The End is N.Y.E

Who wants to pay a fortune to stand in a sweaty club this 31 December? Former London club promoter Neil Boorman reckons big blow-outs are over, and the best way to spend the night is in a cosy cottage

You’re standing at the bar, three deep with punters fighting furiously to get a drink in. Half of your party is still standing outside in the freezing cold, stuck in a queue that’s going nowhere fast. The other half are missing in action, long since swept away by a wave of human traffic. The DJ announces over the mic that there’s five minutes to go, and the frantic scrum at the bar gets worse. “Two pints of lager and a vodka tonic?” asks the barman. “That’ll be €25.” You make it over to the dance floor as midnight chimes over the sound system, only for an over-zealous clubber to knock the drinks over your new disco shirt. All around you, people are embracing, but the only kiss you’re offered is from a dishevelled raver dressed in a jester hat. “Cheer up mate,” he says, as you shrug away from his sweaty embrace, “it’s New Year’s Eve!”

It’s the archetypal New Year’s club experience: huge expectation, lots of agro, and not a whole lot in the way of fun. The average cost of this lunacy? €40 for a ticket, €50 for taxis and €100 on drinks, not forgetting the €10 dry cleaning bill to remove the beer from your outfit. €200 to be herded around a meat market to the soundtrack of the latest Come On Eileen remix. As 31 December approaches, you tell yourself this year’s experience will be different. But take it from me, it won’t.

As a former club promoter, I spent 11 consecutive NYEs working the venues of London. Don’t get me wrong, the first few events, in the run up to the millennium especially, were exhilarating. The nights were full of clued-up clubbers, intent on partying hard to the best music possible, played by DJs and hosted by nightclubs that were only too eager to please. Then the disco disaster of 1999 hit.

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