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Christmas comes but once a year, and thank god for that. The absolute worst aspect of Christmas has got to be the office party. I always end up saying I will go - much against my better judgement - convinced that it can't possibly be as bad as last year. Unfortunately it is always worse than last year. The first problem is what to wear. I am not a dressing-up sort of person and I only own two sorts of clothes; smart business suits, and grotty jeans. Neither of these is considered suitable and the girls at the office nag me to splash out on a new gown, failing to realise that party frocks do not exactly suit someone of my stature. |
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Nor are they easy to find in the shops - and anyway, I resent paying out my meagre salary on a slinky little number I will feel uncomfortable in, which will make me look a complete prat, and which I will never wear again! So I usually just wear the same black suit I've been wearing during the day, and to hell with the bitchy comments. All afternoon the ladies' loo at work is filled with a gaggle of women clustered round the mirror applying another inch of Max Factor, drenching themselves with Aqua Manda, glueing their hair into place with Wella. Come 5.30 they are zipping each other into their skintight gold lame dresses and giving their faces just one last going over with a trowel, before heading for the staff canteen. Someone always goes to a great deal of trouble to make the canteen look festive; sagging balloons, wonky crepe paper chains, multicoloured foil dangly bits, wilting holly and ivy wreaths - the effect is overwhelmingly awful! And the tree... half the branches are bald, there's a great pile of dead needles on the floor around it, the tinsel is falling off, the angel on the top looks as bored as I feel, and the bulbs in the fairy lights blow at the rate of about 0.7 per second. Paper hats are dished out which are usually in lurid colours and clash with whatever I'm wearing. They come in two sizes: too big, so they fall down over my eyes obscuring my vision completely, and too small so they perch precariously on my head threatening to fall into my drink. The drink is free, which is just as well as no-one would pay for it. There's a choice between wine that smells and tastes like bleach, or watered down lager. Food is provided by the canteen staff. It's a cold buffet, with all my favourites - burnt cocktail sausages, processed cheese and pineapple on sticks, stale french bread with rock hard butter, soggy vol-au-vents... and, of course, mince pies that could double as billiard balls. Ron from the mail-room does the disco, and starts the evening off with 'Chas & Dave's Party Hits', guaranteed to break the ice! This is swiftly followed by the Birdy Song, and Aggadoo, and all the other sing-along favourites that people can never remember the actions to. The secretaries dance in a circle around their handbags (this is an obscure tribal ritual), and disappear frequently to the loo in groups to repair the cracks in their faces, and gossip about who is doing what to whom. The lads from the print room, the mail room, accounts and stationery hang around the bar getting pissed and leering at the girls from the typing pool, who sit in a corner blushing. The directors feel it is their right to claim a dance from all the women, putting their hands up their dresses to see who is wearing suspenders. Mr Simmons, who for the rest of the year rules the accounts department with a rod of iron, has too much to drink and starts slobbering all over Doreen from Admin. Doreen's tits fall out in the middle of the dancefloor, causing joy and merriment to the onlookers. Old Harry from the Warehouse dresses up as Father Christmas and wanders round pinching the girls bums and going 'Ho ho ho'. He hands out presents to everyone - a bottle of scotch to the men, some dreadful scent and a half-dead rose to the women - then falls asleep in a corner. Ron on the disco starts playing records from the 60's and the men pretend to be Elvis, and attempt to do the twist - not a pretty sight! While gyrating his hips in what he thinks is a 'sexy' manner Paul the Wages Clerk pours his beer down Doreen's cleavage. And then someone brings out the mistletoe. At this point I always try to leave, but it's usually impossible to avoid the sweaty embrace of the office lechers. Ron starts playing 'smoochy' records and there's no escape; you have to submit to the boss's groping. Finally, to round off the evening, a huge conga line is formed and we dance around the entire office building - surprising Mr Simmins and Doreen who are screwing in the stationery cupboard. Next day, back at work, I have great difficulty looking my colleagues in the eye. Do they know how embarrassing they were? Working life returns to normal, with only Doreen's blushes whenever Mr Simmins calls her into his office to remind us of what a jolly time we had! |
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