How we used to do New Year

trees on the moor with snow
the moor in winter

Now that it’s all over and we begin the ten-month task of sweeping up the pine needles, here’s a reminder how we really used to have fun:

We’d usually start off in the Barley about nine-ish. After a couple of drinks though, we’d be off down The Dale and up Yeoman Street to where the Kings Head stood by The Cross.

You’d walk up dark Yeoman Street towards the lights and throbbing noise. Open the door and the two bars were a solid mass of people. A blow-up sex doll being passed over the packed heads. A row of dancers strutting and twirling on the red leatherette bench seats opposite the bar. New ones clambered up through the night to replace those returning to their drinks. A few drinks down the road, I would take my turn, but not yet.

Fancy dress was optional – if you fancied it. Mark Gatley, the farmer, and his mates always did it as a group – crusaders, Wild West. Robin Hood get ups one year – for the lads it was an opportunity for bulging tights and obscene gestures with bows; plaits, long clinging dresses and plunging décolleté for the girls. One of the lads would do a Maid Marion too of course.

The vast Hughes family had gone for a Star Wars theme and there were the usual gladiators, Aladdins and over the top odds and sods. Behind the bar, Arthur and the staff were all in Casualty outfits. Practical for people who’d be on their feet till the morning and allowing for a good helping of saucy nurse horseplay for those so inclined.

And of course, there was the usual complement of lorry drivers in drag. One year I’d stood in my backyard waiting for the dog to have his final sniff and pee before we went out. Watching the stars, thinking about the year just gone and the year to come. Two doors down the Simmons’ bathroom extension jutted out. The light came on and I watched as against the hazy glass, the outline of a slender diva strutted and preened – big hair, tight frock, jutting breasts – it was Mike of course.

That might have been the year he’d got hold of the extra thick permanent lipstick from the joke shop and gone round snogging the whole pub to leave us all with big red clown mouths.

Five o’clock one New Year’s morning we’d been stumbling slowly home and seen Tom Marshall tottering back to the Simmonses. His beautiful blonde hair sticking out, tights laddered, a few black chicken feathers floating past where they’d come adrift from his neckline. But still prettier than many a real girl and still as joyous and sweet as ever, though incoherent.

There was a big streak of androgyny among the Simmonses and their mates – sometimes edging into out and out transvestism. Tall red headed Jim sometimes turned up as Julie in full drag and no one turned a hair and, well, I believe I’ve mentioned Patrick and his nipple ring before. It was a house where big tall good looking men turned their hand to quarrying, building, and lorry driving during the week, with caving and serious partying at weekends. All of them transforming into stunning women when they had a mind to.

The real women, Nadine and her sister Lesley were short and round faced, loud where the men were quiet, plain where the men were striking. Dark thin Nadine and mousy fat Lesley, devoted to their 6 kids. Telly on all day long and open house, bacon butties and mugs of tea always on the go.

Anyway, to return to the Kings Head. The thing was to get into a big gang, base yourselves on some seats and just drink for as long as you could keep going – the pub wasn’t going to close on you. Trips to the loo, squeezing through the press of bosoms, bellies and bums topped with laughing shouting faces, you’d stop for visits to other groups, lean on a chair back and chat or join the dancers for a number or two.

Around 10.30 there’d be a stir as the young people left for the Pav in Matlock Bath, following their taxi drivers out in a flurry of kisses and shouted good wishes – sentimental from the mums and grans, bawdy from the dads and uncles. It didn’t mean there was any more room for us oldies though. A steady stream of people would be coming in. Duty done to friends and relations elsewhere, they were aiming to see the New Year in here.

Countdown time. Behind the bar they’d turn up the radio and we’d all shout out along with Big Ben. Then a great cheer and everyone turned to kiss and hug first their loved ones, then their friends and then the people next to them and outward to everyone in the bar. Some years people got particularly affectionate – once Geoff Billet gave me that extra long kiss that turned sexy and went on and on. I went back for seconds. Now every time I see Geoff, even though we’re both happily married and usually with our respective spouses, I always give him a big smile and remember that kiss.

Hugging, shaking hands, well wishing. Auld Lang Syne would start up somewhere and soon all hands would be linked and everyone singing. Some years people went out to sing around The Cross – we did on Millennium Night, and because there were fireworks then. Other years there’d be a conga snaking unsteadily through the bars outside and back in again.

And that was it – we went on drinking of course, often for hours. The pub didn’t close until the last drinkers left. It was how much your head, stomach and wallet could stand. That was how we used to spend New Year’s Eve in the village.