please,” I replied, a little off-guard.
“Thanks.”
It was the last part of a three-part story tonight and
there’s no point watching the first two episodes unless you’re ready to commit
to all three. Stupid symbolic irony.
“Enjoy the party then and don’t get too drunk.”
“I won’t. What are you doing?”
“Oh nothing, just a bit of tidying and reading I suppose. I
might watch Big Brother later if
there’s nothing else on. Anyway, have fun. Bye love.”
“Yes, bye love. See you tomorrow.”
I listened until the line went dead then put the phone down
and turned it off for the night.
*
The party downstairs was already a
feeding frenzy of arms and elbows as five thousand years of civilisation was forgotten
in the face of a free bar. A couple of streaky barmen rushed backwards and
forwards under the taps as they tried to keep pace but the beast was loose
tonight and he was thirsty.
“Andrew, you
want one?” Tom called from the front of the melee.
“Bitter,” I replied fours times before he finally caught it.
A pint was passed back towards me but got lost in the crowd
so I had to call for another one to be dispatched. After another ten minutes
me, Tom and two pints of John Smiths finally met up and went in search of a
table somewhere quieter.
Most years, the Christmas party had been a sit down affair
but no one really felt like sitting down to a plate of turkey and sprouts in
paper hats in the middle of January, so a buffet had been laid on instead.
“You should try some of those chicken legs, they’re lovely.
I’ve had four already,” Tom told me.
“Well done,” I replied. I took a few sips from my pint and
looked around the hall. There was still an enormous knot of blokes fighting
over the free bar and the buffet was being continually raided by swooping
secretaries but most of the rest of the hall was empty.
Naturally there were a few party martyrs dotted about here
and there and some DJ off in the far corner playing with himself but the party
was still several hours of hard drinking away from anything approaching fun.
“Who are you looking for?” asked Tom, after he spotted me
scouring the darkness.
“No one.”
“Really? Well you look like a man who’s looking for
someone.”
That wasn’t good. I didn’t want to look like a man who was
looking for someone because people might start to notice and wonder who that
particular man was looking for. And why.
“Just seeing who’s in,” I thought to elaborate. Tom left it
at that.
“By crikey, this is going down well,” he gasped
dramatically, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and finishing his pint
at a canter. He stared at me for several seconds, as I took a gentle sip of my
half-full pint, before finding the need to shake his glass in my face.
“Come on, it’s your round,” he told me.
“It’s a free bar Tom,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but I went up and got the last one. Now it’s your
turn.”
“Get it yourself,” I told him, damned if I was going
anywhere near that scrum while I still had a drink.
Tom kicked the table and sighed, muttered and growled as I
nursed my pint for as long as I possibly could, but he was equally damned if he
was going up again and snapped at me to “fucking drink up” every time I tried
to engage him in conversation. When I finally drained the last few suds Tom
practically tipped me out of my seat and told me to get four pints and a couple
of shorts while I was up there.
“Give us a shout when you’re getting served and I’ll come up
and grab them off you.”
That didn’t look like any time soon as most of the rest of
the company had the same idea and were ordering as much as they could before
the bar started charging.
Off to one side, the wankers from Xtreme Kite Surfing Magazine had formed a chain and were attempting
to bury a table at the back of the hall in pints, pissing everyone else off
something rotten. They’d monopolised one of the barmen for more than
“Thanks.”
It was the last part of a three-part story tonight and
there’s no point watching the first two episodes unless you’re ready to commit
to all three. Stupid symbolic irony.
“Enjoy the party then and don’t get too drunk.”
“I won’t. What are you doing?”
“Oh nothing, just a bit of tidying and reading I suppose. I
might watch Big Brother later if
there’s nothing else on. Anyway, have fun. Bye love.”
“Yes, bye love. See you tomorrow.”
I listened until the line went dead then put the phone down
and turned it off for the night.
*
The party downstairs was already a
feeding frenzy of arms and elbows as five thousand years of civilisation was forgotten
in the face of a free bar. A couple of streaky barmen rushed backwards and
forwards under the taps as they tried to keep pace but the beast was loose
tonight and he was thirsty.
“Andrew, you
want one?” Tom called from the front of the melee.
“Bitter,” I replied fours times before he finally caught it.
A pint was passed back towards me but got lost in the crowd
so I had to call for another one to be dispatched. After another ten minutes
me, Tom and two pints of John Smiths finally met up and went in search of a
table somewhere quieter.
Most years, the Christmas party had been a sit down affair
but no one really felt like sitting down to a plate of turkey and sprouts in
paper hats in the middle of January, so a buffet had been laid on instead.
“You should try some of those chicken legs, they’re lovely.
I’ve had four already,” Tom told me.
“Well done,” I replied. I took a few sips from my pint and
looked around the hall. There was still an enormous knot of blokes fighting
over the free bar and the buffet was being continually raided by swooping
secretaries but most of the rest of the hall was empty.
Naturally there were a few party martyrs dotted about here
and there and some DJ off in the far corner playing with himself but the party
was still several hours of hard drinking away from anything approaching fun.
“Who are you looking for?” asked Tom, after he spotted me
scouring the darkness.
“No one.”
“Really? Well you look like a man who’s looking for
someone.”
That wasn’t good. I didn’t want to look like a man who was
looking for someone because people might start to notice and wonder who that
particular man was looking for. And why.
“Just seeing who’s in,” I thought to elaborate. Tom left it
at that.
“By crikey, this is going down well,” he gasped
dramatically, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and finishing his pint
at a canter. He stared at me for several seconds, as I took a gentle sip of my
half-full pint, before finding the need to shake his glass in my face.
“Come on, it’s your round,” he told me.
“It’s a free bar Tom,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but I went up and got the last one. Now it’s your
turn.”
“Get it yourself,” I told him, damned if I was going
anywhere near that scrum while I still had a drink.
Tom kicked the table and sighed, muttered and growled as I
nursed my pint for as long as I possibly could, but he was equally damned if he
was going up again and snapped at me to “fucking drink up” every time I tried
to engage him in conversation. When I finally drained the last few suds Tom
practically tipped me out of my seat and told me to get four pints and a couple
of shorts while I was up there.
“Give us a shout when you’re getting served and I’ll come up
and grab them off you.”
That didn’t look like any time soon as most of the rest of
the company had the same idea and were ordering as much as they could before
the bar started charging.
Off to one side, the wankers from Xtreme Kite Surfing Magazine had formed a chain and were attempting
to bury a table at the back of the hall in pints, pissing everyone else off
something rotten. They’d monopolised one of the barmen for more than
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