In my time I have seen in the New Year in some extraordinary places & situations – though I confess they have been outweighed tenfold by the occasions that I have retired to bed by 10.00pm latest and failed to mark it at all – but last evening’s effort (scrabbling about under the second arch of Richmond Bridge in an open rowing boat accompanied by two half-crazed Cuban revolutionaries) just about takes the biscuit.

The evening had begun in relatively mundane fashion. After our little group had taken a stroll along the tow-path towards the Petersham meadow in the late afternoon sunshine, we had popped into Richmond town for a pizza before returning to the flat for what I had fondly imagined would be nothing more than a quiet drink in front of the television set. It was at this point, just as Il Presidente had presented me with a box of 24 of his seven-and-a-half-inch Special Edition Romeo y Juileta cigars, that Senor Gonzales disappeared into the spare room and returned a few moments later with six bottles of what he informed me was Real Hacienda tequila, his boss’s favourite reposado [aged between two and eleven months in oak casks], that they had brought with them as hand luggage. (So much for Antigua airport’s security arrangements!).

At some point later in the night – I’d lost track of time within my first three sips of what tasted like de-icer fluid [both guests insisted that I join them in drinking it neat, i.e. without salt & lemon which is the only way I’ve tried it (once) previously] – during a short break in our session of singing along to my ancient CD of Abba’s Greatest Hits that I’d found hidden away in my sitting-room cupboard, Senor Gonzales asked about our festive traditions … the Christmas decorations, carol services, roast turkey etc. … and when I mentioned Santa Claus (or Father Christmas as we call him) Il Presidente suddenly perked up and took his portable chimney out of his mouth:

“Santa Claus …. Santa Claus? … Jose, do you remember our assault upon the garrison of Santa Clara in the winter of ’58?”

Senor Gonzales nodded. I was a little behind the eight-ball on my intimate knowledge of Cuban history but it so happened we were drinking on the fifty-ninth anniversary of the fall of Santa Clara to Castro’s revolutionary army – or that section of it (some 450 men) under the command of Camilio Cienfuegos who had been besieging it for three weeks without success, even after using a farm tractor to which armour-plating had been welded in order to make an improvised tank.

Apparently it had needed a little bit of ingenuity to break the deadlock. Cienfuegos’s men were unaware that Abon Ly, the Cuban-born Chinese in charge of the defenders, was fast running out of supplies and it had taken Castro, Senor Gonzales & Che Guevara to hatch a daring plan to break into the city by boat having rowed their way up the river.

That’s the short explanation as to why – at about 11.45pm last night – I found myself in the freezing water of the Thames pushing a skiff containing my two Cuban guests off the Richmond Bridge slipway to the jeers of various drunken revellers on the parapets above. When our vehicle was at last floating I gave it one last push & launched myself towards it, just managing to get my torso over the stern but leaving my legs trailing in the water behind. Sadly but perhaps inevitably, in the desperate flailing struggle to get me on board, one of us dislodged one of the rollocks which slid delicately over the side into a watery grave and we were left … wet, bedraggled, Il Presidente bellowing a surprisingly wide variety of Spanish swearwords, some of which I was making my first acquaintance with … trying to propel ourselves towards the bridge by means of a port-side oar (operated by Senor Gonzales in a relatively-traditional fashion) and Il Presidente and myself standing up, at some danger to ourselves in the violently-tipping craft, using the other as a form of combined punt pole and tiller, though not always in tandem.

It was probably a selection of (1) our tequila-fuelled attempts to sing Knowing Me, Knowing You from Abba’s third album; (2) Il Presidente’s repeated exhortations “Viva la Revolucion!” and we approached the second arch in a backwards direction; or (3) his drawing of a massive long-barrelled Colt 44 and firing six or seven shots into the air, that brought the blue-flashing lights of the London Borough of Richmond’s finest constabulary onto the bridge to add to the gaiety of the fireworks now entertaining the masses crowded on the terraced banks of the Thames beside the Pitcher & Piano bar as the countdown to chimes of midnight approached.

Having motioned Senor Gonzales to grab hold of the metal ring helpfully protruding from the arch pillar and thereby keep us out of sight of the Gestapo and the excited spectators now leaning over the bridge in an effort to spot the source of the commotion, I threw myself at Il Presidente and, by lying on top of him with the full majesty of my 260 pounds, just about rendered him immobile, unable to fire again and (winded) unable to make himself known. It was only about 80 minutes later, when the situation had died down and we had somehow regained the sanctuary of the slipway, that I realised the Colt’s chamber had been empty anyway.

Despite a degree of thick-headedness this morning, I’ve never been so sober in my life.