Despite rumours tube trains in London wouldn't be running on New year's Eve, hordes of dolled-up clubbers crammed the carriages, passing palm warmed beer cans and white wine around to ease the tedium.
Ministry of Sound's bash saw the Millennium Dome witness long snaking queues, probably for the first and last time. Thankfully, on a night when the heavens decided to open and give England yet another soaking, the queues mostly moved quickly.
The event had sold out some two weeks earlier and tickets outside were soon exchanging hands at £200 a throw.
Despite the horizontal rainfall flooding four out of the five arenas, the completely inappropriately clad crowd soon warmed-up on the dance floor and by the time Oakie took over at 8am the horns were going off like it was 1988.
Oakie's £20,000 fee for a one hour remained indisputably 21st Century.
The night had been preceded by various weather reports warning of gales and blizzards and advising people to stay at home. Which is kind of what the masses who made it down to Home in Leicester Square had in mind.
Here the usually strict security searches were soon abandoned under the weight of the suddenly formed queues and within minutes the sold out four-floor venue was heaving.
A possible victim of its own popularity, the club had packed the punters - each paying 35 quid - in tight. Stair wells were road blocked and dance floors and bars totally rammed.
The Chemical Brothers played the prime slot between 11.00 to 1.00. At midnight a disappointing firecracker of a glitter cannon announced the new year, in the process setting off the fire system and drenching one of our journalists.
Featuring acts such as Jacque Lu Cont, Andy Smith and The Chemical Brothers the night could never be too bad and the music held things together.
But the hefty queues at the cloakroom and everyone being evicted at 3 am (hadn't the club heard the weather forecasts?), meant some punters left feeling inevitably short changed.
Meanwhile early arrivals at the Gainsborough Studios almost caused a riot in their eagerness to get in.
As the floodgates opened, the cavernous interior of Alfred Hitchcock's old home filled with over 3,500 party goers eager to witness the unlikely spectacle of a bunch of faceless and revolutionary DJs and producers making a rare UK appearance.
As ever an event this ambitious was bound to harbour an element of chaos and by the time the doors opened the tickets had literally all gone. Many of those who had paid by card booking were simply waved straight into the club. Naturally a fair few punters managed to twig this and saved themselves the £30 plus booking fee.
All very retro in attitude and watching the hundreds of heads bob to UR's minimal assault in the magnificently decayed main hall of the Gainsborough was reminiscent of a vast warehouse party in the heady days of acid house.
If that wasn't enough then there was the thrillingly weird spectacle of the secretive Kenny Dixon JR, aka Moodyman, playing his second UK gig armed with a piano, a couple of MPCs and turntables. He bobbed from one sound source to the next wearing a tight white polo neck and looking like nothing quite so much as Groucho Marx.
The adoring crowd stayed with him all the way to his heavenly 'I Can't Kick This Feeling When It Hits'.
While Transit celebrated the on-going underground creativity of Detroit, 2000 revealed a revitalised Underground London dance community.
To prove the point the organisations that found themselves squeezed out by last year's high prices, re-emerged in full effect this New Year.
ComeShakeTheWhole, who ducked out of NYE 2000, re-emerged this year in Brixton, while the evergreen Funkin'Pussy settled into the Shepherd's Bush Empire.
A month ago Sancho Panza, the sound system that makes a habit of rocking Notting Hill Carnival every summer, while holding word-of-mouth warehouse parties in between, decided not to do a New Year Party.
Then they discovered one of their favoured venues in Kings Cross wasn't being used for the night and changed their minds. The tickets disappeared before word had even hit the street.
Matt, Jim and the regular Sancho DJs conducted the three room venue through anything from funky late Seventies funk grooves to minimal tech house.
Despite there being two chill out rooms decked to the usual Panza detail, most people only left the dance floor to join the dauntingly long queues for the toilets (which, in true warehouse style, were hopelessly inadequate).
Meanwhile the bars of Soho and Hoxton once again made a stark choice between closing or charging at the door.
Those that did open found themselves predictably packed.
At the recently relocated Propaganda, formerly of Hoxton and now based in Soho, demand exceeded expectations and people were left queuing for their coats an hour and half after the venue had closed.
New Year's Eve 2001 packed in as many highs and plummeted to as many lows as any other New Year, making it infinitely better than the dismal effort of 2000. Welcome back the party.
