God Fortsättning !

New Years Eve. Used to be my best (and usually only) chance of getting laid when I was a lad. Everything’s a hell of a good idea when your 18 and pissed. Funny how things are still a hell of a good idea when you’re 40 something and pissed. Difference is that I used to look forward to getting legless with the legless girl from down the street. These days I dread the aftermath. It gnaws away at me in the days leading up. I know I’m going to be found lying in the gutter somewhere. Yet I’m powerless to stop it. It’s the pure definition of watching the proverbial train wreck. Welcome to Nyårsafton !! For the second year we spent New Year’s Eve at the home of my brother in law. For 364 days of the year, the nicest guy in town. In the space of 6 hours in one evening, it all comes crashing down. At least, the bits of it that my protective brain allows me to remember. I’ll give him credit, you’d be hard pressed to find a more attentive host, this side of a brothel. A spread of food that the Queen Mum herself, God rest her, would have be proud to have rustled up. The purists would probably point out that it’s just the leftovers from Christmas, thawed out and rehashed. But I’m not going to have a bar of that. He put in the effort, and that’s alright in my books. Unfortunately, the same level of enthusiasm extends to the liquid refreshments. Which begin before the shoes come off, and finish long after the last house roof has been torched by the midnight fireworks. I had spent last year analysing the previous party. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment when things went horribly wrong. Call it a pre-emptive strike. I was fine with the pre dinner glögg. No worries with the dinner schnapps. Likewise with the dinner wine. The after dinner cognac seemed ok. Ditto for the various beers. That rather odd looking liquor that came from Hungary didn’t look the best, but seemed harmless enough. Nope, everything was fine until the champagne arrived at 1am. THAT’S when it all went a bit pear shaped. Having isolated the problem, the solution was easy. No champagne for me, thank you very much. I really don’t know what happened this year. Must have been a bad batch of Hungarian cough syrup. Going to have to rethink my strategy.