few remaining die-hards. Simon had been convinced to go home and we closed the door behind him with relief all round.

This lasted about a minute, until Simon's shouted, repeated insistence that he wanted to go home floated through the door.

"Go home, then!" we told him. "It's downstairs!"

Sounds of shuffling around, sundry bangs and thumps echoed up the stairwell as we stood round the closed door and debated what to do with this season's fashionably caned idiot.

"Let's beat him up and throw him into the street," said Francis.
"I don't want to get into that sort of stuff again," I said. "Maybe he'll just wander off."
"I'm in Lincoln!" Simon shouted through the door, and then started to shoulder charge it.
"Oh, Christ," we all said and braced the door until he stopped a few minutes later.
"I've called the police," said Michelle.

They turned up as he started breaking panes of the stairwell's window.

"You've ruined my new year, you prick," the first policeman said as he sat on Simon.
"You're under arrest," the second said.
"No I'm not," said Simon.

They took him away and told us they'd be back in a while to take statements from at least a couple of us. We sat down in the living room to wait. A snoring partygoer on the couch farted loudly enough to wake the dead - a reverberating, thunderous raspberry of a fart - rolled over, and kept sleeping.

I went to bed and woke up at midday. The police hadn't come back, the flat smelt like black lung and the floors were sticky where they weren't carpeted with bottles. Good party!