Johnny's New Year

Desperately bitter and iced like a glacial plain, torn savagely by
the wind, the welsh coast greeted him like the cold realisation of a
spurned affection, lost in the gathered mists. The moon was rising,
pale and hung over the ocean, suspended in a vaccum pocket of Johnny's
field of revelation. This last utter coast, blinded with blown sand,
blasted from the receeding shore, this is the end of the year. Johnny
has made a sacred pilgrimage, trod this narrow and difficult path to be
with his friends on this, a day of migration to a new era of planetary
orbit. Raising a gloved hand he knocks on the cottage door, and as it
opens, a blast of warmth and nostagia converges and draws him
inside.

Covert coven of two ladies and ten men, these friends could be any
friends, your friends, nothern, southern, middleclass, brown
fingertips, ripped rizla packets, Stella Artois that is reassuringly
expensive. Johnny chats to them all in turn and holds their affection
to his breast, until as the evening wears on and the boys take it in
turn to spin the decks, make those speakers sing, "Gloria in excelsis
deo" There is a force which all matter creates and with which all
matter is summoned. Forces at home and abroad but none stronger than
the unknown force that binds Johnny and his friends together. As he
views its landscape of beer cans and ashtrays he wishes just for a
fleeting moment to be somewhere away from this sickening mess, cannabis
carnival, smoked up world. Then Big Ben strikes, a new year crackles
with sparks in the rocket sky.