Bartenders across the world took a pounding on New Year's Eve. Incoming volleys of whistling drunks was followed later by cleaning up the collateral damage of expelled stomachs, carrying the legless to ambulances, and taxis, and having to don the blue helmet to separate warring male factions. In Thailand, bartenders had to run for their lives as the nightclub burned. Resistance was futile. The onslaught raged for four straight hours at my bar. No cover was possible. The best form of resistance was to wear earplugs producing a dullness from the verbal explosions heading my way - Jaegermesiter yells, sounded like Nazis trampling Europe, screams for Kamikazes made me duck, Irish car bombs were detonating all over the bar. All bartenders are a little shell shocked on New Year's Day. Here's an extract from a poem by the famous World War One poet, Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.