Christmas Party

Bom..bom.....bom..bom.....bom..bom. My heart beats loudly in my head, each beat highlighting the precarious condition I’ve found myself in. One careful owner no more, but that's not true. I’ve been here too many times to count. What has John of yesterday done to fuck John of today.

The fear is hitting me. Fragmented memories are flooding in, it's a tsunami of dogshit behaviour. I’m on the metaphorical beach, the waves are 5 metres high and I’m wearing kids inflatable Mickey Mouse armbands, there is no outrunning this, my body will never be found.

It's an unholy trifecta of fireable offences, in isolation, each are carrying enough force to terminate a mediocre, unpromising career. In this “son, the father and holy ghost” formation, this is a city sized bilical power ranger robot, prepared to bury me in the rubble. I turn on my side, it does nothing to alleviate the pain. I’m greeted with the image of a semi digested dinner from 12 hours previously, and an uneaten sausage supper of unknown origin. The smells do not deserve literary exposition or further commentary.

A memory medley of greatest hits is hitting me now: a romantic encounter, a chivalrous battle, a hilarious and appropriate joke. Maybe I was a social prince last night.

The lens of my memories is smeared thickly with vaseline. I can just about make out the various shapes: empty pint glasses, rotund co-workers, various exposed flesh depending on age and/or personality. The audio is heavily distorted but the sentiment is coming through loud and clear. They are not happy, but who with? It could not be moi?

Work Christmas parties are entrapment. Free drink in a social setting and if you step out of line, you get the full extent of HR law. Christmas parties are still work but you don’t get paid to be there. Can’t claim over-time for it, I tried. I bet they have the disciplinary paperwork drawn up weeks before the party even happens. Corporate fucking ghouls.

My manager has grabbed my arm forcefully. Noone has handled me in this way since I was a child and it's not endearing to me and it's endangering to him. I attempt a masterful judo choke hold. I remember the extent of my training: I once thought about learning Judo. The muscles of my legs engage and brace for an explosion of activity. After years of a sedentary lifestyle, alcohol abuse and a poor diet, my muscle mass is in the 5th percentile, giving me a “fitness age” of 78.

My explosion of power manifests as a malfunctioning Christmas cracker. I fall onto my own empty pint glasses, my arms scrambling for parchment. Actually this christmas cracker has exploded with terrible force and no one can use their hands to count to ten anymore. The only item dangling and within reach is the Head of HR’s scarf. Within half a second, all loose clothing within reach was surveyed, and her fashion was deemed acceptable. I initiate an accidental, horizontal, I can only guess, ceremonial hanging. The noose is a beautiful silk piece, vibrant and stylish, providing a beautiful mix of colour and comfort. It may not have been designed for this task but it is valiantly and violently being implicated in capital murder. “I suspect John, in the Ballroom, with the Scarf”. Correct, you win nothing.

Her surprising execution comes as a shock to all in attendance, including myself. Her death is not swift nor is it a predetermined conclusion. As they say, it's not about who dies at the end, it's about the executions you make along the way.

There is no dignity for the executioner nor the condemned. We are in a beautifully tragic dance. The process has begun and must reach its conclusion, which will echo through time, space, careers, written warnings and justified dismissals. We are cosmic artefacts now, moving outside of time, we do not start and we do not end. We cannot be explained nor can we be controlled. The ballroom pivots to a weird angle and moves in a blur. My senses dull as the world fades to black.

My heel hurts. I discover I’m being dragged like a dead body. One shoe and sock are missing. I wish I was with them now instead of here. I seem to be outside. The night air is cold and fresh. I inflate my lungs generously. I attempt to struggle but it's like my body is a long bus and I’m sitting in the back row, I have no access to the controls, I’m just along for the ride.

The concrete continues to grate my left foot. Tonight, I am indeed Achilles. This 4-star, reasonably priced convention centre with spa, located conveniently off the motorway, is my Troy. Does my legend end tonight? NO, IT DOES NOT. I struggle again, a wiggle, a shimmy. I am now a classically trained dancer warming up. The crowd has gathered for this unscheduled performance.The show is about to start. I’m on my feet, lopsided. I pirouette to my left, leaving my aggressors for dead, I accelerate into a ten metre dash and immediately get hit by a car. Instant pain, fade to black for a second time.

In the darkness, machines beep all around. The electronic orchestra plays just for me. Only artistry, no practical implications or uses. It hurts to open my eyes. I see my two bare feet. My last shoe and sock are gone onto better things. Don’t judge a man until you walk a mile in his shoes. My shoes are out there somewhere for the taking. You should go find them. Put them on and have a good ol’ walk around, ya bastards. How about you try to live as a middle aged, caucasian male from a middle class background. Try it sometime.

I return to the present, still in my bed at home, Tracey Emin’s at this point. I flip the paradigm and switch my world view from horizontal to vertical in my bed crime scene, as in, I sit up. The world spins for 30 seconds but slowly begins to lose momentum. I knew it wouldn’t be able to keep up that pace. As the G-forces subside, I deem my astronaut training a failure but that won’t stop my missions critical activities. I head for the stairs. The first step is one small step for me, one giant fall down the stairs, also for me. I go head over sockless heels initially before I inject some control into the descent. Now I am pounding each step with my ass, like a cartoon character. The stairs are softening my meat with mechanical force. By the time my carcass reaches the bottom, this offal has been tenderised and is ready to be cooked and dumped. Not fit for  consumption by man or beast. I dust myself off and give myself the once over. I think of the eternal peace once this is over.

I begin my expedition to the kitchen. Fuck you Tom Crean. Suck my balls Shackleton. The walls are moving in and out like the house is taking a breath. I didn’t see the diaphragm listed when I bought off the plans. I pray the house doesn’t object to my presence and evacuate this cavity. I imagine myself ending up the consistency of a billionaire in a submarine, being ejected through the letterbox with the severity of a fireman’s hose. This expedition has turned into an exhibition on the folly of man.

I take in the kitchen, this is my lab, the experiment of the day is a succulent breakfast. I have supplies of carbohydrate, proteins, fats, animal products of unknown breed and consistency.

I catch a glimpse of my dusty work ID hanging in the hall. When did I last use it? I wasn’t in the office yesterday or the day before. The commute to work feels like a pilgrimage from a decade ago, the treasures long spent. Why can’t I think straight? My mind is so foggy. Memories are in the mist out of view. I know they are out there, they are whispering and echoing to me in the hollowness of my mind.

I remember my job. A nothing job. A bullshit job. Acronyms and abstractions everywhere. What did I do? What did they do? I was never sure. Every meeting had the goal of not coming out of it with more work. Every week was a means to an end. Every month was a pay cheque closer to retirement or more likely death. Retirement for our generation was a bait and switch. It was a nice idea but working people were never meant to live this long. The financial framework was never designed or updated to support old, relatively healthy people. When it was updated, they removed the predictability and created a downwards only trajectory for our pensions. Work all your life and still be at the mercy of the “free” market.

The sweet mercy of dying at my desk in my bedroom/office. Displaying exceptional business impact until the end when my heart just gives out. And only ∞ days till retirement. Or maybe a tragic keyboard explosion/incident. Up to zero person(s) die of keyboard related incidents each year.

Was I a net positive for the world? Was my company a net positive? After the Taliban regime in Afghanistan issued a ban on opium production in April 2022, can we call the Taliban a net positive now? Le’ts remove the nuisance of nuance and just assign everyone a value between zero and one. Seems to be working great in China.

I remember an awkward meeting at work. It’s coming back to me. I kicked over a plant on the way out, it fell over and broke a window in reception. Why was I so angry? It feels like I was fired. If I was fired, then why was I at the christmas party? The faces of my coworkers are coming into focus and none of them look familiar. The distortion on the audio is clearing, “Who is he?”, “I thought you knew him!”, “What is his problem?!”. None of the faces are familiar. I was fired 3 years ago.