Thirty Thousand Streets

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Christmas Do

Last night was the Christmas do for the group which I've been freelancing for within M&C Saatchi on and off since Easter, and considerately, they invited me along. "Eyechild, you shall go to the ball!".

Normally, Christmas bashes are endurance rituals on the scale of the Ironman. Protracted meals and dodgy discos where consuming as much alcohol as possible is necessary to counterract the mind numbing conversation, the obvious tensions simmering beneath the surface, and the glaringly obvious fact that you'd rather be off somewhere with your real mates, or even just watching TV of the order of say, Trinny and Susanna (oh alright, maybe not). At the last place I worked, where you had to part the cobwebs to even see your neighbour and the smell of 'Advertising Old Fart' was cloying; there were times mid way through the evening where I wasn't sure whether I hadn't consumed a poisened breadstick, died and gone to hell, or at least purgatory.

Has to be said, these are a nice bunch though. A lot of young people up for fun, and some 'nice gyal', so some fun was guaranteed.

The evening began in the Waterfront on Formosa Street, Maida Vale or 'Little Venice' as some refer to it; which is also the residency of an ex girlfriend (Maida Vale, not the pub) Despite walking round the block and taking my time getting there I still managed to be the first person there.. And look like a proper herbert.

From there it was onto a barge which went up river to Camden and back. There was a buffet, a free bar, crackers, and people dancing. People were singing badly - to the tune of "We Are Sailing".

"We are retail, super retail, no-one likes us, we don't care"

Seriously, you had to be there. There was also a slighly awkward "Dance Off", where if this was Breakdance the movie, Shabba Doo would be headspinning in middle in a Kangol hat and lime green baggy pants. As it was, it consisted of slighly stilted dance moves performed by people who were not yet kaned enough to not care if they looked like pricks or not.

From there, the hardcore progressed to a pub in Soho – Digress I believe, where I have vague recollections of attempting to breakdance and making eyes at the account executive I really like (she's dreeaamy yo).

Woke up today, and my brain felt like it had been dropped at the end of a corridor full of angry bees. I had some toast spread with vegemite, and as the butter I stole from the fridge was all cold and hard, I popped it in the microwave to warm it up, forgetting it was Lurpak and hence had a reflective wrapper. It lit up like a christmas tree and started smoking, making ominous crackling sounds. I manged to wrestle it out on time, but I think on balance if I was masquerading as a DC Supervillain, I couldn't legitimately claim to be 'Brainiac' after that one.

My bedroom also smelt of pets, but I've lit an incense stick so everything's copasetic yo.

Anyway. Went for a mooch round Dulwich, and ate a stir fry. I might go and see my mate Dunc in a minute.

God I'm bored. With no work at the minute, I'm trying to use the time to do my own stuff, but it does feel a little like I'm rattling round in my flat, whilst everbody else is in festive wind down mode at work around me. No fair. I'm not sure whether to take it as an opportunity to piss off up north for an extended hiatus, or go and stay in a barn in Wales with my mum and dad (no really). In the first case I'll be sleeping on couches and going to the pub lots, and in the second I'll be in a barn in Wales with my mum and dad.

Decisions.. *sigh*


Zeno Cosini said...

I bet Pa Eyechild is slaughtering a fatted calf and smoking a brace of partridge over a heap of smouldering hickory faggots in anticipation of your return EVEN NOW.

The Eyechild said...

Tell me about it dude. Guy's like some mystical medieaval spirit o' plenty. Last time I checked he had 13 (count 'em!) species of bird nesting in his beard, and a self refilling flagon of mead to boot.