Some things you can do to help improve your chances.

You’ve known for the past twelve months that new year’s eve was coming. Three hundred and sixty five days to plan what you’re going to wear. Six o’clock this evening is perhaps not the best time to have a clothes crisis.

If you know the words to Auld Lang Syne, please sing up a bit. The rest of us don’t, and we’ll be lah lah lahing in an embarrassed fashion. Give us some covering audio fire, there’s a pal. Don’t show off by singing the second verse though; you’ll be strictly on your own if you pull that stunt.

Don’t ask me to join a conga line; it will end in tears. I’ll refuse because I’m a curmudgeon and find it undignified. If pressed on this I may get very tetchy and give you a graphic description of just how my knees are.

You may awake tomorrow feeling a bit peaky, a bit shop-soiled. It’s very unlikely to be the prodromal symptoms for Weil’s disease or Rift Valley fever. Nor can you realistically expect to be believed if you blame a bad batch of tonic/that lemon was off/the ice must have been contaminated.

Anyway, whatever you’re doing, I hope it’s a good one.

One of my favourite comedians, an Irishman called Dave Allen, always finished his set with the following words.

‘May your god go with you.’