Avoiding the crowds and hullabaloo of hostelries, I welcomed in the New Year in a tranquil manner. A few glasses of Bud, turkey and ham sandwiches, and the not-to-be-missed Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, plus a big dollop of Ryan Tubridy’s New Year’s Eve party. I stayed at home, my first domestic New Year’s Eve in a long time, and it was smashing. Peace, perfect peace.

There was no queuing at the bar, no raising of voice to compete with Eminem, Coldplay or Sugababes and no mad rush when last orders were announced.

There was no one planting a ‘small one’ beside my pint knowing full well I don’t like shorts, and wishing me a happy new year, and again a happy new year, and once more with knobs on a happy new year.

For God’s sake, how many times does he have show his largesse and keep spouting “happy new year” like a broken record. Yes home was the hero on New Year’s Eve.

And that’s the reason I was up bright and early at eight o clock on Sunday morning, New Year’s Day. It was a cold, fresh morning and Mum and I legged it over to 9 o’clock Mass in Ringsend, the first early Mass I’d been to in decades.

There was a modest attendance of about forty souls, mainly middle-aged and elderly. The Mass was late starting and the anticipatory coughs were in full swing. There was the “what’s keeping him” cough and the “I hope he’s alright” cough and the “I can’t wait much longer” type of cough. Anyhow, Mass commenced a few minutes late and sure what matter.

After Mass I went across the road to the shop and purchased the Sunday papers. Then it was straight home for the crispy rashers, the brown bread and the piping hot tea, gorgeous. After breakfast I decided to go into town. Some shops had advertised a ten o’clock opening and I had a couple of vouchers burning a hole in my pocket.

At this juncture things began to go awry. The shops weren’t open– at least the ones I had vouchers for weren’t open.

At 11 o’clock I was in Moore Street where some newsagents and bric a brac shops were open. You could be forgiven for thinking that this was Moore Street, Lagos, or Moore Street, Beijing, or Moore Street, Mogadishu, nary an indigenous Paddy in sight. There were Africans and Asians peering out from all angles.

Anyhow, I left cosmopolitan Moore Street and meandered across O’Connell Street and into Earl Street. Alas, there were no clothes shops open, the vouchers were scorching the lining of my jeans pocket, pleading to be spent. They would have to remain incarcerated for another little while.

I’m not into power walking so I plodded my way towards the Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre. With my destination approximately one mile away I began to view the delights of Dublin City post New Year’s Eve. Just as a sentence has commas, question marks and full stops, my journey was punctuated with vomit, beer cans, urine and the ubiquitous discarded and unfinished take-away. And to complement all this ‘morning after the night before’, a big disgusting, Godless, uninspiring Spire.

The previous incumbent, Nelson’s Pillar, had at least an historical relevance and an artistic bent, even though considered by some as an adversary. The late Luke Kelly’s rendition of ‘Dublin in the rare ole Times’ began to resonate in my mind and Kris Kristofferson’s ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down’ seemed the perfect musical companion.