Reposted from 2009 – Some references may be made to differing circumstances.
Day 8 – Office Parties
Possibly the most loathsome thing about Christmas….is the office parties. God I hated them. Fortunately being a lazy student (in 2009), I don’t have to suffer “office parties”.
However it was not always like this. My first office party was one when I worked at Halfords as a spotty teen. It was at a hotel in the centre of Liverpool and basically involved getting fed, then very drunk, dancing like twat and ending up feeling £50 lighter.
It was fun. For an uninitiated youth.
The following years were similar fayre. Conveyor belted Christmas food, too much drink and failed attempts at trying to gain the affections of Cheryl Crotty.
There then followed several years of where I worked Christmas parties. By worked I mean I served at a bar where there were at least 5 Christmas parties a week. That was arduous. Watching drunken proffesionals embarrass themselves dancing and trying to gain the affections of Cheryl Crotty.
Without giving an indepth breakdown of Christmas parties of the past, I soon realised what a hellish thing the office Christmas party was. I would sooner share a bath with twelve randy tramps than go to another office Christmas party.
Office Christmas parties are big money. Sure they’re good for schmoozing and even better if you’re trying to gain the affections of Cheryl Crotty. But when you get under the bonnet all they are are a handy little money spinner for local hotels and function suites.
Remember the mass served often cold flacid Christmas dinner? The god awful cheapo crackers? The urgent need to try and get yourself sat next to someone who isn’t going to talk shop all night or make you wish you’d sat at the other end of the table where they’re always having more fun? Recall the dreadful looped Christmas muzak as Jona Lewis sings about that fucking cavalry again?
Don’t forget the awfulness of having to socialise with a group of people you pray you never see ever again when you finally leave your place of employment. Nor the frightful bollocks you have to put up with when the new starter or office junior tries to cop off with you because Cheryl Crotty has told them to fuck off.
Then the horror of having to find a cab…in the dark…and realising you’ve drunk far too much….
Why do people bother?