20. On the Cusp...

Saturday 31st December 2005: 10.50 pm

New Year's Eve.

Hm.

I never usually bother with resolutions and bollocks like that. They're like election manifestoes: good on paper, sound in principle¦ but that's about as far as they ever seem to go:

December 31st...................................January 5th
Stop smoking...................................¦quite so much
Take more exercise.........................¦at some stage
Keep within alcohol limits..................of last month's average
Stop being cynical................................about all the other self-serving bastards

The thing is, I've already done the ground work for the important changes. Some ruthless slash and burn, a good turn with the rotavator, a ton of manure forked in. And now the plot's all nice and ready. But I can't find the fucking seeds.

The play about the three blokes in the power cut has had a power cut of its own. The lights have gone off on paper and in my head. So there these guys are, sitting in the dark ' and I'm right there with them, with nothing to say either. It shouldn't be hard, should it? Even a bunch of complete strangers in a room should be able to get a conversation going. But there you are. For the time being, they're mute. At least they've got their beers to keep them occupied.

And I think I'll join them¦

Can from the fridge, arse in the armchair, feet up on the window sill. A quick run through of all the events of my life in general, and this last year in particular ' pick out the things that went right and the things that went wrong ' reflect on same ' extrapolate lessons ' take those and project them forwards ' try to imagine where I see myself a year hence. Trouble is, my imagination always splits the results into two parts: the ideal and the more probable. I usually go with the latter. It saves me from disappointment.

But next year's different. Next year's significant. Next year ' I'm forty.

Forty.

Fucking forty!

Nearly two-thirds of the way through already (all other things being equal). And what have I got to show for it? A poky flat in a poxy seaside town in Kent. No proper job. No proper income. No publishing deals in the offing. Nothing to send out anyway, now. And no ideas. Where's that big one I've been seeking for so long? The one that'll spawn my masterpiece? The ur-text for the new dispossessed ' the people society shits out of its arse and flushes around the bend? Those without money and education and prospects and connections and all the other crap you need. Those who sit back there, hunched up in their economy class seats, on a dodgy old prop plane, with a pilot and navigator who don't share a common language and who are both pissed anyway, flying on one engine towards that blizzard over those mountains.

Maybe I should just face up to it ' I don't have what it takes to do it after all. Maybe I should be looking at something else entirely. Learning a trade, perhaps. Plumber? They make a bit of money. Carpentry? I've often fancied a bit of that ' even though I have trouble sharpening a pencil. Computer maintenance? Hm. Always plenty of call for these things. Always someone wants a bit of pipework or an extension putting up or a memory upgrade. Yeah¦ Crafts. Practical skills. Things in demand. Things that can always bring in a bit of bunce.

And then, look at Yoyo. A man who has two main talents: lifting extremely heavy objects and scaring the crap out of people ' yet within two weeks of sticking a card in a shop window, he's already finding enough work to keep him going. Sherlock's got his sidelines with his horticulture, in all ways that you care to imagine ' the most legit being his gardening jobs. Plenty of gardens around here to occupy someone who knows a buddleia from a beetroot.

As for writers? What use are they? What can they do? String a decent sentence together (if you're lucky), fill up waste paper baskets, and keep the makers of indigestion tablets in business. Four a penny. Don't need any special skills at all. Don't even need to be a writer in the first place. Everyone's at it. Just do a blog about your life as a shelf filler at Asda, make it a bit funny, stick in a few shags across a trolley behind the deli counter (salami, anyone? ) ' here's half a million advance. Plus another half when you write the follow-up about your previous job as a filing clerk at an engineering parts manufacturer in Scunthorpe (you wouldn't believe how much erotic fun you can have with a handful of ball bearings and a tub of axle grease).

But if you really want to write. If you want to write stuff that matters. Stuff that appeals to something greater than the sensibilities of the average Big Brother contestant or the IQ of George Bush¦ well¦ just be prepared for a long and weary slog. Be prepared to live on a few pence short of bugger all for a few years longer than the average working life. And then, if you're lucky, you might just make enough to settle your bar tab and cover the funeral expenses.

So¦ perhaps now is the time to take a whiff of salts, bring myself round from the fug of disillusionment I've been in all these years ' trying to make something of it, trying to find some meaning in it all.

And that's what I need.

Meaning.

I need my life to have meaning again.

I need what I do to have meaning.

I need to do something worthwhile.

And, as it's now turned eleven, and there's less than an hour to go¦ I think I also need to get down the pub¦

*

Which was the best thing I could have done, as it happened.

Denise had made it a private party, just for the regulars. Snug as a rum-tub's cubby-hole, it was. A small crew, but a cosy one. The Beasley Boys at their table. Oakie and the lads at the machine. Suzie and Trina in their corner. Mole in his. Lemon, back in his old togs, over by the telly. At the bar, perched like pigeons on a guttering, the rest of us: Yo and Gemma in Saloon, me and the Holmes in Public. Picky bits on the counter. Muddy Waters, low in the background, setting up the mood ' Everything Gonna Be Alright. Hm. You could almost believe it.

The usual turn-of-the-year chit-chat. Christmas ' end of. Work ' return of. Future ' contemplation of. Sherlock's ideas concerning hydroponics and Ice-o-Lators. Yoyo's business development plans (buy a cash book and a bike). Gemma's Yoyo development plans (hence Yoyo's purchases). And my sudden, spontaneous, alcohol- and bonhomie-induced new idea for a tragi-comedy play about a group of people sitting in a pub on New Year's Eve trying to make sense of their lives (working title: Waiting for Sodall).

¦amounts consumed, effects achieved, feelings evoked, lessons learnt¦

The warp and weft of the conversational fabric that binds us all together.

At midnight, Lemon put the volume up on the TV and we caught the chimes. Everyone was quite pissed by then and the mood was high. We drank champagne. We hugged and kissed and shook hands and slapped backs. We watched the fireworks at the London Eye, then Jools and the Hootenanny.

And we felt good. With one notable exception, we were all in the same boat as last year. But there was a positive feeling in the air.

Suzy and Trina had their do to look forward to.

Yoyo was getting himself on track. Gemma was with him.

Sherlock had schemes, too.

Lemon? Who knew? The world was still his oyster ' but he seemed to have kept his head enough to realise it.

And me? Well¦ Fuck knows. Worry about it tomorrow.

But one thing I do feel. One way or the other, 2006 is going to be an interesting year.

It certainly can't be any worse than the last fucker.

But then I say that every year, too¦