Happy New Year, I suppose, although I've never been a fan. It's long been accepted in Fell family folklore that as the rest of the world gets itself in a tizz about the change of date, I usually adopt my most Eeyoreish behaviour.

My earliest memory of defying the dawning of a new year is from age 11, angrily reading in my room while the rest of the family did the Auld Lang Syne thing, wondering why little Ben wasn't having fun with the rest of them.

And last night was true to form spent trying to hide from horrendous Hogmanay hoolies, admittedly with more than one eye on a 5am start for work.

So what's my beef? It's the overwhelming communal pressure to have a good time that makes me uncomfortable more than anything else, much like with Carnival. If the rest of society appeared more laissez-faire about the knees-up, I imagine I'd be more willing to join in.

There's also the chorus of "Happy New Year" that seems to replace more conventional greetings for the first week or so in January. I just feel that if people concentrated more on ensuring the happiness than lauding the newness, the sentiment wouldn't feel quite so empty.

And Rabbie Burns's most famous contribution to global culture - all hands crossed and bloody cups of kindness - I hate that song with a passion.

Of course, there have been exceptions to this rule, occasions when I've enjoyed New Year, principally since I discovered the therapeutic effects of drinking unhealthy amounts of alcohol. One such event was the Real Millennium party in Plymouth at the end of 2000, while last year the booze once again helped in washing away the blues.

And there are other benefits that come with this time of year, such as the annual airing of movies like The Sound of Music (any chance to see Julie Andrews in her heyday, even if it is only her second best film), and the heated debate that always surrounds the honours list (a whole other blog entry, missing so far due to the fact that Thomsk's home PC isn't working).

So the New Year thing isn't all bad, and I'm not 100 per cent Scrooge deferred by a week.

But I do guarantee you this: the slightest whiff of auld acquaintance, and you won't see me for dust.