Every New Year’s Eve Sydney’s Lord Mayor takes over the city’s prime harbourside viewing area at the Opera House just so society’s self-serving elites can get their snouts in the trough, quaff free champagne and look down on the poor people below them.
I know this because after years of trying I finally got an invitation.
Last Saturday marked the first time I had ever managed to see the New Year’s Eve fireworks display up close without the water police involved. (This does not count the year that I thought I was watching the fireworks display but had actually just set the kitchen on fire.)
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New Year’s Eve, it’s such a tempestuous event. Loved so passionately by many, hated by perhaps as many others. And indeed basically ignored by a fair portion too.
Underlying our conflicted emotions about NYE is the fact that it is the calendar equivalent of a cock-tease. The night that can promise so much and deliver so little.
Although I am not immune to it, I am still amused by the pressure the event seems to engender in many of us to be doing at least something, and if young and frisky to be doing something seriously cool, or at least something as good as all your friends, but preferably better.
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