The Real Millenium
by Jon Horne 2000

© Touch Nottingham (internet magazine and What's On guide)



It was a stroke of luck, really, us going off into the country for New Year.

The year before, it was all Millennium this and Millennium that, crowds like you'd never seen in your life, and I wanted to be part of it. So there I was, having lost everyone before ten o'clock, shuffling my way from Trafalgar Square, down to the river. We thought London would be the place to be, and we were right, in a way. It was enough trouble getting there, booking seats on the train months in advance, and still being packed in like sardines. I'm glad we did it, because now at least I'll be able to remember what a million people all crammed together looks like, sounds like, and smells like. I'll try and pass it on to my children, when the time comes.

I've got two on the way, you see. One of the mothers will have to leave before she has it, of course, and join another tribe. If I have my way, it'll be Karen, because, well, Susannah's quite special to me now. I know we're not meant to think like that, but the old ways die hard. Still, I'll miss Karen. She'll be a credit to her new tribe, I can guarantee that.

For 2001, we thought we'd avoid the crowds completely. A hostel in the country: an atmospheric place, up in the Highlands, built into the side of a hill. We'd take it over, hire a minibus to get there, and just have a little party under the stars, all by ourselves. Even if we'd done that, we'd have been fried, the same as most everyone else. The joke was that we survived because were so disorganised. None of us had brought a watch, and it had never occurred to anyone that the hostel wouldn't have electricity, so we couldn't use a radio either. So as far as anyone can tell, we must have sang Auld Lang Syne at something like half past eleven.

It was about half an hour later that the Apocalypse happened. We were all back inside, except for Andy, who'd gone out for a slash and got frazzled. Actually, it took him a while to die. That was hard to watch.

It's a strange little country that my kids are going to grow up in. There's as many people speak Welsh and Gaelic as speak English. Perhaps that's an exaggeration, but it's the way it seems, whenever the tribes gather. I wish I could remember how many years it is since 2001, but however long it's taken, we've built a fair life for ourselves, our lot farming this little valley, the travelling bands buying our produce when we've enough to spare - and stealing it when we don't. Someone tried to buy a sheep off me last week, using money - genuine gold coins that looked new, rather than just something he'd salvaged. I must admit, I told him to get stuffed - but still, if someone's out there minting money, then we're not far away from having a culture.

Oh, to hell with it, I miss the old days. Yes, you had to go to work, and you got bored a lot; you watched too much television, and you only got to have one woman at a time unless you were really handsome or a brilliant liar - but I couldn't half do with a night in the pub, or at the pictures, or the football, or anywhere where there would be people, lots of them.

Still, the Real Millennium happened, and we've just got to deal with the aftermath. We are, at least, the future.

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