And, at the risk of sounding like one of those arses from Grumpy Old Men, I don’t really see the point.

I used to think New Year was more of a big thing. In my youth, as the old year drew to a close, I used to get either very happy or very sad – generally depending on the proximity of someone willing and kissable. I used to brave the bars and the nightclubs and the parties, squeezed together with the drunk and the really drunk and those ones that just dribbled. I used to do all of this and more.

Then I realised two things:

1. New Year is really just an arbitrary date that has gained some sort of significance in the popular psyche due, possibly, to our innate desire to mark the close of things that we don’t care for and to fool ourselves that the simple transition from one day to the next means all our woes will be magically transformed into good luck and solid gold puppies.
2. I was a twat.

Armed with this knowledge (and the knowledge I’d always had about fireworks – they’re just coloured sparks in the sky, people), I put aside new-year’s things and simply got on with stuff.

Having said that, although I won’t be venturing out to pipe-in Hogmanay, I am celebrating the new year in my own manner by forcing my wife to make me a bread and butter pudding.

Remember – as that leering, stinking inebriate tries to tongue you on the stroke of midnight – that I’ll be having bread and butter pudding.

And custard.

I do sound like one of those Grumpy Old Men people, don’t I?  At least tell me it’s not Rory McGrath.