[originally an email to the morgueatlarge list, sent January 2004]
Edinburgh’s big street party to see in the new year has become somewhat infamous over the last decade, and is now reputedly the biggest in Europe. It’s certainly a folded page-corner in the Lonely Planet of many a traveller. The Hogmanay celebrations run for days, with events both ‘afore and after.
I was newly arrived in Edinburgh for last year’s Hogmanay and the ever-prepared Blair managed to produce a ticket to the street party for me. The party is free but ticketed, and once the free ones go the black market starts up – it’s typically up to £20 for a ticket, depending on how lucky you are and how late you leave it. Anyway, we got in, jumped around, looked at the fireworks and had a right old good time!
This year, after some plans to be in Belgium for the holiday season fell through, Cal and I agreed to open our home to antipodean orphans, and so we had a strong compliment of good Kiwi folk for the big day, including Alastair Galloway who materialised out of the rain at about 5pm on New Years Eve. The rain was heavy and it was cold and windy. Reminded me of home, to be honest – wind and rain always do. With his pack safely stowed at Broomhouse, we went to a favourite eatery for an Eve dinner, filling up the central table with Cal and myself, Alastair, Julian, Yuuki, Sibs, Trimmy and suspiciously non-Kiwi Kathleen. Guid fuid, induid, followed by leisurely chatting until the arrival of Jess with her own band of Kiwi travellers. And we set off.
The rain was coming down with some enthusiasm now, but spirits were high. Even the wind didn’t feel too bad. We passed through the gate, our wristbands checked, and descended the slope of the mound towards the massed throng in Princes St. Thousands of people filled up the road. We dove straight in.
The strange absence of music was soon explained as we wandered near enough to a speaker to hear the PA announcement – the street party was cancelled. Nasty weather. Everyone had to bugger off home. Thank you very much for your co-operation.
Miserable outcome! We wandered through the crowds for a while, soon finding that even the midnight fireworks on the city’s seven hills were cancelled. The largest rendition of Auld Lang Syne ever was right out.
By the time the minutes of 2003 were running out, we had found ourselves near one of the entrances to the street party, on the outside as it happened, where a large number of people had just decided to stand around and wait. This we did. One game punter scrambled up a lamppost and stripped off his clothing piece by piece, tossing it out to the crowd. It was unclear whether he gave up when down to his trousers due to modesty or because of he understood the lethal difficulty of trying to strip them off in the wind and rain atop a streetlamp.
Soon the ragged cheering of midnight’s arrival began, as everyone’s watch and cellphone separately decided the time had come. Everyone snogged everyone else and smiled happily, because that’s all they wanted to do anyway, street party cancellation or no. Members of our little circle proved instrumental in beginning a rather large circle singing Auld Lang Syne, not to mention lots of more general jumping around hugging people and an astonishingly successful and seasonally inappropriate conga line. It
were cool fun.
In the steadily improving weather we wandered around to the Grassmarket beneath the castle, and were eventually let into The White Hart, a lovely wee historic pub, reputedly haunted (not exceptional in Edinburgh), in this case by the ghosts of the victims of Burke and Hare, the bodysnatchers who once worked the area. I saw no ghosts that night, except perhaps the face of one of our number who proved rather the worse for wear come four in the morning. The rest of us had a lovely big yarn to all and sundry in a nice warm pub. And then finally home to bed as the clock swung past five.
A happy night. Condolences are not necessary, at least to me. Those poor geezers who flew up from London and paid quids for worthless tickets – they’re the ones to console.
And then, by the way, it was 2004. And so it still is.
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This year the night afore had giant metal elephants instead of big pink giraffes. For what it’s worth.
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And we’ve moved at last. In Belmont Gardens now. Step out the front door to a view over the tops of houses to the distant Pentland Hills to the south. Sweet. (Not to mention a housely guest book that reads like a greatest hits of my university friends.)
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Hello to everyone! Those off to Kapcon this weekend – my best and fondest regards.
Cheers
Morgan