While the Romans are widely held responsible for the timing of New Year's Eve - at a Senate meeting in 153BC they reset the calendar to begin on January 1 - the modern version of this night of enforced jollity is an undeniably American affair. There's the central role of television (climaxing with that inexplicable ball-dropping ritual in Times Square); the exorbitant cover charges; the all-you-can-eat buffets - not to mention the exclusionary spectacle of good-looking people locating each other at midnight so that they can smooch to that hymn to narcissism, My Way.

Even the name - New Year's Eve, as opposed to plain old December 31 - suggests an American outlook, with its total disregard of the present in favour of the vastly more exciting immediate future. (It's a wonder the entire US working week hasn't been rebranded in such a way: Monday being Tuesday's Eve, Tuesday being Wednesday's Eve, and so on. Just think what it would do for national morale.)

As with many things American, of course, Britons tend to talk loudly about how unbearable it all is, before unhesitatingly joining in. But perhaps not this year. As I prepare to spend my first New Year's Eve for some time in Los Angeles (I usually contrive to be in a pressurised cabin at 37,0000ft, jetting back from Christmas with the in-laws) I've been thinking that I should look back to my Northumbrian upbringing for a more fitting way to mark the demise of this long, dark and most un-American of years - during which our entire culture seems to have collapsed from within.

In Northumberland - and Newcastle upon Tyne, where I spent many year-ends as a boy - older generations never bought into the faux optimism of New Year's Eve. I don't think I ever heard my grandparents utter those three words. When they were growing up in the Depression-hit shipbuilding town of Walker, December 31 was something darker, deeper, more melancholy. It was Old Year's Night.

There's something brilliantly grim about that moniker, don't you think? It suggests a refusal to move on from unfinished business; an ability to defer pleasure; a distaste for the artifice and schmaltz represented by an “eve”. Anyhow, a few minutes before midnight on Old Year's Night, my father and I would be turfed out of the house into the freezing mist and we'd stumble around with lumps of coal in our hands - that's what passes for a lucky charm up North - waiting to hear the fog horns on the Tyne mark the arrival of January 1. Then we'd march back home, declaring ourselves “first footers” as we crossed the threshold. Then everyone would have a drink and go to bed.

I've since discovered that Northumberland isn't the only part of the world to celebrate Old Year's Night. They also do it in the Caribbean (where it's a custom to paint your house), the Netherlands (where it's called oudejaarsavond), and - strangely - in Peru. The Peruvian ritual is perfect for the present era: they create papier-mâché effigies, known as Años Viejos (Old Years) representing people and events from the previous 12 months. Then at midnight, they burn them. What better way to bid 2008 farewell?

Nuclear reaction

One of the things I actually like about the end of the year are those lists that get published, detailing all the new words and phrases that have entered the vocabulary since the previous January. Here in LA, much hilarity has been derived from the emergence of the term “nuke the fridge” - as in “The Dark Knight was great, but Superman Returns totally nuked the fridge, man”.

The usage is similar to “jump the shark” - a phrase used to describe the point in a TV sitcom's life when it is no longer funny or relevant, and which derives from a three-part episode of Happy Days from 1977, in which Fonzie literally jumped over a shark while water skiing.

“Nuke the fridge” describes the moment when a once lucrative movie franchise is unsalvageably ruined. For those unfortunate enough to have bought tickets this year to Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull - in which Indy survives a nuclear blast by hiding inside a fridge - I assume no further explanation is required.

Flash in the pan

This time last year, I complained that Hollywood was contributing to America's malaise by releasing some of the most suicidally depressing movies of all time, many of which ended up as Oscar winners.

Someone was clearly listening to me: this year's Oscar contenders are anything but depressing. I fear, however, that the studios might have veered a little too far in an unexpected direction.

What else could explain all the Oscar hype about Flash of Genius - a “biopic” about the man who invented intermittent windscreen wipers. That's right, a movie about... intermittent windscreen wipers. I wanted Hollywood to cheer us up. Not sedate us.

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