Saturday, 1st January 2000, 8:03am
At Home

I note with much relief and some annoyance that there has been no collapse of civilisation since last night. Staggering out of bed a few minutes ago for a pee, I noticed that the lights and water were still working. The computer comes on, and the time and date are accurate. WordPerfect 5.1 remains in good working order. Though quiet, the Internet is still there. It seems I strained the household budget on stocking up to no effect. But I suppose most insurance turns out to have been wasted: that doesn't stop people from buying it or from being pleased to have it.

Because everything seemed so normal, we went out last night - just a brief walk up to the motorway bridge in Charlton Road, so we could look down to the Dome and see what was promised to be the most spectacular fireworks display in history. Mrs Gabb wanted to stay at home so we could drink champagne in front of the telly, but I persuaded her out with the argument that she'd be able to tell everyone for ever afterwards that she had personally seen the Dome at the stroke of midnight.

Several hundred other people had decided to do the same, and we joined a growing crowd of the curious and the merely drunk. There were some people from Australia with their video cameras - they said they had come all the way just for this. There were local people with glasses of wine, and even a couple who had brought chairs to stand on. We stood looking expectantly down to the Dome. The motorway bridge gives a splendid view - probably the best in South London except from Shooters Hill. As midnight came, the lights in the Dome faded and there was a vast banging of fireworks from all directions. The crowd managed a ragged cheer, and a woman kissed me. Someone behind me lit another reefer and began talking nonsense to himself. But nothing else happened. The "river of fire" that had been so much talked about didn't happen. The crowd waited another ten minutes or so, then broke up. I tried to enjoy the fireworks, but so far as I'm concerned, the real pleasure in them comes from letting off my own. Even 29,000 tons let off by others doesn't give the same thrill as I used to get as a boy from igniting my own crudely made explosives: I never could get much colour or lift out of these, but I could probably have impressed Gerry Adams with their noise and destructive force.

Mrs Gabb and I came home and watched the midnight celebrations on video while drinking our champagne. We were very disappointed. As with the summer eclipse, we were supposed to experience the occasion at second hand, as an endless parade of worthless "celebrities" preened themselves in front of the cameras. At last, the live coverage began. There was a concert from Greenwich Park. A choir and orchestra made a poor attempt at the opening chorus from the Carmina Burana, after which some middle aged pop singer called Simply Red came on to ragged applause. We wound the tape forward to the beginning of the Dome celebrations. These began with a "Christian Moment" - about three minutes of George Carey trying to looking like the Archbishop of Canterbury. He cut a sorry figure - as well he ought. If the politicians and media people can't wait another year for the real 2000th birthday of Jesus Christ, that is their problem. But I expected the Churches to show some restraint. Dr Carey should have made his excuses when asked to attend, and suggested another ceremony next year. But no, he was there, burbling on with the assistance of three children who had obviously been selected more for their ethnic and sexual diversity than for their ability to pray in public. The Church of England could be rescued even now - so long as all the bishops and four fifths of the clergy could be deprived for heresy or blasphemy or atheism, or just for stupidity, and then be replaced by anyone, male or female, gay or straight, willing to sign the 39 Articles and able to read the New Testament in Greek. But looking at Dr Carey last night, the best I could hope was that Peter Tatchell might push him out of the way again and give us a sermon of his own.

After this, it got worse, The nudey dancers I had read about in The Daily Telegraph turned out to be fully clothed - either the lack of heating in the Dome or orders from the Queen had forced them to cover up. As it was, the Queen looked bored and embarrassed throughout, and only cheered up and began to smile near the end, when she realised she could soon get away from the Blairs and go home to bed. Mr Blair looked more desperate than usual: perhaps he knew what a flop the whole thing had turned out. His wife stood beside him, her mouth as open and round as one of the entrances to the Blackwall Tunnel. William Hague drifted in and out of view, flopping around as if he were enjoying continuous multiple orgasms. I imagine his image consultants had told him to look more cheerful than he felt, and this was how he had obliged. As the Brazilian dancers began their turn, Mrs Gabb switched off the telly, observing that she could have spent £750 million to better effect than this. I disagreed. One day, the Dome will be just the place to hold Mr Blair's trial for high treason - it will be large enough for the sort of audiences to be expected, and will have the right symbolism.

I imagine the celebrations will be repeated on all channels every few hours until next Tuesday, and that the media people will hand out awards to each other for how good they were. For myself, I rather wish the Millennium Bug had brought civilisation as we know it to an end. I never believed it was a problem in itself, but I did worry that fears about it would make people try to draw all their money out of the banks: that could have caused a liquidity crisis nasty enough to shut down the whole payments system for a few weeks. But too few people panicked, and the supermarkets will open in a few hours just as they always do on a bank holiday. Of course, mass starvation and the collapse of all order are not things entirely to be welcomed. Neither, however, is the fact that the British Government can now devote its whole IT budget again to surveillance projects. This time next year, even the optimistic wing of the Libertarian Alliance will be muttering about a police state.

More to the point, Mrs Gabb will start nagging me as soon as she wakes up about the redundancy of my preparations. I know what we can do with the 25 gallons of Czech-style lager I've been brewing since November; and the cash can be paid into the bank next week, or spent in the sales. But search me if I have a use for all those candles and tins of corned beef....