It was the end of a fabulous decade, when spontaneous, unpredictable parties seemed not just possible but typical. A new millennium was dawning. What could possibly go wrong?
‘We wish you peace,” said Tony Blair as the clock struck 8pm. It was New Year’s Eve 1999, a Friday night, and I was on the banks of the Thames. Britain’s fresh-faced prime minister – only two years into the job – was giving a gimmick called The British Airways London Eye its first spin. The Eye was physically unremarkable and harrowingly slow, but it didn’t matter because it only had a five-year lease and definitely wouldn’t still be around a quarter of a century later, littering the skyline.
It was the end of the 90s and, as the Thatcher/Major doldrums whizzed out of view like the subplot of Sliding Doors, we maintained a Bridget Jones-like innocence and entrusted the future to guys like Blair, Peter Mandelson and Bill Clinton, who didn’t seem like (respectively) warmongers, abuse excusers or sex pests.
Continue reading...
