To be continued..

A Parent's Prayer

5230ca — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 00:15:00 GMT

    A Parent's Prayer

      Author Unknown


Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray my sanity to keep.
For if some peace I do not find,
I'm pretty sure I'll lose my mind.

I pray I find a little quiet,
Far from the daily family riot.
May I lie back and not have to think
About what they're stuffing down the sink,

Or who they're with, or where they're at
And what they're doing to the cat.
I pray for time all to myself
(did something just fall off a shelf?)

To cuddle in my nice, soft bed
(Oh no, another goldfish--dead!)
Some silent moments for goodness sake
(Did I just hear a window break?)

And that I need not cook or clean
(well heck, I've got the right to dream)
Yes now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray my wits about me keep,
But as I look around I know,
I must have lost them long ago!

New Mexico Style Chili Chicken Casserole

5230ca — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 00:10:00 GMT

I haven't tried this yet but can't wait to do so! Ingredients are on my shopping list and rain and wind are in the forecast. Perfect!

New Mexico Style Chili Chicken Casserole

50 min | 20 min prep

SERVES 8

1 (14 ounce) can chicken broth
2 (4 ounce) cans chopped green chilies, drained
1 cup chopped onion
1 cup light sour cream
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper
2 (10 1/2 ounce) cans condensed cream of chicken soup
1 garlic clove, minced
20 (6 inch) corn tortillas
4 cups shredded cooked chicken breasts (about 1 pound)
2 cups finely shredded low fat cheddar cheese

Heat oven to 350.
Coat a 9X13 dish with cooking spray.
In a large pan, combine broth, chilies, onion, sour cream, salt, cumin, pepper, soup and garlic; mix well.
Bring to a boil, stirring constantly.
Remove from heat.
Spread 1 cup mixture in the dish.
Arrange 6 tortillas over soup mixture (breaking to fit dish) and top with 1 cup chicken and 1/2 cup cheese.
Repeat layers, ending with cheese.
Spread remaining soup mixture over cheese.
Bake 30 minutes or until bubbly.
Note: If you prepare dish a day ahead, cover with nonstick foil and refrigerate.
When ready to serve, bake 1 hour, uncover and bake 30 minutes or until bubbly.

Dick Francis

5230ca — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 00:15:00 GMT

wejosephson.home.mindspring.com/dfrancis.htm

Dick Francis

Overview

The standard history of Dick Francis must mention that this Grand Master mystery writer officially began his sporting career after WW2 as an amateur jockey and retired in 1957 as the preferred jockey of the Queen Mum. In 1956 he came heart-breakingly close to winning the Grand National. Upon retirement at the age of 36 he turned his attention to writing, beginning as the racing correspondent for a British daily. He released his first mystery novel in 1962 and has since turned out about one a year. Our handy-dandy Benét's Reader's Encyclopedia, 3rd ed. informs me that Francis' novels, long popular in England, became so in the U.S. after a 1980 television series based on his 1965 novel Odds Against.

As stated above, Francis churned out novels at a one per year pace starting in 1962. However, about 3 weeks after the release of Shattered in 2000, Dick's wife Mary died of a heart attack at the couple's home in the Cayman Islands. Her death had a major impact on Dick's writing since she did a large part of the research and editing of the novels. Indeed, Dick Francis - A Racing Life, an unauthorized biography written by Graham Lord, alleged that she was the sole author. Lord has built a specialty of sorts with unauthorized biographies of British authors, with works on John Mortimer (author of the Rumpole books) and Alf Wight (aka country vet James Herriot). Fans of the authors are usually quick to condem Lord's bios with allegations of shoddy research and a muckracking agenda. In any case, no Dick Francis books came out for 6 years following Mary's death until, in September of 2006, Under Orders was released. Wikipedia informs me that Dick's son Felix has taken over Mary's duties as research assistant. Perusing the reviews on amazon.com for the book shows that readers are in two camps: either you love it and are so happy that Dick Francis has returned or you hate it and implicitly agree with Graham Lord.

Francis' mysteries take place against a horse racing background and I suppose that initially I shied away from his books because of this. After all, I figured, how many times can you read about some jockey who is forced by circumstances to be an amateur private eye? Luckily, however, I was wrong in my assumptions. While some of the novels (particularly the early ones) do have jockeys moonlighting as mystery solvers, many have lead characters who are involved with racing via more indirect capacities. In Reflex the hero is a photographer who shoots pictures of the racing life, in Driving Force the hero owns a horse transport firm, in Wild Horses the protagonist is a director of a film loosely based on a racing scandal and so on. Granted, some of these heroes are ex-jockeys, but that adds to the realism. There are two sequences of novels with recurring characters: the Sid Halley series (Under Orders, Odds Against, Whip Hand & Come To Grief) about a jockey turned full-time private eye and the consecutive novels which feature Kit Fielding (Break In & Bolt). Regardless of the particulars, most Dick Francis novels consist of a first person account of some criminal matter linked to horse racing. The protagonist is always brave, sensible and calm in the face of danger.

With such constancy of characterization, Dick Francis novels might run the risk of becoming boring after you've read three or four. After all, you know that the narrator, after getting in a couple of sticky situations, is going to have everything solved by the end of the book. And the mysteries aren't head-scratching, body-in-a-locked-room affairs either. But what saves the typical DF book is the fact that you're being introduced to a new environment. Part of the fun of reading Dick Francis is that often one is introduced to a new profession. Forget about the mystery; it's entertaining to peek inside the new world and learn a little something about banking or film making or British politics. For amusement, try reading Smokescreen and Wild Horses back to back; one has an actor as the leading man while the other has a director.

In addition to the 39 novels, Francis also has written his autobiography The Sport of Queens and a biography of jockey Lester Piggot A Jockey's Life. The latter is also available as Lester: The Official Biography. Field of 13, a collection of short stories (five written for the book), came out in 1998. - wej

*****

http://www.thrillingdetective.com/trivia/francis.html

Dick Francis
(1920 --)

Although only two of his heroes appear in more than one book, and only a handful of them are professional investigators or security consultants, former Queen's jockey Dick Francis has, in fact, been responsible for a long line of what might be considered non-PI PI novels. A former Welsh steeplechase jockey, Francis has become one of the most respected and popular mystery writers in the world, and in 1996, was voted a Mystery Grand Master by the CWA. His heroes are invariably cool, aloof loners, calmly professional, at loose ends with their lives, and often scarred, either physically or emotionally, and often both. They may not all be "official" eyes, but they certainly end up doing the job, even if the job description doesn't mention it. and, of course, each novel touches somehow on racing and horses.

To overlook Francis' work, or dismiss it as merely horsey versions of Agatha Christie, is just wrong. Dame Christie would never people her quaint little villages with such an assortment of villainous psychopaths and sociopaths, or put her heroes through such physical and mental torture. People get hurt in these books, and their pain isn't easily walked off. The bad guys are nasty, and brutal, and the books are often hardboiled almost to the point of noir. Fans of the PI genre could do a lot worse than to check out his work.

Particularly recommended are the Sid Halley books, where Francis actually does write about a private eye, for once. Coincidentally, I think they represent some of his best work. They might also look at a few of his actual professionals, David Cleveland (another investigator), Andrew Douglas (kidnapping/security consultant) and Tor Kelsey (train security expert).

Francis learned to ride when he was five, on a donkey of all things. The story goes that his older brother bet him sixpence that little dick couldn't jump a fence while sitting backwards on the donkey. It took a few tries, but eventually did it, collecting the wager and earning, as he put it, his "first riding fee."

Francis became an amateur steeplechase rider when he was 26, and two years later began riding as a professional steeplechase jockey, eventually winning more than 350 races. At 36, he retired as a jockey, and became covered racing for the Sunday Express. He published his autobiography, The Sport of Queens, in 1957, and his first mystery novel, Dead Cert in 1962. Since then he has written close to forty mysteries, averaging one a year, until the death of his wife and partner Mary Margaret Brenchley, in 2000. The 1999 unauthorised biography, Dick Francis: A Racing Life, had suggested that Francis' books had in fact been written by Mary herself, although Francis never confirmed the rumours. Certainly, though, Mary did do much of the research and editing of Francis' novels and stories, particularly the latter efforts. Afterher death, it was widely believed that Come to Grief (1995) would be Francis' final novel, but in September 2006 readers were treated to the unexpected appearances of a fourth Halley novel. Under Orders found Francis' series character Halley back on his feet (after the events of 1995's Come to Grief) and, if anything, more determined than ever.

Much like Francis himself, evidently.

2007 saw the publication of Dead Heat, a new (non-Halley) novel, co-written by Francis and his son Felix.

UNDER OATH

"Dick Francis is my favorite author. This is not just from my perspective as a reader, but also from my perspective as a writer. When I sat down to write Chapel of the Ravens, one of my early novels, I literally took a paperback copy of Dick Francis's For
Kicks apart in order to study in-depth how Francis structured his plots. Over the years I have returned to Francis time and again for comfort reads and to be inspired as a writer by the incredibly easy flow of his narrative."
(Paul Bishop, from a post to DorothyL, November 1999)

http://www.dickfrancis.com/site/DIFR/Templates/Home.aspx?pageid=3&cc=GB

Biographies

Dick Francis

DICK FRANCIS was one of the most successful post-war National Hunt jockeys. The winner of over 350 races, he was champion jockey in 1953/1954 and rode for HM Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother. On his retirement from the sport he published his autobiography, The Sport of Queens, before going on to write forty-one bestselling novels, a volume of short stories (Field of 13), and the biography of Lester Piggott. He is rightly acclaimed as one of the greatest thriller writers in the world.

Dick Francis is the winner of the prestigious Crime Writers’ Association’s Cartier Diamond Dagger and the only three-time recipient of the Mystery Writer of America’s Edgar Award for Best Novel, winning for Forfeit in 1970, Whip Hand in 1981, and Come to Grief in 1996, the same year he was make a Grand Master for a lifetime’s achievement. He was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours list in 2000.

His last two novels – Dead Heat and now Silks - have been written in collaboration with his younger son, Felix, a former teacher who, over the last forty years, has helped research many of the Dick Francis novels.

Father and son are already working together on a new novel for publication in 2009.

Felix Francis

FELIX FRANCIS is the younger of Dick’s two sons. Born in 1953, Felix studied Physics and Electronics at London University before embarking on a 17 year career teaching Advanced Level physics at three schools, the last seven as head of the science department at Bloxham School in Oxfordshire. He took on the role of managing his father’s affairs in 1991.

For 13 years until 2005, he was also the deputy chairman of a major leadership training company and was a leader on four expeditions to such varied destinations as the Himalayan and Andean mountains, and the jungles of the Amazon basin and Borneo.

Felix remembers conversations around the Francis breakfast table being focussed on the Francis family business and somewhat unconventional. ‘The production of a Dick Francis novel has always been a mixture of inspiration, perspiration and teamwork. The first one was published when I was nine, and I grew up in a house where breakfast talk would be about the damage a bullet might do to a man’s guts rather than the more mundane topics of everyday life’, he says.

Over the last forty years, Felix assisted with the research of many of the Dick Francis novels, not least Twice Shy, whose hero is the mild-mannered Physics teacher, Jonathan Derry. In his youth, Felix was an international marksman, something Dick put to good use in his 2000 novel, Shattered, and later in Under Orders. With the publication of Dead Heat Felix took on a more significant role in the writing – Silks is the second novel of this father-and-son collaboration.

Books

The Sport of Queens (1957)
Dead Cert (1962) ISBN 0-330-24621-6
Nerve (1964)
For Kicks (1965)
Odds Against (1965) ISBN 0-330-10597-3
Flying Finish (1966)
Blood Sport (1967)
Forfeit (1968) ISBN 0-425-20191-0
Enquiry (1969)
Rat Race (1970)
Bonecrack (1971)
Smokescreen (1972)
Slayride (1973) ISBN 0-671-83271-9
Knockdown (1974)
High Stakes (1975)
In the Frame (1976)
Risk (1977)
Trial Run (1978)
Whip Hand (1979) ISBN 0-449-21274-2
Reflex (1980)
Twice Shy (1981)
Banker (1982)
The Danger (1983)
Proof (1984)
Break In (1985)
Bolt (1986)
Hot Money (1987)
The Edge (1988)
Straight (1989)
Longshot (1990)
Comeback (1991)
Driving Force (1992)
Decider (1993)
Wild Horses (1994)
Come to Grief (1995) ISBN 0-330-34777-2
To the Hilt (1996)
10 LB. Penalty (1997)
Field of Thirteen (1998) ISBN 0-515-12609-8 - short stories
- 1. "Raid at Kingdom Hill" (first appeared in The Times of London, 1975)
- 2. "Dead on Red"
- 3. "Song for Mona"
- 4. "Bright White Star" (first appeared in Cheshire Life, Christmas 1979)
- 5. "Collision Course"
- 6. "Nightmare" (first appeared in The Times of London, 13 April 1974)
- 7. "Carrot for a Chestnut" (first appeared in Sports Illustrated, 1970)
- 8. "The Gift" (first appeared as "A Day of Wine and Roses" in Sports Illustrated, 1973)
- 9. "Spring Fever" (first appeared in Women's Own magazine, 1980)
- 10. "Blind Chance" (first appeared as "Twenty-one Good Men and True" in Verdict of Thirteen: A Detection Club Anthology, 1979)
- 11. "Corkscrew"
- 12. "The Day of the Losers" (first appeared in Horse and Hound, February 1977)
- 13. "Haig's Death"
Second Wind (1999)
Shattered (2000) ISBN 0-399-14660-1
Under Orders (2006) ISBN 978-0-330-44833-8
Dead Heat (2007) ISBN 978-0-399-15476-8 (with Felix Francis)
Silks (2008) ISBN 978-0-718-15457-8 (with Felix Francis)

Calvin and Hobbes

5230ca — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 00:15:00 GMT

Calvin and Hobbes Snow Art Gallery

Napa Valley Balloons

5230ca — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 00:05:00 GMT

Living near the Napa Valley, we tend to take the balloon-filled skies for granted. Pity that. I still haven't been up in one though. I am adding that to life's list of get out and have some fun! Be sure to follow the link to the Napa Valley Balloons' site to find out how to put your adventure together!

http://www.napavalleyballoons.com/history.html

A Brief History of Napa Valley Balloons

After taking his first balloon ride for his 33rd birthday in 1978, pilot and founder Don Surplus purchased a balloon 10 days later with four of his newfound converts and started a flying club which they later named Napa Valley Balloons.

There were about 400 balloons in the U.S. at that time, making ballooning a very unique and curious activity. Every time a balloon landed, the almost magical allure attracted countless people to the balloon site, many of them bent on using any means imaginable to convince the pilot to take them for a flight.

It wasn't long before Napa Valley Balloons took on a life of its own as a business venture. In 1980, it incorporated. Today, founders Don Surplus and Kim Kleist are the proud pilots and owner-operators of what is regarded as one of the finest hot air balloon companies in the U.S. Their personal experience spans flights in the U.S. and Europe and seventeen years attendance at the Albuquerque International Balloon Festival.

With Napa Valley Balloons, Inc. as the flagship of the industry, more people are flown in Napa Valley than any other flight corridor in the world. To its credit, Napa Valley is recognized the world over for fine wines, culinary excellence, and hot air ballooning - Napa Valley Balloons, Inc. is proud to have played an instrumental part in building that recognition.

An Abbreviated History of Ballooning

• September 19, 1783 ~ A sheep, a duck, and a rooster become the first passengers in a hot air balloon launched by the Montgolfier brothers, Joseph and Ettienne.

• November 21,1783 ~ The first recorded manned flight in a hot air balloon took place in Paris. Built from paper and silk by the Montgolfier brothers, this balloon was piloted on a 22 minute flight by two noblemen from the court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.

• January 19, 1784 ~ In Lyon, France, the only recorded flight by Joseph Montgolfier was made in one of the largest balloons ever made.

• September 15, 1784 ~ An Italian, Vincenzo Lunardi, made the first balloon flight outside of France. The 500 cubic metre balloon flew from Moorfields in England and landed near Ware.

• November 30, 1784 ~ Launching their balloon from Rhedarium Garden, London, another Frenchman, Jean-Pierre Blanchard, and an American, John Jeffries, make their first flight.

• January 7, 1785 ~ the same team of Jean-Pierre Blanchard and John Jeffries became the first to fly across the English Channel.

• January 9, 1793 ~ the first flight of a balloon in North America occured in Philadelphia and was piloted by Jean-Pierre Blanchard.

• October 10, 1960 ~ the official birth date of the modern hot-air balloon. The first man-carrying free flight took place at Bruning, Nebraska, in the Raven prototype 'modern' hot-air balloon. The 30,000 cu ft envelope was constructed of a polyurethane coated nylon and the burner was propane powered.

By 1963, the growing sport was able to sustain the first U.S. national championships.

Welcome to 2009!

5230ca — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 00:15:00 GMT

Mark Twain

New Year's Day… now is the accepted time to make your
regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin
paving hell with them as usual.

New Year's Eve

5230ca — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 00:15:00 GMT

Published in 2003 UK Guardian

New Year's nightmares

'The only person who could have converted this vale of tears into a bed of roses was snogging Janice the barmaid'

Two weeks ago we launched a competition asking readers to describe in no more than 400 words their worst ever new year experiences. Thanks for a fantastic response - more than 250 entries - which we enjoyed reading enormously. Here we publish the winner, who gets a fabulous night in a five-star hotel, and the nine runners-up.

The winner
Anita Prazmowska
I was at a loose end. My parents were going through the terminal stages of their marriage, my childhood sweetheart was no longer, and I had brought shame upon my family by failing a competitive exam to Warsaw University. I therefore decided to try my luck in Britain, the country of great opportunities. Believe it or not, in those times British employers were very reluctant to employ anyone without a work permit so my options quickly narrowed. I ended up working in a motel. Permanently hidden by swirling fog, there was no way to escape from it. It was owned by a Pole who came here during the war, and he was the meanest bastard I had ever worked for. His wife, a bitter and ugly Englishwoman, was equally mean, in spite of their having struck lucky when their transport caff found itself on the edge of a new three-lane motorway. She, in particular, hated young women and insisted that we wear no makeup, our hair scraped into severe buns, and dresses that "covered everything".
The 18-hour restaurant shift on New Year's Eve started badly. My Benefactor, as he insisted on calling himself, made it quite clear that I would only get paid £1.6s, as he knew my circumstances back in Poland and by converting my miserable pay, was aware that I would still get a better wage than in Poland. Without a work permit, I had no choice. The restaurant was dominated by gorgeous Italian waiters, who were indulged by the owner's wife and adored by the daughters of the local farmers and landowners.
Throughout the evening we served an eight-course meal and as the clock moved to midnight, guests and waiters took to the dance floor. But the owner yanked me out and told me to get back to work. I greeted the new year sobbing as I crouched on the wet floor of the bar, hiding from the Benefactor. I sought oblivion in multiple glasses of Babycham. Angelo, the wine waiter, the only person who could have converted this vale of tears into a bed of roses, was snogging Janice, the barmaid. At 18 my life had just come to an end. Ahead of me was ... the morning shift serving breakfast, no make up, hair scraped back and a dress that "hid everything".

· Anita Prazmowska wins a night out for her and five friends at London's Great Eastern Hotel tonight

As soon as I surfaced I knew something was wrong
Den Smith

New Year's Eve, 1992, Sydney, Australia. Friends of friends of friends invited me and my housemates over to their apartment in Kirribilli - bang opposite the Opera House - to watch the fireworks. Introductions were made, blankets, boxes of wine and slabs of lager established in the garden and we all settled down to enjoy the forthcoming entertainment. Around 11pm, inhibitions lowered by Victorian Bitter, I stole off to some bushes to heed the call of nature, thereby avoiding the crush in the toilet.
Among my housemates of that time, a favourite drinking game was running through the neighbourhood gardens of Bondi and swimming a length of the pool before heading off to the next garden. Exploits were judged on number of pools taken, size of fencing and other obstacles, dogs present etc.
Discreetly relieving myself, I peered through the shrubbery and beyond a wrought-iron fence into the bordering property. A pristine lawn ran up a gentle incline to a dead calm and deserted pool. The underwater lighting bathed the surrounding marble statues in a scene of tranquil beauty.
Sensing an opportunity for unparalleled glory I stripped to my boxers and inelegantly scaled the fence. Dropping on to the soft grass I took a headlong rush at the pool, announcing myself with a drunken bellyflop.
As soon as I surfaced I knew something was wrong. Shadowy figures appeared at the side of the pool and ordered me in no uncertain terms to get out. Immediately, I was "helped" by three guys in dark suits through a garage into a car and driven at speed to a police station in north Sydney.
Once there, it was explained to me that I had been trespassing on the Australian prime minister's official residence in Sydney. The prime minister of the time, Paul Keating, was hosting a party there that night and the guests were due out into the garden just at the time I made my appearance.
Pleading ignorance on account of being a pom, I was questioned for two hours and held in the drunk tank for a further five. Dark threats were muttered about deportation and my visa details were checked.
Gleefully aware that I had no money, the cops released me without charge at six the following morning. Horrendously dehydrated and dressed only in a police-issue paper boilersuit, it took me three hours to walk home barefoot. No taxis would stop for me.
As we left together, the others roared with laughter ...
E Fowler
My friend Ian persuaded me to accompany him on a coach tour of Rajasthan for Christmas and new year. He had won it in a competition.
The others in the group were a motley, but jolly, crowd. Not really our type, if truth were told: a few couples, a couple of lads, a mother and daughter, two elderly sisters - no other unattached guys in our age group but what the hell. The prize included £500 spending money - enough for a few jars at Yuletide and a bit left to see the new year in.
The bus trundled across the desert with numerous comfort stops where we darted behind thorn bushes - "boys to the right, girls to the left", Dilip, our jolly guide, would call.
We marvelled at the Palace of the Winds in Jaipur, the Lake Palace Hotel in Udaipur and, on New Year's Eve, we reached Jaiselmer, on the fringe of the Thar Desert.
A large marquee had been erected in the garden behind the hotel. We would dine and watch local entertainment there, whether we liked it or not, for the hotel dining room would be closed, as would all the local restaurants.
We stumped up £40 each and joined our group round a large table near the stage. The inevitable buffet meal finished, and a few bottles of local rum consumed, we settled back to watch the entertainment, still drinking steadily all the while. A twosome played tabla and sitar; a colourfully dressed troupe performed a stick dance; a competition of turban-tying, local-style, with nine and a half metres of muslin, took place; then it was the finale and Tulsi, a beautiful singer and dancer, took to the stage.
Tulsi was the most exquisite creature I have ever seen. Dressed in a scarlet sari embroidered with tiny mirrors, her feet in jewelled sandals, dozens of bangles rattling on her arms, earrings dangling to her shoulders, and a vermilion dot on her forehead, she crooned, twirled and twisted - and flirted - just for me. Leaving the stage she came to our table, took my hand, gazed into my eyes and sang a plaintive love song to me.
When the evening ended and we left together, jolly Dilip and the group roared with laughter. They knew, because he had told them - and I soon found out - that Tulsi was a fella.
I was seven years old and willing to do whatever they told me
Helen Dally
I can't remember much of it, to be honest. Only that it was 1981 and I was seven and my parents had gone to the pub (five doors up from our terraced house) to bring in the new year with the neighbours. Full of faith, they had entrusted me to my elder cousins Simon, 11, and Sarah, nine, who decided it would be great fun to get me drunk. As an impressionable seven year old who wanted to please my much-adored cousins more than anything else in the world, I was willing to do whatever they told me. Why, only that summer while playing truth or dare, they had made me knock on the door of the local post office while it was shut for lunch and order them to open up so we could get some sweets. I had jumped into some boggy marsh and nearly got stuck there for good in my wellies, crawled through a barbed wire fence and drawn a smiley face in tomato sauce on my dinner plate all at their request - so getting pissed would be no problem.
In 1981, there were no alcopops for me to get innocently inebriated on - just cold, hard liquor. Simon gleefully poured me a glass of whisky, no orange or Coke mixer to take the taste away. I knocked it back and spat it out but somehow managed to keep the next glass down. Just like a bottle of cheap wine, it got easier after the first drink and soon I was dancing around the living room, while my cousins fell about laughing at me dancing to Abba. They hadn't touched a drop, apart from Sarah, who had had a minuscule glass of advocaat. Meanwhile, I was experiencing my first blackout, as attempting to recall the night's events the next day would prove.
Vaguely, I remember waltzing happily around the room with Simon and trying to make the cat dance and then, just as my mum and dad opened the door with all the neighbours in thrall, I decided to do a somersault down the stairs. Luckily, the neighbours didn't suspect that I was out of my tree (well you wouldn't, would you?) and the alcohol numbed the pain of my fall. But I didn't get away with it that easily. A loud stinky whisky burp alerted my mum to the fact that she had a drunken seven-year-old on her hands and, just as I was about to pass out, I was sick as a dog. Next day, no punishment was necessary as I was having the first of many in a long line of hangovers and my cousins weren't allowed to look after me for a long, long time.
The village must have thought Armageddon had arrived
Harry Marlow
As the organist and occasional bellringer at St James's Church, Snitterfield, I was having a few beers with members of the choir in the village pub before returning late on New Year's Eve 1962 to place the microphone of my old reel-to-reel tape recorder outside the window for the recording of the bells ringing in the New Year.
I had just settled down at home when a knock came at the door. "Would you please come and ring with us tonight as we are one short?" What could I do? I went reluctantly off to the church, my wife promising to switch on the recorder at the appropriate moment.
In the belfry, even with my beery head, we got off to a good start. However, unfortunately for me, during a break in the activities, the vicar appeared suddenly with a tray of glasses and a large bottle of port! The occasion was duly toasted, and I imbibed willingly along with the others, thereby mixing the grape with the grain - which in my case proved not to be a good idea.
When we resumed, I soon forgot the sequence of changes, making a real mess of "Grandsire" - but the worst moment came as all six of us were on the back stroke, arms poised aloft. My indecision about the next sequence confused the others with the result that several bells then came crashing down at the same time, causing fearful vibration in the tower. The villagers must have thought that Armageddon had arrived for 1963!
I shamefacedly left the other five ringers to finish the job as best they could, and headed home in the early hours to listen to it all over again on the tape.
Hordes of bikers thundered up and down stairs at all hours
Alexandra Abraham
At last my husband gave in and booked us and our two children four days in Spain - new year in Granada. I envisaged wild tangos in tapas bars and flamenco dancing in the street. Our hotel was great: quiet, clean, central and comfortable. We bought a beer, relaxed in the bar and were intrigued to see a young man in motorbike gear checking in, and then another and another. The reception area was soon creaking and heaving with multicoloured leather as bikers invaded the hotel.
We escaped to walk outside in the sunshine, saw that roads were being blocked off, and still the men in helmets kept on coming. It was only then that we discovered a major road race was passing through Granada and that our hotel was its base. The noise was indescribable; everything reeked of petrol as hordes of bikers thundered up and down the stairs at all hours. And then the rain came, torrential downpour after torrential downpour. We discovered true Brit grit, shopped for hours in Zara, drank endless coffees in damp bars, visited the Alhambra between drenchings and resisted the desire to slump in a corner weeping (well, my husband did). We were there to celebrate new year in Granada and that was exactly what we were going to do. Our children were magnificent, too young to know any better but old enough to understand that they too must maintain, rather prematurely, their stiff upper lips.
The great evening came. Despite being advertised for guests, the hotel's New Year's Eve celebration dinner was reserved entirely for the bikers. They took over the main dining room and we "civilians" were relegated to the bar snacks. So off we scampered through the rain to the nearest tapas bar, scoffed a few plates of flaming sausages and then ran back to sleep through whatever street celebrations there might have been, and were woken at the crack of dawn by the bikers roaring off to the next leg of the race. I haven't moaned (much) about spending New Year's Eve at home since.
We sprinted round the loch to a scene from Towering Inferno
Iain McGregor
My parents moved back to Scotland for a semi-retirement idyll in the Highlands, near Fort William, looking after a 17th-century manor house which served as the classic holiday home. To this picturesque place I invited a bunch of friends to attend the local Hogmanay ceilidh in the village, Strontian, staying in the Loch Sunart Hotel which hugs the road by the aforesaid loch. The promises of a truly Highland new year - complete with kilts and bagpipes - was what my friends dreamed of as they made their way from all the corners of England.
Sadly, it was to prove otherwise.
On January 31 at 8pm, my father drives my wife and me round the loch to the village. In the distance we can see a dazzle of lights. "I didn't know the party was starting so early," I say to my father. As we get nearer, we see mist coming across the water to our side of the loch. Or is it? We stop the car and get out to look more closely. The mist turns out to be acrid smoke and the lights we had thought were a party are actually fire engines!
We race hell-bent to Strontian. The entrance to the village is a chicane and conceals the hotel. We sprint round the corner and it is a like scene from Towering Inferno. The traditional black-and-white Jacobean hotel is fully ablaze, with firefighters running everywhere - chilling is not an adequate word to describe how we felt. Frantically worried about my friends, I suddenly hear a loud scream and look to my right - there are my six friends, in various stages of undress (due to the sudden evacuation, one is wearing only boxer shorts) completely legless in the local pub.
Relieved and still in shock, all guests had to be put up by the locals, so we ferried my pals back to the manor house in the local police car. Next day, we surveyed the wreckage. Apart from the destroyed hotel, my friends had lost all their clothes, money, Christmas presents, and two had fire-damaged cars. As they all left for the ferry back to the mainland, I thought, at least their bar bill was on the hotel tab.
Two prostitutes sat beside us as Steve told me he was teetotal
Jonathan Elliott
I was determined that the legendary Hill Station Hotel in the Nigerian town of Jos would live up to its reputation. The guide book spoke of faded colonial grandeur, a last bastion of expats sipping cocktails and reliving the glories of empire, surveying stunning sunsets over the hills, attended by liveried staff. On New Year's Eve, there would surely be something to remember.
I was staying at the very spartan Evangelical Church of West Africa Hostel on the other side of town. There were six Nigerian nuns and a couple of trainee pastors but no one interested in whooping up New Year's Eve, and certainly not in the style I intended at the famous Hill Station Hotel. Eventually a depressed hippy called Steve agreed to come, as long as I paid his bus fare.
We arrived at 9pm. I was in a pressed shirt and slacks, Steve was wearing a beard and an ethnic smock. We sat in the landscaped gardens overlooking the town. The place was truly impressive - an imposing colonial villa that had had a 60s makeover. It was deserted. Steve told me he was teetotal. Two prostitutes sat beside us. They had just enough English to ask for a drink, in which request I obliged them, and then ask for cash gifts.
It was clear that I was a poor prospect and they drifted off. Surely, a jolly band of revellers would appear any minute. By 11pm, the only people in the hotel were a stern duty manager, a shy barman and the prostitutes who would only speak to each other. Then Steve said he was off.
As midnight approached I wandered the bars and lounges in search of anyone at all with whom I could see in 1993. The barman said that everyone had travelled to their villages for the festive season and no one in their right mind would see in the New Year at the Hill Station Hotel. There then erupted the joyous sound of an excited throng from the Chinese restaurant. Life! Vindicated! It turned out that the local Pentecostal church had booked it - to pray in the New Year.
On the stroke of midnight I sat alone - the only sound in the great Hill Station Hotel was hysterical praying in Yoruba, punctuated by occasional shrieks of "CHEEEsus". Quite. All the buses back to the hostel had stopped so I walked home. The guard refused to let me in as it was past curfew. I climbed the wall of the compound and when I dropped down on the other side sprained my ankle. I spent the next two days in my dismal room hobbling around and wishing I had never heard of the Hill Station Hotel.
Known for water-bombing old ladies, they shouldn't have been invited
Lisa McManus
Back in the days of snakebite and black and The Pixies, my cool college friend Heather used to host some of the maddest house parties the 16-year-old population of Preston had ever seen. While most of us were still wallowing in the comfortable environment of our parents' homes, Heather and her older sister were renting a shabby end-of-terrace house beside a disused train track. One particular New Year's Eve, the sisters put on what was to be their closing party. I arrived early to help staple painted sheets to the ceiling and blow up balloons. Heather's boyfriend made some hash cakes and acid punch while Heather did the Kwik-Save run, stocking up on cheap vodka, 10p cola and loaves of stodgy white bread for the hungry.
By midnight the house was rocking, the ceiling in the lounge bowed to the sound of moshing in the bedroom above and the neighbours kept coming round to complain about the noise. Had I not been standing by the front door I wouldn't have heard the skaters arrive. Known for water-bombing old ladies by the fish market and skip jumping, they shouldn't have been invited, but some of them were quite cute so I, erm, well, asked them in. They parked themselves in the kitchen and proceeded to play the popular party game Tommy's Out, which involves one member of the party shitting somewhere, then shouting "Tommy's Out" and everyone else looking for it - like a treasure hunt, but with poo. The winner is the person who hides their treasure in the most ingenious place.
Keen to impress, and fuelled by Tudor Rose sherry, I managed to squeeze out a king Tommy. In fact it took 15 minutes for the boys to find my treasure, hidden in a half-filled coffee jar. I can remember being congratulated for my efforts with a spliff and a swig of Mad Dog 20/20. I threw a whitey and spent the rest of the evening vomiting out of the bathroom window, while someone else was being sick in the bath. Next morning I woke to the sound of Heather freaking out at the sight of all her furniture lying smashed at the bottom of the railway embankment. I hastily grabbed my jacket and made for the door, side-stepping Heather's sister as she offered me a coffee.
After a while, people really did begin to resemble zombies
Alistair Davie
As usual, my parents spent New Year's Eve away. I chose to spend it at home. Their home. They had recently retired and bought a ramblingly dishevelled hotel in rural Norfolk: it looked like the Bates motel and had the same kind of atmosphere. I decided to move into the place for two or three days and host a party. Without telling them. And, in the manner of young men with too much time on their hands, I decided to make it a zombie party.
Everything went well to start with. Drink flowed freely among the 30 or so guests, Night of the Living Dead was playing on the video, and after a while people really did begin to resemble zombies (glazed eyes, shambling gait, eternal thirst, etc). However, being a responsible son, I was more concerned with the kitchen taps, which had run dry. The toilets had stopped flushing too.
Armed with vodka, I ventured up three flights of stairs to the loft, where, among the broken cots, abandoned boxes and cobwebs, I found a jammed stopcock. Which promptly came off in my hand.
I spent the next two hours in a state of incoherent terror. One hand was plunged into the water tank, holding the valve together and stopping it from emptying through the floor. The other delivered vodka to my mouth in between gulping screams. It was dark, and there might have been spiders. Or worse.
The effect on the party was electric. Although nobody had noticed my disappearance (the bastards), they had heard the screams. And as it was a zombie party in a spooky, near-derelict house miles from anywhere, not many wanted to investigate. They also began to hear thuds and trampling noises from outside.
Drunk and terrified, some bright spark decided everyone should be armed, and out came bread knives and makeshift clubs. A drunken army, they crept outside ... and were charged by a herd of lost and frightened cows. At about this point, the police turned up, and I abandoned the water tank. I spent the rest of the night explaining to an unsympathetic sergeant how a group of drunken, heavily armed weirdos in zombie makeup came to be attacking some confused cows in the middle of the night. Of course, by the time I had finished, the house was flooded.