New Year's Eve - then and now

An image I remember very clearly from my childhood was my dad lamenting the quick passing of years. "Stop the world, I want to get off!" He would exclaim, and I would laugh at how funny and strange it sounded.

Now I kind of know what he means - though I certainly don't want to get off - but slowing down the world a bit might do the trick.

It was six New Year's Eves ago that I introduced the bloke to my friends in Barcelona. Six! It was only the second time I'd seen him since we'd got back together after our fateful re-meeting at the club where we'd originally met.

We were still figuring out what we were to each other. I hoped we would stay in each other's lives, but we were still practically strangers then. Held together by a shared past in London - a thin string that could easily snap at any time.

It was a time before Facebook and Twitter. My Space was limping along there somewhere but no-one was really on it. The distance between people seemed much bigger in those days.

We were so late as we hurried along the deserted streets towards the Director of Barcelona's flat. We got there with about 15 minutes to spare before the dongs of the New Year would signal the start of 2006.

When we arrived the party was in full swing. And it wasn't just any old party - but an Eighties-themed fancy dress party. The bloke had flat out refused to dress up, so I hadn't either - though I had brought my Orville doll along to somehow contribute to the theme.

But everyone else had gone all out. Kung Fu Cath looked like one of the Kids from Fame, the Director was an eerie George Michael, Jim was Superman and Dave was a 'calm down calm down' scouser. You could have forgiven the bloke for being a bit overwhelmed by it all, but he thought they were brilliant.

Got himself a Brugal and coke and lit up a cigar and got down to the serious business of getting to know them all.

By the next day it felt like we were all the best of friends - members of an exclusive club that no-one else could join. We ended up in a bar in Gracia, where Jamie - another new friend who ended up being worth his weight in gold - broke the no playing the piano rule, but somehow got away with it.

And the owner of the bar looked like Salvador Dali, and didn't seem to mind when we told him so.

We remembered this and more five years on - New Year's Eve 2011. Another fancy dress party at the Director's flat - cult film characters. But this time the bloke dressed up - making an excellent Dr Gonzo from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas to the Director's Raul Duke.

And that wasn't the only change. A glance around the room at midnight confirmed how much we had all moved on. There was Jim - AKA the Dude from the Big Lebrowski - with his arm around his wife Jane, dressed as the guy from Alien who has the little baby one bursting out of his stomach. And giving the costume extra effect was Jane's baby bump - the new arrival is due in February, and it's the best news ever.

Then there was Dave - Marty McFly from Back to the Future - and his wife Kirsten (Princess Leia) and of course the Director and Science Chick - also fulfilling 30-something male fantasies as the Star Wars princess.

It was mind blowing to think that five years ago these people didn't know the other even existed. While they clinked glasses with their friends and danced the night away they had no idea the person they would spend their lives with was out there somewhere doing the same.

Since then people have left the group - gone back to Britain to rejoin 'the real world' and we've had new additions, like Gav (who had a pillow up his t-shirt to portray Walter from the Big Lebrowski).

We've all moved up notes on the career front - Kung Fu Cath even has an assistant - but nights out are still as fun as they ever were.

Long after doing the grapes (and it's the first time I've ever managed to eat them all - even despite the long black hair of the wig for my The Ring costume getting in the way) the Director gathered the troops to take us out to a warehouse party in Poble Nou.

In the taxi on the way down Kung Fu Cath asked the driver: "Do you know who I am then? I'm a cult film character."
"No I don't recognize you," he said.
"I'm Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction," she told him.
"Oh, so what are you doing in town, promoting a film?"
"No, I'm only dressed as Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction. It's a costume."
"Well I haven't seen it. So is this your first time in Spain? Can I have your autograph?"

By which point she decided it was easier to just go along with it, and autographed his taxi receipt book "Happy New Year, lots of love Uma" Classic.

The warehouse party was full of mud that soon crept up the front of Science Chick's pristine white skirt, which had to be binned afterwards. The drinks - poured into tiny plastic cups - were so strong they were undrinkable. The bathrooms were worse than the 'worst toilet in the world' from Trainspotting and had to be flushed by a man with a hose. But it didn't matter - we were all together.

And as we left, trooping to the metro to go home there was that familiar feeling of returning home from a battle won. And as I looked at our mud-covered group I thought, These are some of the best people in the world right here, and they're my friends. And they always will be.

And that makes me grin like a loon, even now.

That's the holiday weekend completely ruined then

Something unthinkable happened this weekend. Spain just completely ground to a halt on puente weekend - one of the biggest holiday weekends of the year.

Most people had five days off work. Even me, oh joy! But for any poor suckers who had to catch a flight it all turned to shit, as Spanish aerospace completely shut on Friday evening, just when most of them were setting off to leave.

And it wasn't because of the cold weather, there was no snow or anything like that, oh no. The 2,400 Spanish air traffic controllers - many of whom earn in excess of 700,000 Euros a year - went on strike, throwing the country into complete chaos.

The controllers - who are the highest paid in Europe - have been in dispute with the government for over a year about the privatization of Spain's state airport authority AENA.

A private organization will not tolerate their work monopoly, they think (yep, got to agree with them there) so it's something they've been wanting to avoid. So imagine their horror when on Friday the government approved the sale of 49 percent of the AENA and put a cap on the number of hours the controllers could work per year.

So what did they do? They booked a conference room in a hotel near the airport, and at 5pm staged a completely unannounced mass walkout, saying they'd already worked over the maximum hours this year. The result: Spanish airspace was completely closed, royally ballsing up the whole weekend for everyone.

What followed was total chaos, and highly annoying. If you've ever had a plane cancelled, you'l know what I mean. you feel like you want to stab someone in the eyes, and everyone is blaming everyone else. Well it was pretty obvious whose fault things were here.

but hang on a minute. If the government had an inkling of what would happen when they signed this new agreement, why the hell did they do it just before puente weekend? Couldn't they have waited till next week?

The Spanish economy is in such a bad state right now. By making this new agreement, the government are just trying to bring down last year's budget defect of 11 per cent. With their new capped wages, the controllers would make much more reasonable (by who's standards?) 200,000 Euros. Clearly that's not enough for them.

The bad thing is that our biggest industry is tourism, and this will be hitting it badly. And may put off any prospective tourists from coming here. Maybe Portugal is a safer option?

Now Madrid is in a "State of Alert" for the first time since our new Consituation was signed in 1978.

The military have been sent in, and the controllers - who have signed in to their shifts, but are refusing to work - have been threatened with prison if they don't go back to work. One tearful worker on the news said men with guns had marched into their headquarters and told them to get back to work.

"What kind of atmosphere is that to work under?" she sobbed.

Now I don't have much sympathy, but she does have a point. These people have lives in their hands. if they mess up, they could wipe out two planes in a second.

Would you want to fly knowing the person guiding your plane safely along was emotional and liable to make mistakes?

Luckily, me and the bloke are skint, so going away was not an option for us. but in my group of friends, many have been affected. PB can't take her plane to New York, meaning she's missing out on the trip she's been looking forward to for months. Science Chick is stuck in England, as is Jim. And the bloke's parents can't spend the weekend in London. Anthony, my work colleague is stuck in Bulgaria.

You just have to log into Facebook to see more and more angry people posting their stories.

The Public Works Minister says it'll take 24 to 48 hours for air traffic to return to normal - by which time everyone's holiday plans will be well and truly ruined.

Science Chick's other half The Director posted the following on Facebook: "If I ever meet a Spanish Air traffic controller I won't be held responsible for my actions."

I wonder how many people in Spain are thinking the exact same thing?

Wedding

"Fornication," said the Director of Barcelona into the microphone. He let the word hang in the air. There were a few surprised titters and cries of "eh?" and "what?". People stared open mouthed at each other, eyebrows creased, shoulders shrugged, palms facing the ceiling.

After a dramatic pause he continued: "For an occasion such as this I’d like to thank you all for coming to celebrate the marriage of James Chillman and Jane Kirsch."

There were loud guffaws. I nearly spat out my wine. Ah, he wasn't saying "fornication". It was "for an occasion". It was a genius start to a firecracker of a best man's speech.

He continued: "A wise man once told me that the best man’s speech should last as long as the groom makes love." Then making to leave the stage: "Thank you ladies and gentleman."

For me the speeches are the best thing about a wedding. Oh the bitter disappointment the first time I went to a Spanish wedding with the bloke and during the reception told him: "I can't wait for the speeches," to which he replied: "what speeches?" I just assumed they were a worldwide thing. Very disappointing to find out otherwise.

And they're especially good when the groom being subjected to a pasting is someone close to you - and Jim certainly falls into that category. I hardly knew him in 2005 when he cane out with a group of friends to visit me in Ibiza. We both realized we would be homeless upon my return to Barcelona that September, and it would be a great idea to share a flat.

I'm so glad we did - he quickly became one of my best friends. He's a total legend and a guy I know I can count on for anything. This is the man who, when I switched cities did a round trip with me and all my stuff to Madrid in his clapped out old van (which broke down on the way) to save me the hassle of taking it on the train. That's a 1,200km trip! Seriously, how many people have friends that would do that for them?

So naturally I'm beyond thrilled to see him settling down with lovely Jane, the love of his life. But his niceness didn't save him from getting an absolute drumming from the Director in his speech.

He continued: "I think we all agree that Jane looks fantastic today; I think I can speak on behalf of all the single men in the room that it’s an extremely sad day for them, as they lose another beautiful girl to a very lucky guy. I can also speak for all the single ladies in the room when I say today is just like any other day. 

"Speaking of Jane’s beauty - she really does look top of the pops. She looks so good she could be mistaken for the blonde from Abba. At least this is the only reason I can think of why Jim has come as Barry Gibb from the Bee Gees."
There was also some lovely info about the early days of their romance:

"Jim and Jane met five years ago in a very, very romantic location – a typical Barcelona party at Kate’s flat. The theme was “underwater”. Jim was probably quite drunk and his eyes caught this beautiful, bearded pirate on the other room. Jane doing her best Jack Sparrow impression saw also an incredibly sexy, buff David Hasselhof deep in conversation with Popeye and an octopus. Now if you’ve ever seen Jim in a pair of little red shorts, you too will find it equally as difficult to understand as I do why she didn’t fancy the octopus. 



"They actually got together a year or so later and their romance seemed to blossom at an alarming rate. It was clear to everyone that they were extremely well suited. Jane brought to the relationship beauty, integrity, honesty, reliability and intelligence - while Jim brought, er …," at this point he rifled through his notes. "Ah, Jim brought his superhero costume collection and a 15 year catalogue of Viz annuals. "

Jim really is one of a kind, and the same could be said of Jane. That was certainly reflected in their nuptials. after the Director had wound up his speech with the traditional best man's wish for good luck, good health and happiness, we settled down to some after dinner games. These began with a bit of construction - top prize goes to the table who can build the tallest construction out of uncooked spaghetti and marshmallows - and a quiz where you had to guess the wedding guest from pictures of their eyes.

It was just one of several personal touches to a lovely intimate wedding, which kicked off in Old Marylebone Town Hall.
after the new Mr and Mrs Chillman had signed the register we boarded an old skooll 'hop on hoof off' Number 73 bus to sip cava and head off to the reception.

After a stop off to do some pictures at a park somewhere in Hackney, we pulled up outside the Loftborough Arms, to see tables all set out and rows and rows of glasses of cava waiting. At that point the whole bus burst into spontaneous applause.

"Is it normal to applaud a pub?" asked Kate.

"I think that's just the sort of people we are," I replied.

Each table was named after a BCN landmark. We had the gherkin. the bloke was upset Espanyol's stadium was included but not Madrid's - Santiago Bernabeu - I think he was missing the point slightly.

It was all forgotten though when he got to eat his first ever trifle. Delicious, and probably the last one I'll have in a long time.
Before long the dancing started, and after the bloke managed to send most of the older relatives home with some techno, it began to look like a typical night out in Barcelona. Except we were all dressed better.

Everyone throwing crazy shapes - Dave at one point doing his gravity defying Russian style dancing, followed up by his Michael Jackson. Shots of sambuca at the bar and a feeling on my part that I don't get to see all these wonderful people enough.

As the night went on the high heels started to collect in a pile at the side of the dancefloor and bow ties were hanging round necks or fastened round heads, Karate Kid style.

The Director and the bloke announced to me and Science Chick they would just marry each other and had no need of girlfriends. Just as well since I didn't manage to catch the bouquet.

Before we knew it time was up and we ended jumping like loons and screaming ourselves hoarse as Simon wrapped up the tunes with Pulp's Common people.

And then it was over. And as me and the bloke - the last ones to leave after packing up the DJ kit - were waiting for the taxi back to our hotel, the rain that had been threatening all weekend finally began to fall. It was perfect timing. A perfect end to a perfect day.

Congrats Jim and Jane - I love you guys and wish you many years of joy, fun and happiness together. Couldn't have happened to two nicer people.

NYE in Barcelona = men in wigs and makeup

We were in Barcelona. The bloke was on my left, in spandex pants, a blond Kurt Cobain wig and a t-shirt with fluorescent naked women on it. Somewhere on the right was the Director of Barcelona, resplendent in another blonde wig – long and curly, tres Dolly Parton, heaps of blue eye shadow and a garish Hawaiian shirt.

The room was a sea of wigs, fur coats, face paint, silly sunglasses, and sequins. And everyone had a cup of twelve grapes, eyes glued to the TV screen, waiting for the chimes which would see in 2010.

That was how I spent the last few moments of 2009. The Director's glam rock fancy dress party (clearly just an excuse for him to plaster his face with makeup) was in full swing.

And happily we managed to avoid watching the countdown on Telecinco, which meant I kept my vow not to watch Belen Estevan. Instead it was some over excited woman on Channel 3 whose chest was desperately trying to escape from her dress.

No matter, the chimes finally began and everyone was locked into their own grape zone. Just you and the grapes, trying to wolf down the little beggars - one for each dong - to bring good luck for the coming year.

I managed it (the secret is to pick ones the size of peas) but I wouldn't have felt too put out if not. Why? This 'ancient' tradition was apparently a marketing ploy started by some canny farmers 100 years ago when there was a surplus of uvas.

The last time I had New Year's Eve in Barcelona, my relationship with the bloke was just getting off the ground for the second time around. I still lived in Barcelona and he was visiting from Madrid.

It was an Eighties fancy dress party (what is it about the Director and the urge to dress up ridiculously?) and the first time the bloke had met my friends. Poor thing. One Spanish guy in a room full of incredibly pissed up and lairy Brits. Dressed like Superman, George Michael, various characters from Fame and even a Scouser, a la Harry Enfield.

It could have gone really wrong but no - he was totally on their wavelength. Got on amazingly with them all and the feeling was mutual. We ended up the day after sealing the deal by carrying on the celebrations in a pub in Gracia owned by a man who was the reincarnation of Salvador Dali.

Four years later and much has changed, but a lot is still the same. We've dispersed slightly (the Scouser married a lovely American gal and is now having adventures in Japan and a few others are back in England) But the friendships are as strong as ever.

And everyone remains resignedly unashamed about going out in fancy dress. To a club. Strangely, the bouncers almost didn't let us in, but repented at the last minute. The Director even got chatted up by a couple of strange men "I hope I get to kiss a lovely lady like you tonight," one said.

Meanwhile Craig, visiting from the Midlands - who looked like a cross between Pat Sharp, the count from Sesame Street and the Hitcher from the Mighty Boosh - faired a bit better. He got asked "is that your real hair" by a couple who'd bet against each other on it and had South American tourists queuing up to have their pictures taken with him on the metro ride home.

It was something of a bizarre night, but that's to be expected in Barcelona, which seems to be a catalyst for ridiculousness and excessiveness. It kicked off before we had even left, with the bloke declaring that he felt bad juju about flying, and booking us a couple of tickets for the high speed train instead. (an action which was repeated on the return journey)

Perhaps the best thing about the trip, though, was the chance to get to know the Director's new-ish girlfriend better. I went away happy that he's in good hands. Science Chick is a good match. Not only is she muy guapa, but she's super intelligent and an all-round Spanish fireball. Just what he needs.

And let's face it. Anyone who doesn't get put off when their boyfriend goes out looking like Pat Butcher's long-haired sister, getting chatted up by men in the process, must really love him.