Happy New Year to all my readers. How did you spend your evening last night? Unless you are Dot Cotton, I can guarantee that it was more rock and roll than mine. We went to bed at our usual time of around half ten. Thinking about it, Dot’s evening was probably more exciting than ours – at least she was able to pop some drugs, albeit nicotine. We couldn’t even score any Ovaltine.

There were two reasons for our unfestive evening. Firstly, Claire had worked a long day at work, so was understandably shattered. Secondly, we had nothing to do. No guests. No party games. There wasn’t even anything good on the telly.

After our early night, I woke up shortly before midnight. I’d normally go straight back to sleep, but I felt I should see in the New Year, even if it was lying on a bed, in a dark room, next to a heavily sleeping wife.

Right on the stroke of midnight, the fireworks started. Lots of them. It sounded like a warzone. I am sure Ross Kemp was hiding behind a wheelie bin, somewhere in Twerton, with a film crew, reporting on all the dangerous explosions.

Why do people buy fireworks anyway? They’re very expensive and aren’t really that good. You are literally burning your money. With so many suckers putting on their own displays in their back garden, why not watch theirs for free? It’s all down to having a big ego. As I lay in my bed, it occurred to me that whoever buys fireworks, has to be the one who lets off the last one over the course of the night. After the mass of explosions had died down, occasionally you would hear a single firework bang, from one side of Weston (where I live). Moments later, another explosion from another area of the suburb. I’d like to say who won the sad ‘battle of the bangs’, but I fell asleep.