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.
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.
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2 comments:
maybe those in charge of organising the festivities will have voldemort as compere....
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.
You just know that Maggie and Gerald are made for each other. I'll let you draw your own conclusions from that....
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