It’s four weeks to Christmas. Twenty three and a half days from now it will all be over for another year. I say 23 and a half because it’s all over by tea-time really, isn’t it? By then you are slumped in front of the TV jacked up on mince pies and Baileys watching the Vicar of Dibley wondering if it would be bad manners to go and check your email. (It is by the way.) That is of course if you were involved in the whole racket in the first place. Some people opt out of the Christmas thingy, conscientious objectors, if you will, of the Yuletide season. And I have no problem with them. The thing about Christmas is that you cant sit on the fence, you have to go for it at 1000mph with golden balls and twinkling lights or get the fuck out of the manger all together. There’s no in between. But what cant be avoided is the Office’s Christmas night out. That’s were I come in.

Whilst it maybe 23 days to Christmas it’s now officially Christmas party season, can you feel it people can ya, can ya, eh eh? There is nothing better than having to go out on an all day bender with people you would normally cross the road to get away from. People you cant fucking stand because they are dull or they smell or because they grind on your tits for most of the year. Then you are expected to eat turkey and cranberry sauce with them. Not a fucking chance matey. Oh I see you, with your fake smiles, and air kissing, and the “oh you look fabulous” crap but moments later it’s back to your clique and it’s all whispering and dirty looks. You stink up my restaurant with your hypocrisy and cheap perfume/cologne.

Worse than the back biting and hate filled smiles are the sycophants and brown nosers. Manuel sees you too. They sit near the boss, normally facing them. They don’t start eating until the boss starts eating. They order water if the boss orders water. They are non-committal on whether they are enjoying their meal until the boss says whether they are enjoying their sprout and chestnut risotto (which little man arse kisser ordered too despite originally ordering the turkey but switched because the boss was having the risotto.) If the boss ain’t happy the suck-up goes into over drive, shouting and ranting and blaming the waiter. They demand everything be done to correct the problem, normally completely unreasonable demands like have the chef come down and kiss the bosses ring by way of an apology. Meanwhile whilst little man arse kisser is waiting to see the restaurant manager I am usually getting the problem sorted out and putting an end to the drama. These people are real ball busters.

And then there is the Secret Santa carry on. Tony from HR buys you a cats calendar and you got Sheila from Marketing a novelty mug which reads, “I’m a bitch.” She laughs, you mean it. Oh the fucking horror of it all. Every year we end up with bags of unwanted “novelty” presents. Miniature tool kits, key rings, Bart Simpson socks, desk top skittles, Looney Tunes ties, miniature gum ball machines the list is as endless as it is painful. And they all get abandoned, either through drunken misadventure or because the recipient is offended with their Secret Santa tat. Saying that some people cling to their present like it was given to them by one of the 3 Wise men. There they are at closing time nursing their office golf set like it was their first born child despite being so drunk they don’t even know their own name. Sad beyond words.

Then there is the Christmas crier. Awh bless them. Before the Yule Log and coffee is served there will be somebody crying their eyes out. There is one in every office at every party on every shift. They get dragged to the toilets by their co-workers, who later on will say they knew it was going to happen. There they are the four of them in one cubicle in the toilets all crying together because Tony/Jane in Sales hasn’t noticed them or made a cruel joke. The first Christmas Crier last year was clocked within two hours of Christmas Service starting. I’m running a book this year, the first Christmas Crier, how many Christmas Criers, and the ratio of male to female Christmas Criers. I love the Christmas Crier, they make me feel like a normal well balanced individual by comparison. But they aren’t the worst offenders. The Christmas Crier is the close relative of the Christmas Mentalist.

I absolutely love the Christmas Mentalist, as long as there are a number of doormen between me and the crazy bastard that is. The Christmas Mentalist, as the name suggests, loses the plot in the worst way. It’s a combination of too much drink, which they cant handle, and a whole years resentment and hate bubbling under their Three Piece Suit. What makes the Christmas Mentalist such a fun character is that it’s always the last person anyone in the office would suspect to be a grade A basket case. But we can spot them. They have a blank stare, and wear two watches and have manic hair. Their co-workers don’t see the signs because they haven’t seen him all year despite being in the same office. And that’s normally the problem. We had one guy go absolutely stark raving bonkers a year or two ago. Tables and chairs were sent across the bar, followed by glasses, bottles, and the guy that brings the office mail. Oh yes he went daft. He was “escorted” out by three doormen who he decided to take on as well. He regretted that. He did it the year before at another restaurant. Crikey he must have a few issues.

Ah I love the mentalist, especially when they set the Christmas Crier off who then sets of little man arse kisser. Office Christmas Parties are the best. They are a real leveler. The supposedly more professional the group the more they ridiculous they act. For example I had a table of school teachers last year that I had to tell off for throwing wet napkins at each other and shouting at the top of their voices. And then there was the table of lawyers that drank so much alcohol that one of the group actually shit themselves. They threatened to sue us for chucking them out, a suit that never arrived I should add. How do these people face each other again back at work? Married people trying it on with the office junior, the boss in tears, the mentalist, the super drunk, how?

So if it’s 23 days to christmas then it’s 23 days for my lovely little restaurant getting bastardised by filthy office parties. Oh the horror, oh the humanity, if it wasn’t the most lucrative four weeks of the year I’d go out on the sick until it was over. So who are you, the mentalist, the crier, the lover, or the brown noser?

(Next week: how to survive your office Christmas party) First posted on WDF 2 years ago but fuck it, I’m tired and xmas parties are always the same…ta ta