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I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else My Profile
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I went on a works night out last night. I love works nights out. They are an excuse for any rabble of people who have nothing in common but their place of work to get together, get wasted, reveal secrets and generally embarrass themselves to the point where they will never look you in the eye again. It’s great. I like observing other people on works nights out too. They are so easy to spot because no one looks like they fit in and aside from the flashing hats they wear, you’d never associate them as being together. There’s always some standard fixtures at the ‘office party’. For example, there’s always the geeky guy in a musical tie with charicature socks, a slut who is as appealing to the eye as sun dried jobbie, there’s the older woman who only gets [her chuff] out once a year and is drunk on sherry, there is the office junior who has to be smuggled into bars because she looks as young as Tiny Tears and there’s the young boys who all try and slip the office tart a digit as she dips a finger into her xmas pie. They never have anything to talk about that isn’t about work, about that time the boss suggestively brushed past them, and the time when they got their breaks cut short by 2 minutes and of course the time when a customer did not say ‘thanks’. The scandal you hear is astounding, really it is.
Having witnessed more than my fair share of works nights out from a distance over the past couple of weeks, I was naturally concerned that mine would follow this pattern, worrying that once the red t shirts were cast aside that the personalities would also be stripped bare and the silence would be ear splitting. I needn’t have worried. Even if I had been in he company of the most excruciatingly dull people in history (which I wasn’t), the amount of vodka I’d downed in shots prior to meeting would have ensured I would be the proverbial social butterfly, whether anyone liked it or not. Of course it turned out that my ‘just one drink to show face’ turned into a proper session (which saw me drink a further 4 drinks goddamn!) and the conversations were not as strained as a stubborn shit. Of course we got the customary moans about work out of the way where my drunkenness saw me reel off a tirade of abuse about anyone that wasn’t there but after that we found there was plenty to talk about, that our beautiful, xxxl uniform was not the only thing that we had in common. Some left, and the hardcore went to the shittest club in history. On route me and the accompanying Lil Red picked up a Gobby Bobby after buzzing her buzzer at some hideous hour of the morning. We expected to witness the Bobby in her pyjamas but when all three Bobbys (it was treble vision by that point) presented herself at the door, she was all ready for drinking. Impressive. This club, Oh Henrys, was a classic works night out place. You know because you are all so completely different you can’t agree on a place to frequent so you end up in a cheesey tune joint where the only other customers are the bar staff and the dodgy Aberdonian types who wink and smile at every passing bit of ass. Its horrendousness and its emptiness did not quash my desire to dance like an ass however and with delights such as Britney, Pink and Madonna it was all just too much. We slipped out undramatically as the numbers diminished and we’d done enough cavorting on the dancefloor as everyone missed all the beats and danced as though it was a wedding function or a mosh pit or brothel. It was a good night, different scenery and different people to torment with my shit jokes and exaggerated stories. And I’m pretty sure that there were no incidents that will cause me to be the figure of ridicule when I go to work tonight. No more than usual anyway and I didn’t sleaze onto anyone out of sheer desperation (cause I didn’t need to, ha!) and no one sleazed onto my girlfriend thinking I was invisible so yeah, all was well. Although I did try to recruit 2 into the homo crew (sadly the invitation was rejected) but I only talked about tits and shit for two thirds of the night. Well done Miss Fee! I can only guess at the content of the other third. And so I got to reflect on my unusually good behaviour and wonder how these dead legs are going to carry me to work in 40 minutes. Britney Wannabe 
12/17/2002 04:38:00 PM
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Adventures of Charmin |
