It was Haggis, who runs a respectable travel agency in the City, that started the song in the early Nineties as it played on the jukebox during the annual pool and dart competition.

After a week of non-stop festivities, it fitted the bill. And it stuck.

With so many of us scattered around the globe, the only time that you can really catch up with the Coquetdale characters of our generation is during the festive period.

My early memories of New Year are of my mam making bacon sandwiches for first footers, drinking cans of McEwan's Export and lounging on the floor listening to my dad's vinyl collection; scrounging the warm frothy top from a can of Tartan Bitter; the pipe band marching from pub to pub. There used to be a real open-door community feel in the valley.

As I got older I always prefered Auld Year's Night to the all-day session of New Year's Day. There is more of a party atmosphere.

Picking up a can and discovering it had been used as an ashtray only when you'd taken a swig. Forcing down a free nip of whisky the next day and struggling through pints with a hangover worse than a migraine. Cold sweats.

The shakes. New Year's Day is for the hardcore. The stark reality that Christmas is over for another year.

Unfortunately, one of the lad's birthdays is on the second of January and you had to drag yourself out of bed for another drink to celebrate. All the best, Toma. Have one on me!

Hangover cures don't work. Believe me, I've tried them all. Angostura bitters makes you sick. A raw egg makes you sick. Best to throw down Bloody Marys. Not that I am advocating the path of excess!

The best hangover cure is not to get too drunk, of course, and to get plenty of sleep.

But it is somewhat of a Coquetdale tradition to get mortal at New Year. I always felt a duty to show face, however shabby. Wild-eyed with wind swept hair like Father Jack from the fantastic TV series Father Ted, demanding 'DRINK!' and 'GURRLS!'

It was against this backdrop that the KLF came out from the speakers in the bar, the cheap glitterball that was slowly twisting itself out of its fitting wobbling around, party hats at an ill angle, when we were roused from our stupor and began singing.

All together now: "Moo-moo land, Moo-moo land, all bound for Moo-moo land."