Monday, December 13, 2004


Because I gotta.

I don’t know when it occurred to me to catalogue the events around my Corporate Christmas Party in (almost) real time, but I was prepared with pen and paper to keep me company on my long dark night of the soulless. Needless to say, I am alive and well and back in the comfort of Stately AKA Manor. But that is now. This is then. So without further whatever…

Saturday 4.25pm

And I’ve just found my hotel room. I used to think that hotel rooms were these amazing, anonymous, empty spaces where anything could happen. One night, it’s a hooker and her john. The next, a writer up against a deadline, hiding from external chatter and distraction, an endless supply of cigarettes and coffee at his disposal.

Well, tonight it’s me on a corporate Christmas party night. And all hotel rooms look the same. Power shower, pay-per-view, small kettle, trouser press, blah blah blah. Maybe a tiny bit of the mystique of hotel rooms stays with me…

I’ve got two single beds in here. I was hoping for 1 double so that I could stretch out later on. Oh well…

I’ve dumped my stuff. I’ve already had one beer on an empty stomach. Two drinks left me with barely any change from a £10 note. Time for me to rejoin the hoards of colleagues propping up the hotel bar.

I miss Mrs. AKA & Buttercup…

Saturday 5.45pm

Back in my room. I’m all done with schmoozing. I’ve had Beer Number 2, and I think it’s safe to say that I’m not enjoying myself.

Vice Versa is on TV. Maybe Judge Reinhold can save my sanity for the next couple of hours.

Due downstairs at 7.30pm.

I am STARVING. Tried to order some room service, but they don’t answer the goddamn phones!

The Company might think that they are treating the staff, but I see it as ripping me away from my life on MY time. I’m pissing away my weekend on the people I’m already shackled to from Monday to Friday.

I hate it here.

Saturday 5.58pm

The light in my hotel room makes everything look grey. Or yellow.

Fred Savage is starting to annoy me.

Saturday 6.18pm

Made myself a coffee. Ate some shortbread. (What is the point of shortbread? It’s gross.)

Saturday 7.27pm

Showered, suited and booted. Time to hit up the free bar.

Sunday 2.38am

What kind of compulsive writing dickhead stays up to chronicle this inconsequential bullshit? I think I’ve just answered my own question. With the better part of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s swirling around in my guts, plus half a bottle of cheap ass, 3-quid from-the- corner- shop Red Table Wine in the brew, I really, really should be going to bed. But I want to get this all down before I forget and its gets washed away by a night’s sleep.

So, drinks in the bar until 8.30ish. Small talk with nobodies for a couple of hours. (Writing right now is hard. Wonder if I’ll be able to read this tomorrow?)

Food was SHIT. The potatoes were wrinklier than my NUT SACK! Dry as fuck!

Speech from the Chairman. Then, oh my sweet lord, THEN, a gameshow-themed evening. FUCK!

Then Bad, Bad Christmas music. Slade and shit. At one point, the sparkling diamond in the rough of Run DMC’s Christmas in Hollis kicked in and I was blissfully happy for a couple of minutes before the All Shit, All The Time playlist came back with Wham!’s Last Christmas.

After that, there was a casino set up. Oh yeah! I was kicking some serious Blackjack (and winning too!) for an hour, before sitting out the rest of the night in the hotel bar.

And now, I’m toasted. Can’t write no more. Time for bed. Good night. Later.

Sunday 10.16am

Awake. Had breakfast. Need shower. No more words from me. Too tired. Home soon.

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