Happy New Year

New Year's Eve in Reykjavik is supposed to be something special, which is why Quentin Tarantino always comes here — looking for more women to insult, presumably. I was about to cruise the bars for him with a copy of "Grammar School", just in case he wanted to give me a job, but luckily I ended up at a house-party instead.

Bjarni's youngest sister Lora, the little angel, drives us to town on her way to Busby's place — wherever the hell that is — and drops us at a lovely party with grapes and cheese and little shots of alcoholic jelly. I'm befriended by a red-haired Icelandic guy whose accent gets more and more Scottish as the night goes on, despite insisting he's of Irish descent. By 5am I've eaten half a kilo of absinthe jelly and am trying to out-Celt him, by performing an uncoordinated but somewhat aggressive "jig" in the living room, based solely on the snippets of Riverdance I've seen on TV.

By 7am we're heading over to "Busby's place" to blag a lift home from Lora, the little angel. "Busby's place" has bodies everywhere and is like walking through the pages of an Irvine Welsh novel. Bjarni gets between a fight just coming up the stairs and gets smacked in the face. I examine his swollen lip gently with a concerned expression, but secretly I'm pleased. We're at a party with DJs and bodies and fights: how very rock 'n' roll.

Lora — who somehow seems less angelic now — is on the dance-floor, which luckily has a strobe-light so all I have to do is stand there slowly moving my arms in order to look energetic and cool. My feet are killing me from all that jigging, and if I bump into Tarantino now all I'm asking him for is a foot massage.

At 8.30 Lora suggests we go home. I feign disappointment, but secretly I'm pleased. Happy new year, everybody. Resolutions to come.