
New Years Eve. Silvester. Although typically a night of over-inflated anticipation and crushing disappointment, my 06/07 transitional celebrations were flipping brilliant. Still in London, Andrew and I attended a private party in a split-level club with Dan and all his mates. After 'pre-drinks' at a friend's flat, our crew of semi-inebriated Party People stumbled out into the chilled streets, and legged it towards the venue.
A queue meant that we only made it inside the club by 11:40, which gave us just enough time to, uh, join the drinks queue, the sluggish speed of which ensured that when the clocks struck 12 we were dutifully scattered throughout the club, clutching scrunched bills, fistfuls of coins, lager and other people's Creme de Menthe.
But the initial overcrowding, queues and unwanted bodily contact were soon overcome, as a fair few people headed off soon after the Countdown. Thereafter it was a veritable orgy of live bands, house DJs, alcohol and loose dancing. I personally danced and sweated my Body Mass Index (BMI) rating down 25 points; a weight-height ratio which was subsequently squandered through the fat-inducing properties of beer and a morning-after kebab.
The club had an awesome vibe, as most people there knew some people, who knew others, so that the festivities had a house-party atmosphere, but with the added bonus of live music and a killer sound system.
The D&D (drinking and dancing) lasted until about 6:30am, after which Andrew, myself and a hodge-podge collection of friends-of-friends went on a Beer Mission en route to the pre-drinks flat (which was thereafter to be known as the 'post-drinks' flat). Perhaps unsurprisingly, we got royally lost and spent about an hour blindly wandering through various estates in the 01.01.07 haze, with no accurate street address, or mobile number of anyone who wasn't off their mash. Ahh but what larks, Pip! Highlights included lending my white fluffy beanie to a member of our Beer Mission who looked like PC Des Taviner from
The Bill, and, er, pretending to be roaming the streets of Sun Hill. Poor old Reg. And whatever became of Jim Carver?
Dan eventually saved us, managing to direct us from his mobile through winding back streets and along a canal to a location he was barely familiar with - whilst being completely drug-bunged. (Good on ya, Dan!) Upon arrival at the smoke-filled post-drinks flat our beer was ungraciously accepted and consumed, and we decided we'd had enough. Having no choice but to end our NYE on a (financial) high, we extravagantly shelled out 30 quid (A$75) for a blackcab ride home. Ah, lovely!
Above: Our blurry pilgrimage to the club.

Dan: "You see thish guy here? He's like, you know, my cousin. Maaaaate."

Andrew: "Do you think people can tell that we're off chops?"
Dan: "Nah we're smooth."

Above: Andrew's sister Lucy with cousin Matt, whilst Dan hovers, overexposed and intoxicated, in the foreground.

Above: A band performs under what my camera (and several party-goers) perceived to be some pretty dazzling lights.