Thursday, December 30, 2010

Rubbery with Violence

"Fuck your Honda Civic, I've a horse outside", bawled Govstooge in a perfect Mid-West accent at the office Christmas party Karaoke. There was no backing track. I didn't need it - after seven pints I could make my own kind of music. I also belted out "People are strange" by the Doors at an earlier point in the night - the joke was lost on the motley crew of oddballs, none of whom dared approach the mike.

There was a disco also. Jesus Christ, the sight of middle-aged civil servants bopping away to Katy Perry is a sad one indeed. Nosher, the fat EO, sated from his repast (which included mopping up the remnants of his neighbours' dishes) wobbled over to the bar which I was valiantly propping up during a slow set to find a dance partner. His hand extended towards mine. Eugh. People have camera phones. The moment could be recorded for posterity, posted up on the Departmental Intranet for people to chuckle at when bored. "No thanks, Nosher", I said firmly. "Ah, come on, it's that song by Elton Jim!", he protested. I rounded on him. "Look Nosher, the last man I danced with lost his left bollock due to an ill-timed move on my part." Nosher thought for a second, - possibly contemplating the armour of his pendulous abdomen viz-a-viz his testicles regardless of any crap dancing on my part - and turned away sadly.

I've nothing against fat blokes, I've even gone out with one, it's just that it was a Friday night, and Nosher was wearing the same shirt that night that he had been wearing since Monday, and I could still see remains of strawberry jam from Tuesday morning's scone on it.

All in all, it was a memorable night, not least with the snow gently falling around us as we went from place to place, and not a drop of vomit in sight!

Christmas chez Govstooge was a different matter. Following a hearty dinner, Brussels sprouts included, there was a pitched battle between Govstooge père and Govstooge mère over which DVD boxset to watch. Would it be Only Fools and Horses Complete Box Set (Govstooge père, from Govstooge) or A Night with Daniel O'Donnell, a gift from Govstooge frère to Govstooge mère. Govstooge women being made of stern stuff, Daniel O'Donnell won the toss and it was imperative that I leave the house immediately before my slightly deaf mum got her hands on the volume control button, but not before shooting evil glances at my brother.

Kilshite main street was deserted, and white. Even the dogshit was white. Not a sound other than the gurgling of the river under the bridge. Placid, until a boy racer tore up the street, "Fuck your Honda Civic..." blaring from his windows.

Ironic. He was driving one, the dimwit.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Where everybody knows your name... almost

I’m not going to write about the Budget 2011 and its raping of my already gang-raped pay cheque. I have more pressing things on my mind right now.

It’s that time of year again, the annual office Christmas “do”. As I’m in a whole new Department, I’m filled with trepidation at the thought of what kind of festivities my new colleagues indulge in.
I’ve already established a list of people beside whom it is safe to sit at the dinner. Basically, it’s anyone who is not:

- The Trappist EO. I am a convivial sort, and sitting next to a silent colleague would be awkward, but he is the best of the lot of them, if I want him to make noise I could stick him with my fork.

- The Bionic Woman. The colleague who has so much cosmetic dentistry and Botox and IUD devices inside her that she is surrounded by a strange magnetic field, has paper clips stuck to her back and can change ringtones on people’s phones merely by coughing.

- Morticia. Just...go away. I don’t care about the turkey and ham you ate at a table a Bishop sat at once.

- Nosher, the corpulent EO. I can see him now. “Govstooge, look at the lovely outfit Mary is wearing!” I look. “Oh yeah, nice top,” I agree. I look back at my plate. WHERE HAVE MY FUCKING CHIPS GONE?!!!? Nosher is grinning and rubbing his ample belly.

- My arch-nemesis. Yes, I have one. Even here. Nothing’s ever happened between us. It’s a hatred akin to that of Maggie Simpson and Gerald, the monobrowed baby who seem to simply glare at each other, just as this colleague does to me. (And I reciprocate, because underneath all this erudition and consummate professionalism, I am profoundly childish.)

That leaves me with: The HEO, his boss, their boss and some other uber senior manager.

Does that mean I’ll be kissing serious arse at the table?

The pub, karaoke and other crap will be another matter entirely. It’ll probably involve dancing.

I hate dancing.