As the final hours of the 1990s ticked away, a sense of exhilarating optimism filled the air over London. For many revellers gathered on the banks of the Thames on New Year's Eve 1999, it felt like the dawn of a bright, new era, marked by spontaneous celebration and boundless hope.
A Prime Minister's Wish and a Slow-Moving Landmark
At 8pm that Friday night, with the capital buzzing, Prime Minister Tony Blair offered a simple message: "We wish you peace." The relatively new Labour leader, just two years into his tenure, was officially inaugurating a novel attraction—The British Airways London Eye. To the author and thousands of others present, the giant observation wheel seemed a temporary gimmick, granted only a five-year lease and unlikely to become a permanent fixture on the city's skyline a quarter of a century later.
This moment perfectly captured the spirit of the times. The political doldrums of the Thatcher and Major years felt like a distant memory, replaced by a Bridget Jones-esque faith in figures like Blair, Peter Mandelson, and even US President Bill Clinton. The future, it seemed, was in seemingly safe, charismatic hands.
The Fab 90s and a Future that Smelt of J'Adore
The evening had begun immersed in the decade's defining culture. The soundtrack was Destiny's Child's "The Writing's on the Wall," a snack was prepared following a recipe from the new TV chef Jamie Oliver, and the tube journey was spent reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, speculating about a potential film adaptation.
It was an era of discovery—of cappuccino, pesto, and hummus—and of parties in Soho lofts. Dressed in a fusion of styles from The Craft to Austin Powers, the author joined the massive, diverse crowd by the river. After hours of anticipation, Big Ben chimed, fireworks erupted, and strangers wished each other peace and prosperity for the coming millennium. The iconic supersonic Concorde performed a fly-past, and the future, quite literally, smelt of Dior's J'Adore.
From Chinatown to Dawn on the Dodgems
Escaping the throng, the night took a serendipitous turn in Chinatown. A chance discovery led to a steamed-up restaurant where a generous proprietor served double portions, offering pak choi to a friend with the memorable line: "Eat it, it's Chinese Viagra. You'll like it, big man."
Replenished, the group stumbled upon something magical: a fully operational, flashing and bleeping Dodgems ride. There, they met a group of "hot, forward and nice" tracksuited men. Teaming up, they spent the early hours of 1 January 2000 playing on the bumper cars until dawn. It was a perfect, unplanned conclusion—a funfair ride under the new millennium's first sky.
This, the author reflects, was typical of the time. Such spontaneous, joyous nights out were not just possible but common. Strip away the champagne, and it was an eight-year-old's ideal day: fireworks, a meal, fresh air, and a funfair.
The Morning After: Bleak Fiction and Unshaken Optimism
With the night over, the decade was officially done. The Saturday Guardian's front page proclaimed "Dawn of a New Millennium" beside an image of a fragile-looking Earth. At home, the author slept through a new £25 DVD of The Matrix, dismissing its dystopian vision of a humanity enslaved by AI as pure fiction.
The much-feared Millennium Bug failed to materialise, and the familiar face of Dale Winton appeared on TV to announce the lottery numbers as usual. Full of the era's characteristic optimism, the first diary entry of the new century was begun: "01/01/00". It was a hopeful start, blissfully unaware of the more complex realities the 21st century would soon bring.
