IT'S HIGH TIME AULD ACQUAINTANCE WAS FORGOT

'MUM, you don't know what you are talking about!" my daughter Ashley shouted me down. We were debating our different opinions on the subject of Hogmanay as I was writing this column.

I explained to her that I think there is a worldwide myth that Scotland has the best Hogmanay events on the planet.

We Scots own Hogmanay and are unique at throwing parties.

That's if you read the tourist brochures.

Apparently people come from all over the world to experience a Scottish New Year. Folks just crave the tartan, shortbread and bagpipe vibe.

The big selling points are these images of happy Scots welcoming people into their homes and musical instruments being dragged out as people in kilts dance wildly and malt whisky is offered to partygoers who happen to be in the vicinity of their front door.

I think it's nonsense.

I don't ever recall a great New Year party in Scotland in my entire life. No amount of bagpipe skirls, Scottish country dancing on TV, steak pie dinners or weeping, maudlin, drunken aunties will ever make me believe that just being in Scotland makes Hogmanay wonderful.

My New Year parties as a kid involved being kept up late, being dragged to someone's house because my parents couldn't leave us at home alone. I would be sat in some neighbour's flat, drinking disgusting ginger cordial. Old, drunk people would stagger around either singing or arguing. Then some poor sod would burst into song. He might inadvertently give way to some sectarian yell, the ethos of "Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot" was quickly forgotten and a fight would break out.

That happened for about 12 of my young Hogmanays.

I now feel ashamed and inherently apologetic to visitors from other countries who turn up in Glasgow expecting tartan hootenanny shenanigans. Spontaneous parties are a thing of the past. No-one lets strangers crash their party. That's considered housebreaking where I live in the West End.

Most big cities in Scotland will have organised street parties, there will be live music on stage, fireworks and plastic cups of booze to buy… if you can afford the ticket!

That's not a party. That's a commercial event and involves boundless amounts of bouncers making sure things don't get out of hand. Whoever heard of Auntie Jessie charging at the door of her house?

The people gather round each other in the freezing streets, they listen to the midnight bells and wait for that special Scottish thing to happen … then actually nothing happens. It might rain or some other type of inclement weather situation could break the monotony. In fact, if it gets too windy, Hogmanay can be cancelled!

Just being north of Carlisle is no guarantee that some mystical spark will occur where friendly Scottish people will emerge from their hot hearths and welcome you in to enjoy a family knees-up and some heart-warming company. The Broons have spoiled it for all of us.

But, having said all the above, Ashley reminded me about our trip in 2001.

I flew my entire family to Las Vegas for our New Year celebrations and it was awful. The firework display was disappointing and, as soon as the smoke faded, everyone went back to the slot machines.

It was so ghastly and empty that I stood beside a pretend pyramid near a fake fire and wished I was back in Glasgow.

Ashley jumped off the sofa and snapped at me: "Mum, Scotland has thrown great Hogmanay parties, visitors are welcomed and people in countries all over the world sing a great Scottish song Auld Lang Syne. It's just you that hates parties. People don't invite you coz you are grumpy, whereas I have been invited to six parties because I am good at socialising."

She pointed out that the word Hogmanay is a Scottish word and that I should embrace the event. My bad experiences aren't a great example of what true Scottish hospitality actually represents. I need to be a little more patriotic and less cynical.

I think Ashley is right. Just because I had crap Hogmanays and because I refuse to pay to be part of a street "party" doesn't mean I have the right to trash it.

So I am having a Hogmanay party tonight for the first time in my life and Ashley has made me host. I have to smile, be nice to people and sing.

Happy New Year everyone. Best of luck in 2008.

A SPOT ON TV I COULD HAVE DONE WITHOUT

"I HAVE three big spots on my chin and my voice is hoarse," I moaned.

My daughter Ashley came to the rescue: "Don't worry, mum, I have a make-up that will cover them and some cough medicine."

Why is it that every time I do a TV appearance, the skin on my face declares war and becomes a traitor? I had also managed to develop a nasty throat and chest infection to boot.

I was filming some short "talking heads" for a programme, From SR to Lavvie Heid, to be broadcast on STV tonight.

I hate seeing myself on telly. Seeing my big, swollen face with two chins and three angry spots is just horrifying.

This time, to make matters worse, I was sounding just like Lee Marvin with a hangover.

My New Year resolution will have to be to get fit, eat better and look after my scabby skin.

I wish my skin still fitted me. I hate being old.

WATCH OUT FOR ABI SCISSORHANDS

I HAVE invented a game for my great niece Abi. I lie down and she approaches me slowly. As she gets closer, I start to open my eyes and then eventually stand up as a zombie and chase her through the house.

Her screams of terror and giggles could shatter all the light bulbs in the flat. Abi loves scary terror: she is a huge Tim Burton fan and, at four years old, can name every film he has directed. She is a macabre toddler!

The week before Christmas, I took her to see Santa and, when asked what she wanted, Abi replied sweetly: "I want to be a dead zombie and star in a real Tim Burton movie. I want blood dripping out of my eyes so I can scare my wee sister so she will pee herself!"

Santa was speechless. I laughed. Tim Burton take note.

IF ONLY - DREAMS I'D LOVE TO COME TRUE

HERE are some things I want to happen in 2008.

• Kate Moss and Amy Winehouse become lovers, clean up their act and start a pottery retreat and macramé collective in Cornwall.

• Gordon Brown reverts back to his childhood name – Soapy Souter – and Alex Salmond gets officially renamed Wee Eck.

• George Bush gets a message from God telling him to go join the cast of Mamma Mia! and ends up happily singing in a silver suit for the rest of his life.

• David Cameron has to move his family to the high flats in Possil, Shettleston or Paisley for a whole year and is forced to live on benefits.

• George Clooney flies into Glasgow Airport and declares his undying love for me. I have to choose between him and my husband, then I get to keep them both.