Happy New Year and David Moyes.

Happy New Year and David Moyes.

So here we are on the threshold of another decade and it hardly seems possible that ten years have passed since the last one.  New Year's Eve is often a time for being both reflective and analytical, for dipping into the past and counting our blessings for both the present and whatever the future may hold for us. But reminiscence and nostalgia may not be all that they're cracked up to be. Besides, none of us know exactly what lies in front of us and on the last day of the year and the final hours before the beginning of a new decade many of us will be hoping that the last three years of this year aren't the worse of all omens. Oh for Brexit!

Tonight families across Britain and the world will be gathering in their living rooms still heavily laden down with the remains of leftover turkey, staring forlornly at the sad remnants of the booze scattered around your home and then desperately trying to summon up support for some more improvised family karaoke sessions. Then somebody will pluck up the courage to dance unashamedly on their own, failing miserably in their bid to find the rhythm and co-ordination to complete such an audacious manoeuvre.

Across the world we will don party hats, clink bottles and glasses in a blissful, alcoholic stupor before trudging off to the kitchen in the hope of finding somebody sufficiently sober to stand up with properly on the night. But tonight is the night of all nights, a time for family unity and harmony, giggling and laughing at the sheer uniqueness of the one night of the year that doesn't care if you wake up the following morning feeling as though you'd rather not engage with anybody until the first week in February.

Years and years ago we used to converge on Trafalgar Square to see in the New Year. Now health and safety issues take on almost urgent priority since none of us wants to see each other get hurt. In the old days- and still evident in a couple of cases- vast hordes of people would take their lives in their hands by jumping around engagingly in the fountains and then manfully trying to climb onto to those distinctive lions who have both been there for as long as anybody can remember.

We then retire to London's Embankment in the shivering cold and drizzly rain just to feast our eyes on the traditional fireworks party that now frames the equally as spectacular London Eye. Still, the New Year's Eve light show continues to hold a perennial fascination for those of us who just want to re-capture our childhood. We head for the best vantage point and then discover huge masses of people all huddling together, all seeking selfies to capture the moment for posterity and then letting out those traditional gasps of astonishment when they discover that their children are just as dazzled as their parents.

It is now that the London throng slowly disperses into the blustery wilderness, twisting and turning adroitly around only to find that their neighbours maybe not going anywhere very quickly. Around them the night buses are gradually switching on their engines for perhaps the busiest night of the year. This could be one of the longest nights any of them have ever experienced although the nightclub fraternity may think otherwise.

Meanwhile back at home we find ourselves in the world of yesteryear. Hands up those who still remember British TV on New Year's Eve. There was the enchanting Moira Anderson, a Scottish chanteuse with a voice of an angel and a woman who quite clearly sounded as though she'd drunk too many whiskies for her own good although not that many because it was all very good humoured. Meanwhile at the White Heather Club Andy Stewart, complete in tartan and a beautifully crafted set of bagpipes, blew heartily and then started jigging around swords as if his life depended on it.

Now of course we are almost completely spoilt for choice when TV comes a calling. There are 5,261 channels plus another 700 million channels all showing a thousand Christmas shows that have only been repeated over the years at least 72 million times. By now our wonderful cousins are snoring loudly on the sofa, the carpet is smothered in crushed tins of lager and mouldy cheese sandwiches are now a sea of crumbs. There remains a wholesome display of broken whistles and old Christmas crackers that are now scattered all over the once pristine mahogany tables. What happened last night?

By tomorrow they will be required to clear up the carnage on the floor. They will wake up with that feeling that perhaps can only be re-produced accurately on a Saturday morning after drinking the entire contents of a pub the previous night.  They will unwind their exhausted shoulders, fling their arms high into the air and then focus on the world outside with bleary eyes and an awkward groan.

The New Year's Eve party, which hours before had been a scene of high spirited intoxication and fun, now sounds like an empty cathedral, silence reigning for what seems like a good two hours. We had a great time last night but the problem is that some of them have no recollection of the party. So we slink away wearily into the fresh New Year's morning only to be told that London is holding that New Year's parade so it's time to do some more richly projected cheering into the wintry air.

Meanwhile back at the London Stadium, the football team who wear claret and blue are bracing themselves for another period of change. Not for the first time recently West Ham have now announced the re-appointment of their old manager David Moyes. Of course West Ham find themselves clinging onto dear life one point above the relegation zone. This is customary territory for the East London outfit and when Manuel Pellegrini finally walked out of the exit door, some of us didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Throughout the ages West Ham chairmen ranging from Len Cearns to the Pratt family have loyally backed their managers through thick and thin. When Ted Fenton was replaced by Ron Greenwood in the early 1960s, West Ham proceeded uncomfortably to spend the next 20 years in the old First Division. When Greenwood left West Ham in 1977 for the England job, John Lyall, who had spent his whole life at the club, took over as boss officially.

In the early 1990s club legend Billy Bonds, a rugged, no nonsense and uncompromising defender, became a new manager before another club favourite Harry Redknapp, full of Eastern promise and a cheeky turn of phrase, pulled on the tracksuit as manager of the club. There had been brief periods in between where Lou Macari and Glen Roeder became the most improbable of managers.

So here we are folks. It's time to get ready to party, to put on our gladrags, whistle a merry tune and try to avoid complete embarrassment in front of our friends. And yet who cares because it is New Year's Eve and our behaviour is in no danger of any severe examination. We can do whatever we like within reason and that sore hangover will just be a distant memory. Happy and Healthy New Year to everybody.