Leaving Bristol

Sambuca runs down my arm, leaving behind a sticky aniseed trail as I reach the disposable shot glasses over the dancing crowd to my friends. The Lonely Tourist accepts one with mumbled and uncertain thanks as they get handed out; perhaps he's more of a whisky drinker.

Behind the microphone, Gaz Brookfield and the part of the floor called the stage, the leaded windows are running with condensation. The crowd is singing and dancing, eating up the last fifteen minutes of 2013. The small Bank Tavern, hidden away on John Street, is full on New Year's Eve. Not rammed, but full enough everyone seems familiar as you jostle to the bar. The wood panelled walls are hung with blow-ups of banknotes and portraits of the Queen, on windowsills LED candles flicker amongst stacks of books. The old illuminated by the faux old.