There once was a Christmas bash....

I've not blogged for a while. I'm not sure anyone reads it really, but I've been a little short of inspiration. Hard hours working and the typical Winter cold has rendered me very dull.

A few things have popped into my mind to share today though.

1) Christmas Parties

Our work Christmas party was more eventful than it should have been. A Leicester Square club was the venue, not the sort of place I'd ever normally go, but it was... interesting. A client had described it earlier that day as a "cattle market"....Certainly an experience. Upon arrival at 8ish, it was already rammed full of packed office-party revellers. At this point we were all pretty sober and gazed bemusedly at the cliche we had suddenly found ourselves in.

It's one of those bars where there's no space really for actual sitting and talking, and our table wasn't ready so we loitered round the bar. I swear that my first glass of wine was 50% in me, and 50% on my coat as I was constantly jostled by people squeezing by. There was what was clearly an office party in one area of the bar, who looked as though they probably started on the festive drinks around lunch time. You think cheesy office party. You think, man with tie round his head (why do men do that?) and girl whose dress has slipped a little further than is professional, (bra, indeed most of her boobs are hanging out.) Dancing provocatively to Britney Spears. Yep, we were living in the reality. We actually discussed how if we'd written this, it would be too obvious. Amusing for us, not for them when they wake up the next day, probably in bed together, and view the photographic evidence on Facebook.

I realised last night that I am indeed a music snob. I try and pretend I'm not. But last night there was no getting away from it. After a few wines, I don't mind some classic cheesy tunes to dance to. But I just can't hack SHIT music. Played just slightly too high, to prevent the clientele engaging in conversation and realising that there's a void where the personality should be in the person they're now finding strangely attractive after the seventh Smirnoff Ice. The music at this level ensures the only communication between people involves dubious bumping and grinding, groping and mimes about "fancy another drink?". I really enjoy having to yell my drink orders to belligerent bar staff over the Alexandra Burke tune that's on for the fourth time and is setting every fibre of my being on the precipice of physical pain.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough for me, I ate my Christmas dinner, engaged with some lovely people that I work with, drank a little more cheap wine, then called it a night and made my way home through the City to avoid the monstrous and inevitable post-office party hangover.

However, upon waking this morning and seeing 16 missed calls on my phone, I realised the evening had not panned out in quite the same way for No'rn Ir'on. I blurrily read a text from a colleague saying No'rn Ir'on had been robbed and they were at the hotel across the road. Filled with a sense of panic that she'd been hurt, I called my colleague to establish that her stuff had gone missing in the club, still utterly shit but she was fine. Just very pissed off.

She returned home late this morning after crashing with another colleague when I missed the doorbell ringing at 5am. In yesterday's make up, party dress, no coat, no bag, no keys. She was in good spiritis considering, and we caught up on the stories of the night before. Still in party dress, she heated some soup in the kitchen, just wanting to have an hour in her room away from the world before doing the hassly things you have to do when all your stuff goes missing. Going to put something back in the fridge, she somehow dislodged an open bottle of sparkling wine, which fell and practically exploded all over the kitchen. Her face fell into mock sobbing and wailing, as she looked down at her dripping party dress and surveyed the fizzing puddle on the floor.

"I smell like a whore!... And I am actually really crying a bit. It's been a rubbish 24 hours."

I tell her to go and chill in her room while I wipe up the wine. And make a brew.





2) Limericks

Office. Christmas. Secret Santa, right? No'rn Ir'on had been beyond excited about Christmas since about, oh, June, so she jumped on the organisation of the event. The spend limit was a fiver and you also had to write a limerick about the person you were buying for. As we doled out the gifts after work yesterday, I genuinely cried tears of laughter at how funny some of them were. I was inevitably embarrased by the fact that an incarnation of one of my many nicknames rhymes with "Spaz", thanks for that, dear colleague. Also the topical inclusion of my earlier mishap on the phone with a very valued client where I made what can only be described as a right tit of myself. Un-PC, offensive and including current affairs, brilliant.

As the team Skyped each other throughout the day, drafting limericks and editing each others' work, I realised I am quite good at limericks. Mainly obscene ones. I attribute this niche skill to a weird habit I have with a long-distance friend, CleverClogs, of chatting on instant messenger services and challenging each other to finishing each other's efforts. I often get random messages simply saying, "There was a young man who was bored..." You'd be surprised at how creative you can get with innuendo through the medium of limericks. Pretty much the geekiest form of flirting you can undertake, as well. I think I have mentioned before how cool I am?



3) Tube-dwelling rodents

As I made my way home last night, through the Christmas party revellers, I found myself close to the edge of the Tube platform at Holborn. I was as always lost in my extremely loud music, pretending I am in a film, when I noticed how many rats and mice were scurrying about across the tracks. I've honestly never noticed this before. The majority of the swarm had stumpy tails, presumably due to ill-judged track crossing in the pursuit of a morsel of food.

One brave animal, either a big-ish mouse, or a little rat, came across a chocolate wrapper that had blown through the tunnel. It attacked the plastic with gusto and actually got inside the wrapper. For some reason, seeing a rodent's bum sticking out of a wriggling sweet wrapper made me laugh. Out loud.

As the dusty, warm breeze started filtering through the tunnel, and the tracks began their low pre-train rumble, I was gripped with a horror that I was about to see a rodent obliterated by a few tons of metal, in a tragic comedy fashion. Thank goodness, this one had obviously learnt to scarper after losing most of its tail last time. I continued my journey with drunk people falling on me on the Central Line, smiling to myself about the comedy mouse.

Perhaps I was drunker than I thought I was.

"Yeah, I quite like James Blunt"

I feel compelled to write about something very close to my heart. I just read an article by David Mitchell in which he confesses to buying his second album ever. SECOND. EVER. This got me thinking, especially since I am currently listening to the delightful Simon Pegg do a guest slot on BBC 6 Music where he plays music he loves. And it's wonderful. Right now he's playing an old Elbow track and it makes me happy.

I don't understand people who aren't passionate about music. I am passionate about a lot of things, and I of course understand that the things that excite us are totally subjective - believe me, I've tried engaging people who couldn't give a shit about horses on the subject of preferred stirrup length, and it's clearly a waste of time. My other passions include photography, art and language, and I can understand that sloppy grammar just doesn't inspire the same rage in others that it does in me. I appreciate difference and I appreciate other people who just really love something and want to talk to me about it.

But how can you not be passionate about music? I can't get through the day without my iPod. Despite the fact that I have a definite idea of my own taste, and a real dislike of certain musicians and styles (yes James Blunt, I mean you. And Bass Hunter, Katie Melua, Celine Dion, oh look I've got started and a bit irate now); I do respect anyone who has a taste. I might not agree that you need to attend every Leona Lewis concert but if you love her, then fair play to you.

What I don't get, is people who just don't care about music. Music is such an elemental, powerful thing. I hear tunes and they remind me of my past; evoking people, heartbreak, happiness, journeys, moments.... How can you not have a soundtrack to your life? A little bit of me dies inside when people respond to the question of "what music are you into?" with a shrug and a mumble of "dunno, all sorts....". People who switch the radio on and don't even register what's playing. I genuinely believe their quality of life is diminished with this lack of appreciation.

Ever since I've had my own money, I've spent the vast majority of it on music. I don't really know where this comes from since the only music I ever recall my parents playing was Elaine Page and Dire Straits. Music afficionados; my parents aren't. Nowadays one of my favourite times is the journey to work, especially when the weather is good and the light is beautiful. Weaving my way through London on the bus with something stirring accompanying me is filmic and rousing and gives me time to think.

I don't think I could ever be with anyone who didn't really care about music. I feel the same way about them as I feel about people who don't think Anchorman is one of the funniest films ever. I don't trust them.

Ok, I concede, it's Christmas

I'm not the most Christmassy person, I admit. Some friends are beyond excited from October onwards and cannot wait to crack out the mince pies and get 'Best Xmas Songs EVER Vol. 17' on loop. I on the other hand, resent having Christmas shoved down my throat as soon as August is over and I firmly believe that Christmas music in shops can legally be cited in court as provocation for GBH. Even murder, if it's Slade more than once in the space of fifteen minutes.

I realise the above makes me sound like Scrooge. Don't get me wrong. I love the idea of Christmas - indulgent and cosy, the time of twinkly decorations, golden and red and green, sumptuous food and endless drinks. I just don't like being sick of it by December. I also feel a sense of anxious stress every time I see the TV adverts showing the perfect Christmas; that the presents I give will be crap and I'm not spending enough money on decorations, and that we're not like the smiling families on tv.

However, now it's December, I am starting to feel a little Christmassy. Thinking about what to get my niece and nephews (ie something I can legitimately play with on Christmas day) and the rest of the family (steady on, I'm not organised enough to have actually bought presents already - I'm not Anthea Turner). Everyone at work is looking forward to the festive break and I actually can't wait to book my ticket to spend the week at home with the new dog, see my parents and hopefully getting drunk on too much wine with my sisters.

I just watched Nigella's Christmas on BBC2, in my toasty lounge, with the fairy lights switched on. I feel officially festive. Whilst debating her hotness with a male friend (we both concurred she totally is, it's a combination of being a great cook, loving her food, being a bit posh and all the cheeky innuendo) I suddenly found myself wanting mini mince pies and her festive tagine for lunch. With a Lychini. Charles Saatchi is a very lucky man. I think women like Nigella because she looks like a woman. A 1950s, hourglass, curvy woman. Anyway, her house is also delightfully festive with its chic ambience, and the set pieces with her glamorous friends tucking into mounds of food in a soft-focus frame just make you feel like it's ok to go and get merry at lunch next to a Christmas tree.

Since I'm suffering from a seasonal cold, I'll make do with a hot toddy and some toast in my dressing gown. Today is a lazy day. No'rn Ir'on just bravely left the flat to go and do some shopping on Oxford Street.

Me: "Are you sure? Do you NEED to go to Oxford St?"
NI: "I need to go to the Apple store."
Me: "Don't hurt anyone."
NI: ".....I cannot guarantee that. Byeeee."

I expect a call from the Met. Police in approximately three hours, asking me to come up and pick up the irate Belfast girl who told a small child to "fuck off" in the Disney Store while brandishing a giant handbag as weapon.