Whilst parts of this year's office party shall forever remain a mystery to me, there are 3 things I am certainly in a position to confirm from last week's event. Firstly, that everyone from the receptionist to C.O.O. had an excellent evening for which I will lap up the praise. Secondly, that the £100 of D&D restaurant vouchers we'll have issued for the £1000s spent on the event, will go nowhere other than my wallet. And thirdly, that I even surprised myself with the degree to which I got bollocksed this year.
That final point was in some part owing to my attendance of the afternoon's The Magic FM lunch and party which kicked off my day in exactly the manner I had anticipated. Kensington Roof Gardens, Ad Sales losers, Media Buyer tossers and invitees in pretty dresses that don't normally go to Kensington Roof Gardens. Having been subjected to an infuriating morning, but viewing the day as very much a half day, I laid straight into the champagne reception with Bjorn, now under the moniker of Gay_Goose: my unlikely and unwanted wing man. The necessary pleasantries were exchanged with our hosts and in 2 flutes time we were seated for lunch.
No cash had been exchanged between the organiser and myself so I was overjoyed to find myself on the opposite side of the table to Gay_Goose. Then came lunch's saviour: a grumpily demeanered, slightly overweight chap I'd been seated with that came armed with an arsenal of snidey dry wit. I knew that Charlie_Fucker and I were going to hit it off from the moment he belatedly took his seat beside me at dinner. Unashamedly divorced, middle class and middle-aged, Charlie had attended for precisely the same reasons as myself - for the free bar, and to get out of his office to enjoy an afternoon's free bar. We chatted about rugby, hunting, the state of air stewardesses today and worked our way through enough red for him to promise me lunches at all forthcoming Harlequins games.
So far, so good. All that was left was a quick trip back to the office to reply to a few emails and get changed for our own office event via a quick G&T (to maintain momentum) in the pub. Such was my festive merriment I even bought my secret santa gift recipient a nice scarf as opposed to the planned dick in a box.
I arranged a quick champagne reception at the office to the sound of Christmas with the Ratpack - fuck, that album's the best £6.99 of company money I've spent in a while. Then it was on to dinner. Having arranged the seating plan there was one key guest I ensured was on my table: Fairy_Godmother. Our slightly eccentric, single, early 50s, Creative Director didn't fail to deliver and at dinner decided to take me on in some sort of belated "God son" role, as well as drunkenly trying to pair me off with her junior designer. Mission has firmly been accomplished on the Fairy_Godmother front as she's a) the only one with the nouce to tell me I'm "too good to be a PR" and b) the only one with some decent influence in appropriate vocationary circles to do me some favours come the New Year. Which is why she's agreed to let me take her out for lunch soon to let her plot my PR escape route.
Sadly we plotted this escape plan over Fairy_Godmother's choice of port and brandy washed down with Sambuca shots whilst propping up the bar; it signalled the beginning of my sobriety demise. With the restaurant tab already nicely racked up, I was ready to head for home in an effort to salvage some kind of non-wasted reputation. But no. They insisted on moving to the Met Bar and God, do I hate that place. Yet as the organiser and only member of the party with a membership, to the Met Bar I went. To party like it was 1996 :-/
Memories are patchy from there on in. All I know is that I danced with the C.O.O. for the second time in 12 months (no, no, no), shed a tear about Cleopatra leaving the company and fell out of a cab at home to discover I had discarded my flat keys.
Friday morning gave rise to hangover of monumental scale. Not quite sure how I failed to anticipate that one having commenced the booze at 1pm and having then moved through the full spectrum of beer, wine, fortified wine and spirits in no particular order. Going to the office was frankly untenable and as such I hatched a (still) drunken plan feigning having booked the day off. Unless Trophy_Wife covers my arse on this one it'll all come out in the wash.
Yet whilst I'm sure Bjorn will attempt to drag me over the disciplinary coals for the incident, what's also sure is that it will be my own nonchalance and his lack of balls that carry me through. Or perhaps some kind of post-Christmas showdown will go off in his office. The anticipation is already killing me...
