Previous New Years come to mind as bowel-crushingly embarrassing memories - Saturday November 20, 1999

As 1999 wheezes its way, like an old Vauxhall Viva, to the end of the 20th century, I feel no existential angst. At the dawn of a new millennium, I'm not asking any weighty "Whys?"; I'm just thinking that some weighty Ys might be nice. I don't feel the burden of a hundred years, just a hundred Liquorice Allsorts that I've scoffed while watching Kilroy.

Apparently, this New Year has got to be the bestest, most out-ruddy-rageous night of your entire life, otherwise everyone will think that you're a bit of a twit. So, if you're not waterskiing in Rio with a display team of naked men clenching fireworks between their buttocks then, sorry, you're going to have to re-think.

Previous New Years come to mind in a slurry of bowel-crushingly embarrassing memories. Blowing chunks in a bin outside Leatherhead Leisure Centre, falling asleep at 10.30pm in an airing cupboard ripped to the gills on Malibu, weeping into a vol-au-vent at the passing of another year. To be honest, most of my New Years have been spent with my parents, rugs on knees and sherries in hand, watching people in Scotland on the telly having a really brilliant time.

So, what's to be done? Only 40 days to go, for Pete's sake! I think I might have to host something or other, although this is bound to involve me getting extremely bossy and clipboardy. I will also develop a terrible nervous tick in my eye until the event is over. The last party I threw, I had the roster of events on the clipboard and ticked them off as each occurred - for example, "Take coats from people."

Tick. "Cocktail into jugs. Green jug alcoholic. Red jug fruit-based." Tick... I just don't think I can put my mates through that again. Start polishing the sherry glasses, Dad.

 
Many people have asked over the past few months what I plan to do for the millennium. Forgive me, gentle and hostile readers alike, for using this column as a public statement of intent. I shall begin celebrations early with my favourite game, Knock Down Ginger, albeit a slight variation on the theme - where I lightly clip Chris Evans and Geri Halliwell with the passenger door of my Seat as they leave a swanky London night-spot.

As the evening draws on, I shall jump into an ice-cream van (specifically hired for the purpose) and hook up a PA system, the like of which has not been heard since the Krankies performed live at the Hollywood Bowl. Then I will drive around the capital; broadcasting to every carousing household, congregation and party that, according to calendar purists, the real millennium isn't for another year. This fact - that we as a civilisation are wildly inaccurate at time-keeping - will hopefully cheer those who didn't get round to organising a do this time around.

And where will I be as the clocks start to chime, you ask? I will be at the top of Big Ben, waiting until he strikes 11 times. Then, in the beat before he strikes the full dozen and the island goes apeshit, I will hurl myself between the hammer and bell. This will cause drunken Londoners to question whether New Year has indeed arrived, and whether or not that last litre of Strongbow is playing tricks with their mind.

Finally, I will make a resolution - to take up again all the things I've given up over the past 30 years. I will light a cigarette, stick on a Smurfs album and enjoy a nice warm glass of Blue Nun. Well, it's New Year's Eve, and they'll have run out of everything else.