atching Industry the other evening, I found myself remembering office parties. You know, those things we won’t be going to this year, along with school carol services and the wunderkind who can play to concert standard, and “seasonal drinks” with the bloke who has had “a brilliant year” and wears red cords and a godawful supposedly hysterical jumper as if to prove it, “and how’s yours been?”
Just as the office bash for the boys and girls on the City TV drama was dreadful, I too have been to horrors. We all have. For me, there was the advertising agency bash where they covered the entire carpet right through the building in plastic sheets, so we were all slipping and sliding from all the spilt drinks. Even the stairs were shrouded so we had to cling on to the rails for dear life as torrents of lager and ad execs came tumbling down.
At least that was a party. I can also recall the City “do” where we stood around making polite chit-chat. The “crack” consisted of listening to the senior partners regaling us with how they would soon be flying off to their Caribbean villas or ski chalets. Lovely.
