Friday, December 21, 2001

Please, please remind me never EVER to book a shared mini-bus back from my work xmas 'do ever again. The whole night was rubbish - ancient shareholders putting in an appearance, both at the event and on various female legs, dry turkey dinner, lack of white wine... Put it this way - you know you're in for a bad evening when the waiters were the DJ's. Two lads, 20 going on 50 - and they'd all but bought the Kev's Mobile Disco Van. Their techniques included the famous "turn the sound down at the bit in the chorus so people can shout out the line" and mixing Spiller into Modjo into Murder On the Dance Floor, but speeding it up so Sophie sounded like a rhombus-shaped chipmunk. Their record collection consisted of a few copies of "Now That's what I Call Music" and they had created their own special dance routines, which they performed for us behind the Decks of Cheese.

Our IT man dropped his trousers during a Pogues song, someone puked in the mini bus on the way home and my boss was so plastered that he doesn't remember allowing my sometimes annoying co-worker, whom I've mentioned in a previous post, to drunkenly smooch all over him in the backseat while he sang his own rude version of "It's Raining Men".

I've got the bf's to get through on Saturday, but at least there will be karaoke and it's near our house.

Now I am very tired and grumpy and there's nowhere decent to get a latte. Bah.

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