Day 1: The Day It All Began

Happy New Year and welcome to 2012. I haven't decided whether to call it 'two thousand and twelve' or 'twenty twelve' yet.

Last night was a nice evening. Tamara wanted us to go clubbing whereas I wanted to go out for a meal then head up to the river to watch the fireworks. I couldn't think of anything worse than clubbing on the busiest and most expensive night of the year. Luckily Kosky and Bianca were also up for going out for a meal.

Kosky had booked VillaBianca in Hampstead. The problem was that on New Year's Eve, Villa Bianca were charging £100 a head. However, Kosky told me that if we got there at 6.30pm, we could order from the a la carte menu. We got to the restaurant at 6.30pm...virtually empty apart from a table of pensioners and a family with their children.

Decided to take the tube from Hampstead to Embankment to find somewhere for dessert and drinks before the fireworks (it was 8.30pm and we had a few hours to kill). The tube was rammed and I found my face pressed against the sweaty armpit of a drunk, overweight Eastern European woman. By the time we got to Goodge Street Station, Tamara, who is mildly claustrophobic, had turned green. I could tell that she was seconds away from either throwing up or fainting. I was praying for the latter. I mean, I wasn't praying that she'd faint, I was just terrified that she'd throw up on me. We thought it would be a good idea to get off the train and walk the rest of the way. That killed a few minutes.

There was nowhere open in the whole of central London for dessert. Not one place! Couldn't even find somewhere to have a drink. We tried TGI Friday's but the waiter with a hundred thousand badges wouldn't let us in. He told us that people had been on the waiting list for hours. Who waits for a table at TGI Friday's for hours? Come to think of it, who would want to wait for a table at TGI Friday's for more than a minute?

At about 10.30pm it started raining. I suggested that we try going into a hotel. We passed this shit hole on the Strand. I think it's called The Savoy. Kosky managed to blag our way in by giving a fake name and room number. They told us that we couldn't go into the bar, but that we could go into their private fireworks viewing room. Unbelievable! What wasn't unbelievable was that for an hour and a half, I was pestered by this slightly backward, single toothed fat man who looked like a cross between Trevor McDonald and the Penguin. He told me he was famous and asked if I knew who he was. When I said I didn't recognise him, he told me he was once on Question Time. 'Were you on the panel?' I asked. 'No', he replied. 'I wath in the audienth and I athked a quethtion'. I quickly ran to the bar, asked for a pen and paper and got his autograph.

I have a few resolutions this year. Lose weight, get more money, play less Playstation and stop farting in front of Tamara. In fact, we agreed that for every fart that Tamara hears or smells, I have to put £1 in a jar. At the end of the year, Tamara will get whatever's in the jar. I think there's a strong chance I won't be able to keep this resolution. She might not have to worry about getting a job after all.

Oh and my other resolution is to start writing a blog. I don't really know what it will be about. I don't know who it's for, or if anybody will ever bother reading it. I don't actually know why I'm doing it. I'll try to keep it up though. Something must happen this year that's worth writing about.

Got back to Tamara's at about 2.30am and got straight into bed. Got out of bed two minutes later to put £1 in the jar.