Dozy Writes

As someone who grew up in Scotland, celebrating New Year’s Eve – or Hogmanay as we call it – was practically a legal requirement. 

Hogmanay has long been an important celebration in Scotland and it was particularly significant in decades past when drinking alcohol was less affordable.

This, together with a stronger adherence to our cultural customs, meant that it served as a great excuse for neighbours to gather together and get completely blootered. For the non-Scottish readers that means they got very drunk.

Every year, as Hogmanay approached, eldery relatives would share legendary tales of how previous generations celebrated.

There were many anecdotes about our grandparents and great-grandparents that suggested they got up to all kinds of high jinks but details were kept scant because, you know, they were respectable people.

I like to imagine that my great-grandparents behaved exactly as I did when I used to drink alcohol, getting so drunk that they would fall into a bush, eventually emerging with twigs in their hair and only one shoe. 

The po-faced photos of my ancestors don’t entirely align with this flight of fancy but you never know.

After we reached the year 2000, those aforementioned elderly relatives would mutter that Hogmanay wasn’t the celebration it once was. They used to complain that people nowadays had so much money that they could go out to the pubs and have a Hogmanay every weekend.

It seemed as if they were harking back to simpler days when, despite being poorer financially, they felt richer in terms of contentment.

Or perhaps they were just looking back through rose-tinted spectacles as we all have a tendency to do.

A time of preparation

My childhood memories of Hogmanay are mostly of gatherings in the house with neighbours and loved ones. 

Many of the old traditions were still observed including cleaning the house from top to bottom in advance to bring good luck for the year ahead.

The cleaning would be followed by the preparation of party food which, in the 1980s, always included mini sausage rolls as well as white finger rolls filled with egg or ham.

In addition, there was often a delicacy known as a cheese and pineapple hedgehog which tended to invoke great excitement among children and adults alike.

If you haven’t heard of this culinary marvel, allow me to explain. A melon or grapefruit would be halved, covered in foil and placed flat side down. An array of cocktail sticks, upon which pickled onions, and small blocks of cheese and pineapple had been skewered, would then be speared into the base thus giving the illusion of a hedgehog. 

No social event in the 1980s was complete without this masterpiece.

As the food was laid out on the sideboard, the crystal glasses – only recently used for Christmas dinner – were retrieved from the display unit once more, waiting for the alcohol which would soon be flowing. 

The TV would often be on in the background, tracking the countdown to New Year. We’d all stop to watch Rikki Fulton’s Scotch and Wry show, and perhaps see a rerun of Andy Stewart’s White Heather Club.

As we got older, my brother and I were allowed to stay up until midnight to take in the bells. We would circle around the TV which was usually beaming images of Big Ben in London, and enthusiastically shout out our own countdown before vigorously wishing each a good New Year.

First foot of the New Year

No matter how intemperate the weather, Dad, being tall and dark-haired, was always sent outside prior to the bells to fulfil his duty as the official first-footer. 

If you’re not familiar with this custom, a first-footer is the first person to cross the threshold of your house in the New Year. For some reason, it’s believed to be lucky if the first-footer is tall and dark-haired, and they normally bring gifts such as whisky, shortbread, black bun and a lump of coal. 

Dad would be sent off a few minutes before midnight to wait patiently outside his own house until he could hear the bells signalling the arrival of the New Year. He’d then have to ring the doorbell and we would greet him as if we hadn’t just seen him moments before.

When we let him back in, he would hand over a bottle of whisky and a lump of coal which often was, in fact, anthracite because we didn’t burn coal. 

I’m not sure if our ancestors would have been disappointed by this small variation in the custom but the sentiment of ensuring that the house would stay warm for the year ahead was the same.

Making our own entertainment

The rest of the evening would pass in a blur as the alcohol consumption increased and there was always great entertainment. Everyone took a turn singing a song, reciting a poem or telling a story and of course, there was always dancing. 

Sofas and chairs would be pushed out of the way to allow for energetic displays of the Gay Gordons and the Highland Schottische. Occasionally, a pared down version of Strip the Willow would be attempted but there really wasn’t enough space for that, and when it was attempted, it often ended with casualties to both people and furniture.  

The occasional cry of ‘heuch’, a traditional shout of excitement commonly heard at ceilidhs, would pierce the room, and anyone not involved in the dancing would clap along and stamp their feet in time to the music. 

After a while, the perspiring dancers would return to their seats and quench their thirst with more whisky. Any children still awake would often have retreated to a corner or bedroom to play with their Christmas gifts. 

Perhaps I’m wearing my own rose-tinted spectacles but they really did seem to be magical times.

A offer of alcohol

I remember being particularly excited one year during my mid teens when my dad asked if I might like to have an alcoholic drink to take in the New Year. 

‘Oh aye!’ I replied excitedly, starting to run through the list of possibilities in my mind.

I can start on the Bacardi and maybe try a wee vodka before investigating that bottle of Cinzano Bianco that’s been sitting at the back of the cupboard since 1983…

My thoughts were interrupted when Dad continued speaking. 

‘Maybe a wee Babycham?’ he suggested, eyes all twinkly as he offered this rite of passage where he treated me a responsible young adult.

I tried to cover my disappointment, whilst thinking to myself, Babycham??? There’s hardly any alcohol in that!!! 

Despite my dashed hopes about the Cinzano, I graciously accepted his offer. His enjoyment of this pivotal moment was infectious, and I reminded myself that 6% alcohol was better than none.

Plus I had a bottle of Peach Schnapps and a ridiculous amount of cider hidden under my bed to drink with my pals later on. 

As I got older, I started doing my own thing at Hogmanay but my friends and I always liked to ensure that we took in the bells with our parents so we would either pop home to do so or decide not go out to our parties until after midnight.

Feeling a connection to my family was always high on my list of priorities, no matter where I was.

Another one bites the dust

The most unpleasant Hogmanay I experienced was when I was 16 and I had decided to spend the celebrations with my boyfriend at the time. We went first-footing around a few houses before finally ending up at his friend’s house for a party.

It was all fairly genial until suddenly my boyfriend started drunkenly wrestling another partygoer who had apparently announced that they thought the band, Queen, were rubbish. 

My boyfriend, a massive Queen fan who was still devastated by the death of Freddie Mercury the previous year, took exception to this statement.

I watched in horror as he rolled around the garishly carpeted floor, his white Adidas Sambas a blur against the stonewashed jeans of his opponent.

My boyfriend’s love of Queen was a bit of a sore point for me. I didn’t appreciate their music at that time, being younger than him and more interested in grunge and rave music.

As the wrestling continued, I listened to the sounds of their grunts interspersed with the creaking of my boyfriend’s leather jacket and thought to myself, What the fuck am I doing here? 

By 8am on New Year’s Day, our relationship was over.

Whilst not exactly devstated by the break up, New Year’s Day wasn’t the best  day for it to happen, especially as I was navigating a hangover and the usual anticlimax that New Year’s Day brings.

Forced festivities

When you think about it, New Year is such a peculiar time. All that forced jollity. In fact the whole festive season is a terrible exercise in compulsory fun. 

The pressure to ensure that you are having a good time is enormous, and I have frequently found myself wondering if someone, somewhere else, might be having a better time than me.

It often felt as if my friends and I were chasing parties, feeling a sense of FOMO long before it became a hashtag.

Because of the pressure to have fun, I frequently found Hogmanay celebrations to be distinctly average.

One of those average times was when I attended a traditional Scottish ceilidh dance with my partner who later became my first husband. We went along with my parents and his mum and had an enjoyable enough time.

My partner and I headed home around 1.30am, whereas our parents decided to go and first-foot some of their friends. They stayed out partying until 6am. 

It was mortifying to discover that we had become so boring that our parents were partying harder than we were.

We hadn’t realised just how dull it was possible to be in our 20s but there we were, smashing it. 

A genteel Hogmanay

One of my favourite Hogmanay celebrations was with my friend at her parents’ house. Despite the fact that we were all adults, none of us were drinking.

We spent the evening playing games and having a laugh. It was delightfully low key. 

My friend’s partner and her parents went to bed whilst she and I stayed up, chatting in front of the fire. Suddenly, there was a loud hammering at the door.

Glancing at the clock, we saw it was almost 4am.  We decided to ignore it, thinking that it was probably just a first-footer who would move on to another house.

However, the caller was undeterred and it wasn’t long before they started hammering again. The door appeared to be in danger of caving in such was their vociferousness. 

My friend’s dad appeared downstairs and answered the door, only to discover it was a villager who had seen the light on so guessed that we must still be up. A minute or so later, we were joined by my friend’s mum who had quickly pulled on her clothes and restyled her hair in preparation for this unexpected guest.  

We were all a little disconcerted by our unexpected, and incredibly drunk, visitor so when he forcefully insisted we all have a drink of whisky, everyone was too scared to refuse. I only managed to decline his offer because I was driving. 

We fidgeted in discomfort as the villager espoused his ideas about life including this particular gem relating to marriage: 

‘When my wife is bothering me or nagging me, I just give her a kick in the c***!‘

We all sat open-mouthed as this man, clearly a stranger to modern, progressive views, shared his opinions.

Our eyes darted around the room, surreptitiously trying to catch each other’s gaze as we wondered how to release ourselves from what was beginning to feel like a hostage situation.

Despite the low-level terror of the situation, I knew I had to leave whilst I was still awake enough to drive home. I was torn because I didn’t want to leave my friend and her parents at this man’s mercy, but I was also slightly worried that I myself would be subjected to a kick in the whatsit if I stayed much longer.

I announced my intention to leave and sidled my way out of the house, mouthing emphatic apologies to my friend and her parents as I went. 

I beieve they enjoyed his company for at least another hour before he finally decided to visit another house.

My friend and I were in the bad books with her parents for staying up so late and allowing us to be taken hostage.

Despite the less than ideal end to the night and their subsequent wrath, it still ranked as one of my more enjoyable celebrations.

Resolutions

After the celebrations, we turn our focus towards our intended, and often unachievable, New Year’s resolutions. 

In the Scottish Highlands, New Year hits at the coldest and darkest time of the year. Not the best environment to implement major lifestyle changes.

I used to go to the swimming pool every morning before work, and the month of January was always a nightmare because all these new folk would appear, having made New Year’s resolutions to get healthier.

The number of swimmers almost doubled and we’d be crammed into the swimming lanes like sardines, barely able to move. 

It was a relief when February came and the majority of them had disappeared again, unable to cope with the reality of hauling their bodies out of bed on the interminably cold and dark mornings.

It wasn’t that I celebrated others not achieving their fitness goals, far from it. It was more that it was frustrating to be constantly overwhelmed with huge numbers of people who weren’t mentally prepared for the lifestyle change they were trying to implement.

They had been sucked in by this nonsense of making changes at the start of the New Year as if it was the only time to do it. 

Positive changes can happen any time, we don’t need to wait for the New Year, partiuclarly as it occurs at a time when we should be hibernating.

A change of date

I recently discovered that the Persian New Year is celebrated in March. This seems like a much more suitable time to celebrate New Year, at a time when spring has arrived and there is growth and rejuvenation.

I’ve since discovered that the UK also used to celebrate New Year in March, roughly around the time of the Spring Equinox.

The change in date is partly because we moved over from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar – there may be more of an explanation but I’ve already forgotten it.

To further confuse matters, in Scotland we also celebrated New Year on the 12th of January and it is often referred to as the Old New Year.

The west coast side of my family, being good folk who enjoyed a party, used to celebrate the Old New Year in addition to the modern New Year. They also celebrated every Friday, Saturday and pretty much every other day of the year.

They never needed a reason to enjoy themselves.

I quite like the idea of moving the New Year to March again so we can celebrate at a time when it feels more natural to explore new possibilities. Or maybe I just need to forget about New Year and start celebrating the Spring Equinox instead.

Returning to normality

I know I’m in the minority here but I enjoy getting back to a sense of normality after the New Year. I find the intense build up to Christmas followed by the limbo of the following days a bit discombobulating, so I’ve always quite enjoyed returning to work for some structure and routine.

That said, I don’t enjoy the Negative Nellies wandering around the office announcing how awful it is to be back.

My friend and HR colleague, an endlessly positive person, used to suggest to them that perhaps they should remember how happy and excited they were when they first got the job and try to channel that feeling, but her words usually fell on deaf ears.

It seems that sometimes people are happy being miserable.

My friend is right though. Looking at the situation with a more positive slant can help us through the challenges of the winter months.

Instead of agonising over cultivating a gym body this month, perhaps we should make a resolution to be grateful for what we already have. That might allow us to mentally prepare ourselves for any changes we’d like to make this year and lead to us being able to implement those changes in a more successful and enduring manner.

Change can be daunting enough without trying to implement it at a time when our resilience might be lower.

So, whatever you choose to do in 2025, I hope you are kind to yourself and I wish you all the best for the year ahead.