Blsz Prk!

As the city fills each autumn with former students embarking on various grad schemes, seasonal progression gradually brings one particularly significant event to rear its ugly head: The Office Christmas Party. Too much has been written on the inherent clichés and catastrophes, but not being one to heed these warnings, nor shy of a thing to say for myself, I shall wade in with my version of my event.

My firm had black-tie dinner and dancing at Kensington Roof Gardens booked for mid-December and I was terribly excited. Colleagues laughed at me tracking down a real bow-tie for the event, finally graduating from the old strap-on that had served me well through college, and assumed I was taking ages getting ready on the day itself when I was late into the office that morning, even despite my valid reason of a delayed Victoria Line service. In fact, that was the largest hassle: having to work a full day beforehand. The coaches were due to collect us from the offices in St James’s at five, but when was a reasonable time to sneak off to the gents and get changed, or should I just have thrown caution to the wind and stripped down while performing a quick-change behind the dividers?

We all arrived at the event in our constituent pieces and what follows should serve as a cautionary tale to anyone unable to withstand the charms of an unlimited free bar. Ninety per cent of Britain’s televised output is currently telling us to stop binge-drinking and emergency services the land over plea with young professionals to exercise caution at their office shindig in the run up to Christmas. I myself had been determined to avoid the pitfalls. “I must behave myself,” I had repeatedly told my colleagues, aware the letting-one’s-hair-down that had gone on in my college days might raise more than a few eyebrows.

“No, get wasted,” had replied the majority of partners at the firm. Indeed there had been encouragement from all fronts that I would impress if I achieved a party animal reputation.

I remember the welcome drinks. I remember resolving only to have two glasses of champagne before the sit-down dinner, and then having three. I remember the sit-down dinner, and despite the banning of spouses and significant others, still not knowing the people I was sitting with because, as a linguist, I had been assigned seating among characters from our European offices. I remember thinking that I would finish this one glass of wine and then I would know I had had one glass of wine and then I would know whether to tackle another and that way I would pace myself well and remain charming throughout the evening. But I also remember the staff being so attentive that the glass was refilled within minutes of my every sip, swallow and gulp, until it seemed as if I were racing them to finally empty the glass before it got topped up again, just so I could be sure that I had had one glass. By the time chocolate constructions were wilting in our plates by way of dessert, I was finally confronted with the accusatory void of my wine glass’s empty status. In my mind, I had finally quaffed my first glass. In reality, more than a bottle and a half must have been poured in there over the course of the meal.

We moved through to another room for speeches while the room was relaid. I remember some clapping and hope that I am not blocking out any heckling on my part. I later asked a colleague where she had been for the speeches, only for her to respond that I had been standing next to her the entire time.

Therefore, at this point, things were taking a turn for the blurriest. Next, there was dancing, and I remember being so amused by two very proper partners shaking their junk, lumps and humps all over the dancefloor, that I may have joined in with disproportionate enthusiasm, occasionally remembering the free bar and heading up for another whisky and coke, and then spilling that while trying to dance with it.

In my recollections, there is no music, just faces bobbing around in contorted joy. At one point we may even have formed a circle but I’ve no idea why. I have an image of me talking with the IT staff and telling them I don’t do anything all day other than email my friends and did they read my emails and were they funny and what happens if I write a swear-word.

Witnesses have testified that I was “very funny”, which is no help at all in working out what I actually did or said; one EA admitted to taking drinks off me for my own safety which I of course thanked her for, and a fellow associate recalls leaving in a taxi and seeing me staggering along in the street with the support of a wall.

My lack of restraint was jeopardising my first job, and now it was to prove equally hazardous to my personal safety. During my college days, realising that bacchanalian overindulgence was best remedied with a hasty retreat home, a party, club or festivity could be snuck out of easily, and tiny Oxford town strolled across in a matter of minutes to the sanctity of mattress and duvet. More often than not, it was a simple case of crossing a quad to evade self-embarrassment and seek recovery. But once in London, these instincts persist, despite the unsuitability. As the party wound down, I decided it best to get myself home. Kensington to Belsize Park after midnight? Alone? No problem.

On the street outside I found a bus stop and a bus. I recall getting on and luxuriating over tapping my Oyster. I had no idea where the bus was going but at least I was on my way. After several stops I hopped off and I was no closer. Next, I staggered along the edge of the street, a thumb held out and waiting for a life. I think a minicab came along and off we set. Waves of nausea began to set in before I’d even left the postal district but, thinking myself a genius, I wound down the window, turned my head and vomited out of the window. Only it turned out I hadn’t been very successful and had mostly covered the inside of the window and a lot of the door in hot drunk sick. The driver was irate and, in a thick African accent, started lamenting the state of his car. “Don’t worry; it’s fine,” I remember saying by way of reassurance.

He throws me out after pulling over and I dash off chuckling while he whips out tiny pocket tissues to mop up my mess. The thumb is back out and I’m soon in a new cab. “Belsize Park,” I slur, only without any vowels, and off we set. We’re soon there and the driver quotes me thirty pounds, while asking if I’m sure I’m ok. “I need a receipt,” I say, still frugal enough in my debauchery to know I can claim back expenses if I have documentation. I fetch money from the cashpoint opposite my flat while the driver handwrites my receipt.

“That’s only a tenner,” he says when I return. Right, sorry, I go and fetch some more. “That’s another tenner,” he points out, “I need one more still.” Back I go, somehow successful for a third time even with drunken finger mashing on the number pad. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” he asks as we separate.

“I’m fiiiine.”

I gain entry to my building without hitch, but the front door to the flat proves a more skilled opponent, possibly because I am shoving the wrong key in the wrong lock. Whisky-strength sees me snap the key apart and whisky-brain damage has my mind tell my hand that I can still push the key through somehow. I end up gauging open my thumb on the shard of Chubb still protruding from the keyhole. With chance of rescue fading fast, I begin to hammer on the door. In the darkness, a flatmate’s dismayed expression appears. I tumble onto him in a hug and tell him I love him. He points me towards my room and goes back to sleep.

The next morning there is a knock at my door: the same flatmate, “Rob, it’s 8.30.” I need to be at work in half an hour. I remain inert among the pillows for the rest of the morning, listening to my mobile vibrating and failing to address it. There is blood everywhere from my thumb. Around twelve I surface, sip some water and then am violently sick. For the rest of the afternoon, I wretch and wretch and wretch if I go anywhere near the slightest consumable. I don’t even phone work. A colleague is worried I’m dead and has asked the whole office if they’ve seen me, helpfully alerting all to my truancy. I struggle and struggle and am filled with remorse. I am sick so much that in the end I just sit on the toilet and lean over the bath. This is where my flatmates find me after their days at work. They also bring worse news: today is Friday and it is our flatwarming party. I have invited all and sundry to make a mess of the place, but the last thing I want to do is entertain, drink or move too far from a suitable receptacle.

I survive the party sipping on cola while my friends deride my terrible form. I dread work on Monday and face repeated humiliation for the state I was in and my no-show the next day. I hear how I missed being taken to exclusive members’ clubs, how one partner kicked a tray of drinks out of someone’s hand while demonstrating how high she could get her leg and how two associates danced for hours in a bar where there was no music.

But what is the benefit of just another drunken story of stupidity and sick? For one thing, my odyssey home is another example of ridiculous episodes in my life and therefore belongs among my other tales. It’s not my intention or responsibility to deter others from binge-drinking to oblivion once in a while – people can do what they want. But it is here to remind me that I am a small clueless fish in a great big pond, that I am very lucky not to have encountered more serious mischief on my struggle home and that only idiots fail to withstand the dangers of the office party.