To some, NYE is the highlight of the year (after the Eurovision of course). For others, it is the most dreaded evening – over-hyped, overrated, the epitome of ‘forced fun’. Is there a clinical term for the hate of NYE? Yeah, well, there should be one.
Here are the stages Maltese NYE haters go through. Every. Single. Year.
Which starts almost two months before. Yet another Facebook notification which turns out to be yet another bloody invitation.
Seeing as you barely know what you’re having for lunch in an hour, the thought of booking a ticket for something that’s 1.5 months away gives you anxiety.
‘Why can’t I decide on the day?!’
‘Ħeqq..tickets are selling fast hux!‘
You don’t want to be the one paying twenty euro more for a decision you took two days too late so you give in to social pressure. Just like you did last year and the year before that.
Tibdewx iddejquli ċ-ċirimelli bl-o**** NYE
You, mid October – mid December
So many options; there’s the gala ball, the dress up party, the friend of a friend’s house one, the hardcore techno one, the flat in Gozo option, pissing off to another country to escape all of this… So many options, but none which appeal to you more than doing nothing at all.
Then there’s the friend group issue. You have different groups of friends, some in relationships, some single and ready to mingle, others single and not ready to mingle, friends waiting for a better option to crop up before committing. As far as you’re concerned, NYE is already ruined.
Naħseb ħa nemigra
You, more often than is considered healthy.
In Malta, you’re expected to slip into something attractive despite the five kilos of weight you’ve gained over the Christmas season. Then there’s the shoes issue; nice shoes or boots because of the rain? Moreover, it is freezing outside and nothing appeals to you more than leaving the house (since you have to) in your onesie and wrapped in your duvet.
Pajama party, maybe that’s a party I might consider going to. Party organisers: take note.
Għidu li tridu, jien bil-kutra ġejja l-party.
You, December 27th.
There’s always a Cloibert.
Cloibert: Singil ħi?
You: Le, x’single single.
You point at nowhere in particular where your imaginary partner is standing, or doing whatever it is imaginary people do. Probably queuing at the bar. You go to the bar to escape Cloibert plus you’re going to need some alcohol to get through this ordeal.
An hour and a few varicose veins later, the barman nods at you and turns his ear towards you;
‘Agħmilli sbatax-il Vodka orange juice tal-peach.’
Bring on the forced fun selfies! This is the moment 87% of the event population turns into Kim Kardashian.
Infaqt 80 eurown għand ix-Shaniqua Fashions! Ħallini nieħu selfie!
In between synthetic drum beats and furious door-banging (‘Ejja ħi għax ħa jaqali!‘), you hear some puking sounds, gossip (‘Darb’oħra ejja salvani meta tara’ lil Cloibert jipprova miegħi!‘) and a few girls strategising on the best way to fit three friends in one cubicle so they don’t have to queue any longer. Fun.
You finally get to a free cubicle only to find there is no toilet paper. Not to mention the state of the toilets. You decide to boycott the venue as well as the organisers’ future parties.
Ħallast 70 euro u qas naqra toilet paper m’hawn, x’qamel!
You’re dancing ta’ bilfors, occasionally spicing it up with a hand in the air. All the while there’s a little voice in your head saying ‘You’re not enjoying yourself. You should’ve stayed at home, curled up on the sofa dunking chocolate digestives in tea.‘
You need to plan your bowel movements 45 minutes ahead of the actual countdown; 15 minutes to get to the toilets, 15 minutes waiting in the queue (see point 8), another 15 minutes to get back and hopefully find your friends in time for the countdown.
Min irid jagħmel pipi imur issa!
Bring on the over the top excitement, exaggerated happiness, DJs screaming some bollocks into the mic, people jumping, friends hugging, couples kissing.
10….9….8…7…tlaqt ‘l hemm jien guys
You, mid countdown
12. ‘Serquli l-**tja coat!’
The best part of the night has finally arrived and you’re in a taxi, on your way home.
Għala biebi, dis-sena ħa nintefa nara’ Netflix #BillyNoMates.