Five Ways to get Through Your Office Christmas Party

Please don't let this be you

So I’ve done a Christmas post already. I know. Just like the shops, I’m setting out my Christmas stall early and having old ladies walk past me muttering about Christmas being too early this year. What I haven’t mentioned is that the last Christmas post has a sister. This one. We’re a double feature. A conjoined twin. A tandem bike. A Twix.

Anyway, this part of the Christmas double feature concerns your impending work Office Christmas Party. I’m not going to mine this year. Prior engagement, you see. But I fear for those of you who have to endure, so I’ve dug out my Five Christmas Party Rules, in the words of Kylie and Jason, especially for you. Read them, memorise them, and for Gawd’s sake put them into action.

1. Beware of the free bar.

This is a poison chalice of the highest order.

I once saw my old company handyman passed out drunk on a couch in the reception area. As the night went on, people essentially vandalised the poor guy. By the time he came round he had a cock drawn on his cheek leading to his mouth, his shirt was off and he was sporting marker pen boobs. In addition, someone had managed to pull a silver sequined G-string over his trousers. Photos were, of course, taken.

Keep that picture in your mind as you consider your response to “Flaming Sambucas all round, anyone?!!!”

2. Do not get stuck next to management in the seating arrangements

Sometimes this is hard. My managing director for six years running would make sure that in the table layout my name tag was next to his. One year I snuck in and swapped it, but he insisted it was swapped back. He was a perv, though and maybe not all bosses are like that.

Perv or no, and assuming you have a choice, there is one good reason you should avoid them; they are not your friends. No amount of alcohol is enough to switch off the power balance switch that exists between the two of you. Don’t delude yourself it’s even worth trying. Also, they only want to talk about work. And you want to be over with your mates talking utter crap (and working out what to do to the passed-out janny this year), don't you?


3. Do not go onto a club afterwards.

Given that most Christmas parties start at lunchtime, you really need to be home and out of harm’s way by late evening. Anything more is guaranteed messiness. And even if you are not the one being messy, then you will witness sights you cannot erase from your brain.

Worst of all will be being forced to dance with middle aged guys with Santa ties on, who haven’t been near any club recently that doesn’t have the word “golf “in front of it.


4.Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, cop off with anyone you work with.

I cannot stress this enough.

Other than the obvious “don’t-get-your-meat-where-you-get-your-bread” reason, there are three particular extra reasons.

Firstly, EVERYONE will know about it instantly. I was once called over by a work mate to witness a happening of this sort through the board room window. Before table-top coitus was even interuptusused, the whole company knew.

To be honest the couple were bloody lucky that drink perhaps makes things a little quicker, shall we say, as one of the cameramen I worked with was running to get the camera from upstairs. Lucky for them, he was too late to catch the exclusive. Also this was before YouTube, so big luck all round, there. The woman’s husband however, did find out...... and so the luck endeth.

Secondly, even if the affection was genuine at the time, you’ve got at least a week of no-work between the "happening" and going back to work guaranteeing extreme awkwardness that first day back. And you can bet the whole work is beaking-in to watch that situation go down.

Thirdly, you don’t want to ruin your Christmas with horrid flashbacks and ruminations of whether you should hand in your notice along with the drunken janitor.


5. The Special Fifth Survival Rule

Of course, you could just not go to the party, making all of the above redundant, but this requires extreme cunning. You need to be organised for this rule to stick. Think on, and have an excuse ready in September. Oops, too late. Maybe next year.

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The Original Tiff

I've discovered a lovely writing site called Your Messages. The blog owners give you the first line and you have to respond with an ending making the final piece 300 words or 30 words exactly. It only runs til the end of November and I wish I'd found it 20 days ago. Anyway, I thought I'd post today's Misssy effort here, because you might enjoy it. The given first line is in bold.

“ Leeches were once a favoured species. They sang; their bodies were encased in mother of pearl shells. The first leech to taste blood said it was all a terrible mistake.” she said.

“Are you saying that to make me feel better? Because it doesn’t.” he said, back turned in anger.

“No, I’m just saying it to remind you that we’re not the only ones. We’re just the ones that seem to get remembered.”

“Yeah, TELL me about it. It’s all people ever talk about.”

“You must admit, it was kinda worth it, wasn’t it?” she said, as she tickled the back of his neck, teasingly.

“Worth it! Worth it?! Only you could say such a thing,” he said as he shrugged her hand away.

“OK, stay in the huff about it, it was only a lousy garden. If you stopped sulking, maybe we could get on with finding another one. But no, with you it’s got to drag on for days, hasn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

“I will not shut up. All I did is what any woman would do. All I did is what you would have done eventually. Once you’d got over yourself and your appendage.” she said, pointing at his crotch.

“Don’t you dare point at that! You’ll be lucky if you ever see it again after what you did!” he shouted. “Anyway, you’re one to talk, that serpent is a pretty telling metaphor, lady! How do you explain that one, eh?”

“Oh give it a rest. So, what’s this place called anyway? Adam.... I think we’re lost,” she sighed looking around at the barren land around them.

“No we’re not. We’re not lost”

“Let’s ask someone…”

“No, we ARE NOT LOST!” he fumed as he walked on ahead, his fig leaf blowing in the harsh wind.

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A Jason Orange in my Stocking

Bassey:

Not invited back this year after she cheated at Cranium

Another year, another barrage of frickin’ Christmas fantasy punting commercials. This year we’ve got the Markies models having a lovely Christmas with the boys of Take That in a inconceivably large chocolate box home covered in mythical snow.

All your clichés are there:

> Lingerie
> Harmony
> Fun
> Goodwill
> Jolly japes and
> Nobody having to sleep on a camp bed with a jagged spoke piercing their side through the canvas.

This is about as far removed from actual Christmas as you can conceivably get, yet it is the Christmas we strive for. Admittedly maybe without the members of Take That. The presence of Gary Barlow would just make me uneasy.

It’s just another example of the Christmas Lie.

The ad is missing so many things that make a UK Christmas what it really is. Here’s a list I made, but feel free to add your own.

1. Elderly people who hate every aspect of everything that’s about to happen in the festive 24 period. Except the Christmas Eastenders edition which must be watched in silence whilst devouring a full size packet of Rennies and a box of Orange Matchmakers.

2. Uncles who drink everything in sight, including emptying out the innards of chocolate liqueurs, discarding the choco carcasses for the dog to hoover up and are then found slumped in the garden looking like Jack Nicolson in the final scene of The Shining, after they’ve been noticed as missing after three hours.

3. A big ol’ family argument, based on nothing really, but fuelled by stress, booze and Trivial Pursuit.

4. At least one person who you haven’t seen since Christmas day last year. Possibly a widowed friend of your parents who keeps on remarking how nice everything is, even in the midst of a kitchen meltdown after your Dad has realised he didn’t switch on the oven three hours ago, as instructed.

5. Drunk Uncle dressing up as Santa and traumatising the kids.

6. Someone with the Norovirus stomach bug.

7. A war between those who want crappy Chrissy telly on versus those who want party games.

8. Someone giving the dog a whiskey.

9. A snoring Dad or Grandad who has crashed and burned by 5pm and into whose open mouth the kids will try and pitch rolled up Quality Street papers from a distance for points.

10. Great Grandad waking up in the middle of the night, forgetting where he was and being caught just about to have a wee in the airing cupboard.

So what else is missing?

(The ad is here if you need to see it again. Vomit bag not supplied. The Misssives takes no responsibility for any urges to firebomb Marks and Spencers after viewing.)

Cock of the North

I met Meeester when I was twenty-three. That’s young I suppose, although for me, it felt like I’d waited ages to go out with someone who didn’t turn out to be a complete arse. I won’t go into who each of the aforementioned arses are; some are worthy of a blog post of their own, some have been the subject of a complete blog post of their own, and others I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of having the steam off a complete blog post.

I don’t know how many women Meeester could write blog posts about, but I suspect it is many. About five years ago we holidayed in Scotland, which is something we don’t normally do, as it rains a lot and we already know the quirks of the locals and do not find them as cute as the quirks of foreigners. And the food is generally garbage and I could make that myself at home.

It was the summer of the birth of my daughter, the baby who was to become Junior Misssy, destroyer of freshly completed decor and devourer of expensive lipsticks. The babe in question, my son Indy, Meeester and I started our journey towards Mull, home of the prototype for the Highland midge, the beast that has seen more foreigners off our premises than the Picts. This was a wholesome family holiday if ever there was one. I'm not ashamed to say we were towing a caravan. One husband, two kids and a caravan- it's like I had read a manual on how to be average.

It is a long way from Aberdeen to Mull; 154 miles to be exact. Then, if you factor in that we left Mull after three days because we couldn’t leave the caravan after 5.30pm for fear of being eaten alive, and went to Crieff, where the midge does not roam. That’s another 141 miles. Then, if you add the distance from Crieff to St Andrews, where the midge is seen off by the cold North Sea blast and posh ladies in tartan skirts with tearooms to run, and where we went to meet up with my sister and her family, that’s another 41 miles on top of that.

That’s a lot of miles, a lot of Scotland, and a lot of Scottish towns and villages for Meeester to make this comment as we went through them:

“I once saw a lassie from here.”

Aberfeldy: “I once saw a lassie from here...”

Auchtermuchty: “I once saw a lassie from here....”

Oban: “I once saw a lassie from here.....”

Glenrothes: “I once saw a lassie from here.....”

Perth: "I once saw a lassie from here...."

I'm sure we even did a detour north to Braemar just so that Meeester could say: “I once saw a lassie from here.”

The journey's becoming like a Scottish A to Z of Meeester's conquests. I’m seven years and two babies into my marriage at this point and town by town the “lassies” that have been before me are stacking up. I feel like I should have one of those clicker machines, but that Lynx deodorant advert won't be out for another three years, so I don't think of that. I keep count by carving binary numbers into my thigh with a Swiss Army knife.

On meeting up with my sister and her husband in St Andrews I tell them that we have been on a world tour of the hometowns of lassies that my husband, the newly crowned “Cock of the North” has “seen”, "gone out with" or "known". All three in a Biblical sense, I'm certain.

I feel slightly like Warren Beatty’s wife.

Poor cow. At least I don't have Madonna in that number.

Or DO I?? Meeester....!!!!?

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Old Boy

"I'm 86, you know!"

My sixteen and a half year old cat Harley-Boy and I have been together longer than me and Meeester. I love that wee black and white guy, but lately he has been letting us know that he’s not got long left.

Here’s how:

1. By pissing in an open suitcase under our bed this morning like a small racehorse despite many good years of fertilising the neighbours' gardens with the bounty of his bladder and bowels.

2.By smelling of Death.

3. By wanting to be on us all the time which is unpleasant to anyone with a fully functioning sense of smell.

4. By being really bloody annoying so that when he finally goes we’ll say phrases like “It’s a blessing” or “Thank God for a merciful release”. All old people do this, they become intolerable to be around, so that it’s easier for you to say goodbye.

5.By being constantly hungry because the receptor that tells his brain his tummy is full has short circuited. Like Henry the Eighth, Mr Creosote and George IV, he’s going to eat himself to death.

6. By refusing to spend any of his pension on new clothes because there’s no point, he’ll be dead soon. Hang on, I’m maybe confusing him with my late Gran.

7. By having short bursts of frantic activity like a kitten just to fox us and give us false hope. One minute you’re lamenting how slow and lame he’s become, the next you’re watching him sprint the length of the house to the sound of a tin being opened like a stinky Jesse Owens.

8. By shouting at us all the time. He’s not quite clenching his fist in a defiant gesture, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw him doing it. He’s that angry.

9.By dribbling on everything like a furry John Merrick.

10. By shouting out everyone else's answers during Trivial Pursuit. Sorry, no. That was my Granda.

11. By constantly laying down the law to his younger feline friends. I swear I heard him miaow something along the lines of“ In my day it was all tins. Sachets? Sachets??We didn’t even KNOW what a sachet was! A sachet was something you did along a windowsill!”

12. By being blind but noticing every move you make, specially with those magical tin opening opposable thumbs and index fingers. It's like Grandmothers who claim to be deaf but can clearly hear you badmouth them behind their backs.

Harley-Boy, the cat of the Flying Martinis, is knock knock knocking on heaven’s door but I’m concerned, do they have a cat flap?

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Cry Baby

Like many of you who stayed up til stupid o’clock watching percentages and maps with blue and red on them turn either blue or red, I am tired and emotional today.

I could only make it to 4am, when Mr O had 210 electoral college votes. He'd just bagged Ohio and Florida looked like it was going to turn blue after going a bit purple mauve for a second or two.

“Enough”, I thought, “He’s going to be fine. I don’t need to be up gnashing my teeth and wringing my hands and refreshing online maps every two seconds to cosmically move things along. No one will mind if I go to bed.”

When I got up three and a half hours later, it was all OK until I watched his speech and I was in floods of tears like a big Jessie.

I mentioned this fact on an online social network medium for idiots and got a response from my sister, “Is it the same as the time you cried when Will Young won Pop Idol?”

Ha ha... I need to choose my crying episodes more carefully.

I do cry. I cry often and copiously. This time I think it was legit- this is huge, and he is wonderful and we're all relieved democracy isn’t still broken.

However, often the crying is random and silly. I cry at the look a dog in the street gives me, I cry at the lyrics of “Wichita Lineman” by Glen Campbell everytime I hear it, I cry at the mere memory of Nate’s death in the Tv show "Six Feet Under" even though he’s not a real person and the show ended nearly three years ago, the shirt over shirt scene in Brokeback Mountain makes my nose sting even just typing it out .

So, to the confessional box with you- last time you cried, OR song that makes you cry OR most ridiculous thing you cried at.

Or, if you're too macho for all that, a comment telling me to pull myself together will suffice.

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Judy Garland Would Have Wept

I am a major Halloween fanatic. Frankly, I don’t know why people bang on about Halloween being part of the Americanisation of our society. From where I’m standing Halloween has always been a big deal in Scotland- the only difference is that these days you can easily fashion lanterns out of pumpkins instead of having to start carving out a neep sometime in late summer to have a chance of having it done by the 31^st of October (that’s a turnip or swede, non Scottish folk).

Although the smell of candle-wax on burning neep will ever be a trigger for happy childhood memories, I’m now loving the smell of burnt pumpkin even more, coupled with the fact that my fingers don’t have to be worn down to stumps in order to make a hole big enough for a candle to go inside. However, I’m still not convinced that pumpkin is any better an ingredient for a pie than turnip. Pumpkin pie is veg with sugar on, no matter which way you look at it.

Yet, for all the hoo-haa about Halloween, I think it has deteriorated since the seventies and eighties. In fact, I’d go as far to say that if you want to know what is wrong with the youth-of-today then you need look no further than Halloween for evidence. And my beef gains gravy here; in the shape of the Halloween Turn.

Scene 1: Friday 31^st October 2008. There is a knock on door of the House of the Flying Martinis

Misssy: Hello! A happy Halloween!

Three lads dressed as skeletons (chorus): Hmmmmnnn....weeenn.

Misssy: Well, what have you got for me, then?

Three lads dressed as skeletons (chorus): Hmmmmnnn...?

Misssy: Song? Joke? One act play? Anything for your Halloween treat?

Skeleton One: Haven’t really got anything...

Misssy: Well you better think of something or else you’ll not do too well out there. Am I the first house you’ve been to?

Three lads dressed as skeletons (chorus):No, we’ve been out for an hour (open bags to reveal booty acquired by merely turning up in shitty supermarket costumes and grunting)

Misssy (simultaneously tightening her grip on her sweet bowl and fundamental argument): I’ll take a joke, if that’s on offer...

The three lads dressed as skeletons look at one another.

Skeleton Two: I’ve got one, but it’s rubbish.

Misssy: I’ll be the judge of that, young fella me lad (I am turning into a retired army colonel before their very eyes, but I’m keeping on going, despite the fact that the phrases “National Service”, “Corporal punishment” and “Never did me any harm” are uncontrollably popping into my head.)

Skeleton Two: Why did the skeleton feel lonely?

Misssy: Ho! Ho! I don’t know, you young scamp, why did the skeleton feel lonely?

Skeleton Two: Because he had no body.

Misssy: Hahahahahaha! Hahahahahaha! Hahahaha! That’s the ticket, you bunch of rascals! No body! Hahahahahaha! Bloody marvellous! Help yourselves, lads!

Sweets delivered, the kids leave.

* * *

Scene 2: Flashback to 31^st October 1979.

There is a knock on the door of Mr and Mrs Generic-McNeighbour, Some where in Scotland.

Gladys Generic McNeighbour: Oh hello Misssy and assorted chums! In you come! In you come! Why have you for us this year?

Misssy: Well this year ,Mrs Generic-McNeighbour, we’re performing a medley of the show tunes from Vincente Minelli’s "Meet Me in St Louis". Mr McNeighbour, if you wouldn’t mind clearing us a large space in the living room, then we’ll begin. Everybody, first positions, please! (Claps hands sharply)

Seven kids dressed as Smurfs, JR Ewing, Metal Mickey and various Star Wars characters scurry into position.

Eric Generic-McNeighbour (rubbing hands excitedly) : Excellent, we haven’t stopped talking about your "42^nd Street" since last Halloween, have we, Gladys? Will you require us to move the sofa this year, or will the coffee table be enough....?

* * *

And that’s what I’m talking about.

Kids of today...pfff, why was the skeleton lonely...... What a load of amateurish crap.....

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