The plan was to spend a quiet evening in with Mrs T49 and T49 junior but a random text from a mate changed all that. So we headed up to the village Social Club and saw the New Year in there. Now bear in mind that this is a small village just 6 miles from the nearest major city and a mere 15 miles from Bristol, just one pub (having a ticketed function at £45 per head on NYE) and no-where else to buy a pint. The following types were all present in the club last night, and the idle part of me wondered what types were out and about elsewhere. James, ex sapper and now in his mid fifties, he runs his own business and plays fast and loose with the VAT laws. Roughly 10 stone overweight and the life and soul of the club, he doesnt hesitate to turn every situation to his advantage. He is generally a decent bloke, though after half a dozen pints of Guinness he gets a little anti with those he feels have wronged him. A classic example of big fish in a small pond Jennifer & Lindsey, James daughters. Jennifer is 23, two kids in primary school and recently divorced. Her attitude towards men and her Dad seem to have scared off every bloke in the village and she moans all night that there is no talent in town. Lindsey is 17 (age AND stone) and talks in a whiney childish voice. She is studying childcare at the local poly, as she is too scared of life outside the village to move away. Derek, the gay vicar. Maybe not gay, but as camp as a field of pink tents, hes chucking the G&Ts back like theres no tomorrow and hes the only person who can get away with smoking cheroots inside the club. The wives present at the club think hes great, the blokes dont know what to make of him. Fred, ex merchant navy. Fred was a Bofors gunner on the Murmansk convoys of WW2 and takes every opportunity to tell everyone repeatedly. If he thinks there is a scotch and threat in it for him, he tells them again. And again. And again. Has his own stool at the bar which gives him a vantage point and the ability to intercept anyone off to the gents and tell them again how it was on the Murmansk Convoys while pointedly staring at his empty glass. Malcolm, university professor. A transplant from Exeter who moved to the village a mere 25 years ago and is still considered a suspect outsider by those born and raised here. He brings his accordion to the club and insists on leading a conga line through the graveyard next door at midnight. Graham and Fiona. Newly weds who are 7th generation villagers and have just moved to their first house together in the village. Despite being in their mid 20s, they are ID checked by the barmaid who had known them all her life and still thinks of them as kids. Margaret, the bar maid. 64 years old and as blind as a bat. She also has number dyslexia which means that each round (although the same four drinks as the last time) costs a completely different amount. Spends the evening moaning about the dog ends outside the front door, despite having a 40 menthol fags a day habit herself. Sam. Sam is the 20 year old youngest son of Margaret the barmaid and a Nu-Metal Goth. Black lip gloss, black nail polish, huge black combat trousers with knee high biker boots and a t-shirt showing the band Cradle of Filth with the slogan cunt puncher on the back. Nothing he does shocks anyone, who consider his dress sense a phase Stacey and Tracey. Two incredibly fit twins with legs you could suck on for a week, who have just turned 20 and for some reason are quite happy to see in the New Year in the social club, rather than giving it large in a nite spot somewhere surrounded by people their own age. Mike, jobbing builder. Self appointed master of ceremonies for the evening, and insists on gathering everyone together around the brewery-donated Bass clock at five to midnight and handing out one party popper per person. Gets stroppy when its pointed out to him that the clock is 10 minutes fast. Shirley, Mikes missus. Think Liz MacDonald off Corrie but with more of the cougar about her. She has been to Iceland and blown a tenner of party food under the mistaken belief that it will feed everyone there, and sulks when someone has the temerity to ask if there is anymore. Sonia, married to the local carpenter and has dressed up as though she works the streets of Amsterdam. Has a braying, chainsaw of a laugh that can be heard in the next village and sinks pints of cider from a pewter tankard. Has the ability to keep you engrossed in conversation while continually texting her mate who is sat at the next table. Rumoured to be a bit of a raver when she wants to be and you cant help wondering if she would put out for you if you bought her a pint. Robbie, the village scout master. Ex Grenadier Guard and firmly believes that the Scout movement is a feeder for the Armed Forces. Slightly mad and has brought his wife who sits totally ignored in the corner while he talks on her behalf. Just wondered what other types might have been out at the various parties you were all attending?