A New Year’s Eve clampdown
I don’t like New Year’s Eve, does anybody, really? All that pressure to have the best time at the best party at the best venue with the best people – YUCK!
Looking back I can’t think of one New Year’s I actually enjoyed. In Cavan, one night sticks in mind. It was the first time I’d been allowed go out for the night and I headed for the then hot-spot: The Lakeland Hotel.
There was a girl I had a massive crush on and I spent the night plucking up the courage to ask her to dance. Eventually, when the Human League’s ‘Don’t you want me baby’ came on, I asked her. And of course the song proved prophetic as she didn’t want me, she said, “No,” with a polite head swivel and smile. I wandered home alone with a shattered heart and tattered ego.
My London New Year’s lacked any merriment, instead they were abundant with mayhem and strife: all chaos, crowds, crushes for last tubes, busses; and drunken fights. My every London New Year’s Eve is encapsulated in that preceding sentence.
For the millennium a group of us flew to Las Vegas. Which in theory sounds brilliant, in practice it was a living nightmare. An artificial sonic landscape with the omnipresent jingle of slot machines ringing and trilling 24/7. London was an oasis of calm in comparison.
But, I have one New Year’s that was highly-memorable, and I should like to share it with you in this column. Button up, here goes – it was my first New Year’s Eve back in Cavan after those thirty years in London. I was thrilled to be invited to a neighbour’s party, an invitation, which took away so much of the night’s burden – I could walk home.
As the last day of the year dawned I woke feeling good, unusual for me, it’s the day before my birthday and this one was pulling me into middle age. But I didn’t let that bother me, for I had my first party at home and I so looked forward to it. I spent the morning watching old black and white films on Talk-TV – bliss. I idled the afternoon away reading Stephen King’s latest novel ‘The Institute’ – double bliss. And in the evening I pampered myself with a bubble bath (my London flat was shower only) – triple bliss.
In my state of bliss times three, I got ready for my first New Year’s party with friends and family at home. All was perfect, what could possibly go wrong?
Heading for the door I decided to nip to the toilet. Afterwards I zipped up and – AHHHHHHHHH – I nipped my pecker in the zipper! I can confirm ‘nipped’ is too kind a word for the pain of having the male member clamped by the savage teeth of a hastily pulled zipper.
I doubled up; and when I tried to stand the resultant pull caused the teeth to clamp further and the pain to sear. Crawling to the bedroom I became engulfed in fear. I couldn’t stand to turn on the light, so I shone my phone on the clamping scene and broke a sweat at the sight. My phone pinged: ‘Where are you?’ I hastily texted back: ‘Can’t make it, not feeling well.’ There followed a flurry of texts I didn’t read, for I was crawling to the kitchen for cooking oil and scissors.Back in the bedroom I began cutting myself out of the jeans, a procedure that caused me to cry out in pain. Eventually I was free of the jeans and pants, but the big job lay ahead; I took a deep breath before I tackled the vicious teeth. And the texts kept pinging: ‘You were alright an hour ago, what’s wrong with you?’ I turned my phone off and grabbed the Crisp N Dry.
It was the early hours of my birthday before a combination of the lubricating-oil and much painful patience resulted in my eventual release from the biting jaws. And such was the precision of my surgical skills I avoided a trip to A&E – phew!
Now, I look back on my ‘Something about Mary’ moment with amusement (it’s a movie with an infamous zipper-clamp scene in it). But zipper-related penile injury is most prevalent at this time of year and can cause considerable damage. So men, I hope my New Year clampdown will act as a cautionary tale for all.
To finish on an upbeat note, “May the road rise up to meet you in 2026.”
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
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