Tis nearly Christmas- ho, fucking, ho. The town mall is already displaying Christmas decorations and snot-nosed kids can sit on Santa’s calloused knee. Houses are adorned with Christmas lights and signs on lawns exhort/exclaim: ‘Santa Please Stop Here’.
Rampant, blatant commercialism is mainly to blame. Companies are keen to capitalise on the ‘Christmas Spirit’ and entice mug punters into their stores in order to offload large amounts of cheap plastic crap. To extend the time available for fleecing the sheep is paramount to corporate thinking.
And don’t get me going on about Christmas parties. Every year our department organises a Yuletide get together. Tis the time of year when the restaurants/pubs and social arenas hike up their prices to cash in on the good times. This year the lab, as one said: “Bugger it. We are as mad as hell and won’t take it anymore”. Actually, I said, "ARSE", but I would say that, wouldn’t I? So, we have decided to move the festivities to someone’s humble abode. As I have a rather large, well-appointed house, it has become incumbent upon my radiant and well-favoured head to provide the venue. The party will operate on the ‘bring a plate principle’. This is an endearing Kiwi custom where everyone comes to the party with a plate of food. The usual party fair will arrive; salads; pastry dainties and such like. Of course, everyone will bring an inordinate amount of booze. I’ll also provide the punch. The revenue free ethanol, which is used in our legitimate laboratory business, will mysteriously materialise in a rather large glass bowl together with cranberry juice and assorted floaty bits. Don’t worry, I’ll keep Shagger in his cage so we won't end up with ‘ferret chunks’ adulterating the concoction. I’ll also make sure that I don’t pick up the methanol by mistake; can’t have a repeat of my birthday party where several of the staff ended up in the Emergency Department.
I’ve been asked about the Christmas decorations which will adorn the expansive ‘blue room’. Gasps of horror ensued when I pointed out that the party is on the 25th November, a full month before Christmas and consequently, there will be no festive festoons. Tis bad enough that the party has to occur in November due to various logistic vagaries.
I’m sure everyone will have a great time. Counter to what most folk think scientists are an absolute hoot when lubricated with sufficient alcohol. I’m sure we will play, ‘Find Flaxen’s Underpants’, again. Last time I stuck them to the ceiling. Actually, I didn’t have to actively attach the underpants. They seemed happy to stay stuck on the ceiling due to a mysterious adhesive force. Inevitably, later in the evening, I’ll end up pinching the arse of some young, nubile and attractive Research Assistant. Next day will be spent in the ‘dog box’ and I'll have to endure a lecture from the missus concerning appropriate behaviour and etiquette in these sort of circumstances. "Do you realise that the young lady in question is 7 years younger than your daughter"? I, of course, will adroitly counter, in mitigation: "I was, very, very, drunk".
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