Get me to the church on time

Clarke said this morning, ‘2006 doesn’t feel any different to 2007’. Well daughter dearest, I said: ‘What makes it different is what you decide to do differently. So what are you going to do differently this year? ‘I’m going to study hard at school.’ That thud you just heard was me passing out.

I hadn’t made any New Year’s resolutions until New Year’s Eve when I rediscovered just why I gave up drinking that evil concoction, Brandy. I bumped into an old friend, dragged him for a dance, but as soon as we drew close, my head started spinning, and I had to cling onto him for dear life. It was more of a hug than a crub.

The New Year started stressfully. I outdid myself and had to be in three places in one night. First work for an evening shift until 11 (thinking I was going to get double pay and found out too late I wasn’t). Then church in east London, to meet my family, and finally onto club Dillusions with the girls. I worked like a crack-fiend to finish early, which was doubly difficult as it was just me working the graveyard shift.

My cab driver was pissed off because no one had told him I was going east instead of south and he was not feeling battling the new year traffic. Am I bovvered? I used the time wisely to remove the death pallor from 9 hours in front of a computer screen and apply my no-make-up make-up (girls will get this). Vex cabbie took the backstreets and I walked into church on the stroke of midnight. Hugged my mum and my tearful sister (this is often the reaction I get when I turn up to church, sinner that I am) and settled down to the praise and worship ceremony. Breathe.

At 1am, I rolled on gathering no moss to get the tube back to south to meet the Mention Crew (Cah ah your name mention tonite). Liverpool Street appeared to be the mecca of new year’s eve carnage. Most people had started their celebrations several hours earlier, so queues for food were long, there were packs of girls in too-high shoes and party dresses with no coats stumbling about, and shovelling down take-away. The chic party veneer had long since left and they looked fucked up. I jumped on the train trying to avoid the carriages with PLV’s (people likely to vomit) and listened to my ipod loudly to block out the revelry.

Got picked up from the station by Gina Ling, and rushed to Suzy Wong’s to get changed. One strapless black and gold M&S party dress (it's the new Primark trust me), and a pair of bashy gold shoes later, we were on the road to Club Illusions.

Once in there, a similar sight greeted me, previously glammed up girls looking the worse for wear, while we were the ‘freshers crew’, having arrived fashionably ghetto late at 3am. We drank Brandy, they played bashment, and within an hour I think I looked pretty much like the girls who had been there for five hours. Trashed as a motherfucker.

The gold LK Bennetts I was boasting ‘are like my trainers' as I jogged down the road to Illusions, were fucking killing me, and I had no choice but to buss a white girl flex. And tek off me shoe dem. The music was so good, I didn’t want to sit out the rest of the night. So me and Gina Ling backed off the shoes and raved it out.

Just like the last three, my New Year’s was a great success. I got paid, I prayed and then I raved.

HAPPY NEW YEAR.