Fond memories of New Year’s Eves spent with Andy Stewart

When we were little, although we lived in Cheshire, many miles away from the border, we were avid readers of the Scottish bible the Sunday Post, the most Caledonian publication in the entire world.

And from the august organ, we got to know all about first footing, carrying in lumps of coal and sticks at midnight, while chewing on something called black bun.

We hadn’t a clue what black bun was – I harboured a notion it was some sort of concoction involving charred rabbit and onions, rather than a fruitcake – but in those days, Scotland was considered as exotic as the moon.

And it was on New Year’s Eve that the television was awash with the swirl of tartan, the skirl of bagpipes and the wee bit shoogle of the greatest of all Scotsmen, Andy Stewart, as he teamed up with Jimmy Shand (and his band) to bring in the new year in traditional style.

We were allowed to stay up late to see them joined by the likes of Moira Anderson and Kenneth McKellar, and occasionally Robin Hall and Jimmie McGregor would tear themselves away from the Tonight studio to warble in the new year in celtic harmony.

I had just about every record Andy Stewart ever made, from his top ten hits A Scottish Soldier and Donald Where’s Yer Troosers to more obscure numbers such as The Highland Twist and Cowboy Jock from Skye.

I also knew most of the words to The Muckin’ O’ Geordie’s Byre, although I had not the faintest idea of what they meant.

I was also a big devotee of Jimmy Shand, and cherish the perhaps apocryphal tale of the accordionist nonpareil’s stay at a guest house in Tynedale, when he asked for some honey to spread on his breakfast toast.

When he was handed one of those mini jars of the sweet delight, he looked at it solemnly and declared: “Ooh, I see you keep a bee….”

But as I grew older, and started courting Mrs Hextol, New Year’s Eve meant going out to a big dance hall in the Potteries, where a live band called The Bob Potter Nyne would perform all the hits of the year, culminating in a countdown to the new year, at which point hundreds of balloons would be released from the ceiling, causing general mayhem among the gyrating dancers many feet below.

One of the popular dance tunes of the day was The March of the Mods by the Joe Loss Orchestra, which involved lots of jumping and dashing around with linked arms.

The future Mrs Hextol and I were performing with much verve and gusto one New Year on a packed dance floor, when I somehow managed to lose my footing.

I pulled Mrs Hextol down with me, and The March of the Mods soon became the Collapse of the Mods, as scores of people were overcome by the domino effect and toppled into a mass of writhing humanity in the centre of the floor.

My sister was watching from the balcony, and paused from sipping her Cherry B to tell her boyfriend: “I’ll bet anything you like that my brother was the cause of that ….”

In later life, when the children came along, we could no longer hit the town on New Year’s Eve, so we and a group of friends started having a peripatetic fancy dress party, moving from house to house in a series of bizarre, home-made costumes.

The first year, Mrs Hextol decided to go as a Christmas cracker and spent the entire day encasing herself in a roll of cardboard, and festooning it with colourful crepe paper, tinsel and all the trimmings.

It looked fabulous, but there was one problem – the cardboard tube was solid, which meant she could not sit down and had to spend the entire evening propped against a wall or hopping from one venue to the next.

I had various costumes over the years, including Rene from Allo Allo, Frankenstein’s Monster and Rab C. Nesbitt, although the latter was not an unqualified success as a drunken reveller tried to rip off my string vest, causing severe rope burns.

Now, New Year’s Eves are spent quietly, watching the telly and moaning how pathetic the fare is compared to the old days. Jools Holland is a pale substitute for Andy Stewart

If only we could turn the clock back ...