NYE in Bournville

When I first worked in Birmingham as a bookseller from 1998-2000, three of my colleagues shared a flat in Bournville. Now, Bournville is a rather strange place. All areas of Birmingham have their own characteristics and quirks, especially in the south, but Bournville is like a nature reserve, only it’s urban. There are no pubs, off-licenses or major commercial developments, gardens have to be kept tidy, none of the eyesores of modern life (satellite dishes, etc) are allowed and in order to live there you have to abide by strict rules of conduct. Thankfully within walking distance is skuzzy Stirchley which seems to make up for the absence of vice in Bournville itself, but it really is like arriving in some idyllic village in the middle of the Cotswalds. All very nice and yet at the same time all rather wrong.

But anyway, Andy, Andy and Dave moved into this flat on the edge of Bournville Green over one of the shops. The flat backed onto the Cadbury factory and had no immediate neighbours thus was the perfect venue for a party. And so, as 1998 drew to a close, a rather large number of our peers from the world of bookselling and elsewhere descended on sleepy Bournville for a nice cozy soiree that turned into something much much more.

The problem with legendary parties is they lose so much in the telling – you really had to be there. But amongst the booze-fueled seismic shifts that occurred in those few hours there is one good story that as luck would have it it involves me so I can tell it. After the bells had tolled and the random punch was taking effect I had the notion, god only knows where from, that we should all strip naked, cover ourselves in chocolate and run outside to pay homage to the Cadbury factory. Dave, who is one of those very quiet people whose eyes glint when something absurdist is suggested, glinted and sought out some chocolate so we marched down to the kitchen and started melting it.

Eventually we’d turned a box of Celebrations into a warm brown-ish mush. It took a while as we weren’t using standard cooking chocolate and the nougatey, fruity and nutty centres didn’t want to behave, and of course most of it went all over the floor, but we had something we could work with so off came shirts and on went the chocolate. And off we went running in the freezing early morning air around the Cadbury factory car park.

The next year, being Millennium eve, it was figured that holding a party at the flat again would be a top idea. Unfortunately, whereas in 1998-9 most people had no other plans, in 1999-2000 there were more options so it was a more subdued, though highly enjoyable, affair. So I’m sitting there with my beer and suddenly this girl I vaguely recognise points at me and shouts “You!” It turned out I’d smeared chocolate over her nipples 365 days ago and, despite being perfectly willing for me to do so (the memory was starting to crystalise in my mind as she ranted at me) had born a grudge ever since.

So when one of the Andys, who had moved out of the flat a few years back, said that the other Andy, who still lived there, was having a party this New Year (Dave had gotten married and moved to, um, a small town somewhere…) it was a sure thing I’d go along. While most of the people there had stayed in touch there was something of a reunion going on as we reminisced over things that had happened half a decade ago and all in all it was good. At midnight we, as usual, rushed out into the green and ran about, though with slightly less mania that before (photos) and as we walked back in with our (shock!) cans of beer and glasses of wine I shouted “Happy New Year!’ to a group of Bournville-types gathered in a front garden. They just stared at us like we were teenage deliquents which, in this place, we were, comparatively.