WORK CHRISTMAS PARTY ’07 – THE USUAL SUSPECTS
This year’s venue was the freshly refurbished and recently renamed “Monsoons” on Mitchell Street, Darwin. I’ve only ever known this place as Rorkes Drift – it was a pommy pub named after the famous battle where a couple of hundred determined British soldiers stonewalled their small fort and held off a couple of thousand committed Zulu warriors. I always found this an odd, though appealing name for a pub in Darwin. I suspect they stumbled upon the name because there was always a force at least three deep, holding one back from the bar, and it was often a battle to get to the toilet. I was never a huge fan – I’m a little more mature now and have outgrown the thrill of playing elbow-tittie in over-crowded bars – I now prefer a little more space when I socialise.
So it was with some trepidation that I entered Monsoons – we were early, just after 5pm. Since we’d walked from the Vic Hotel, and had already worked up a considerable sweat, I declined the offer of the free Santa hat. I was tempted by the antlers but they looked a bit feeble this year – many had spines folded down through poor packaging. I might suggest to the Chinese Antler workshop overseer, that perhaps next year, he keep a closer eye on the packaging technique of some of his two-dollar a day packing staff. To be completely honest, they hardly resemble antlers at all anyway, I’m not quite sure what beast they based their template upon, but it sure as hell wasn’t a reindeer. I fancy I may head south during the deer-hunting season and shoot me a big, majestic twelve point stag and show up next year with a genuine antler rack fixed to my skull – now that’d turn some heads, though ceiling fans could be a problem.
We secured a table and sat around on stools – the Fantales and Redskins were a nice touch. Though I’m surprised in this day and age, that Redskins haven’t gone the same way as those old lolly cigarettes, known in my childhood, as Fags. Apparently the do-gooders of this world found something wrong with encouraging young children to smoke an imitation tobacco product named after a derogatory term for homosexuals?
We had a few “free beers” – the ticket for the party cost $25, but that included 5 free drinks. This meant of course, that after you’d finished your five free drinks, you had to pay for them. Then the drinks cost you five bucks each!?
I took a wander and was most impressed with the new layout of the pub – it was quite spacious and well designed.
So we were sitting round making small talk and generally taking the mickey out of each other as more people began to file in. As is often the case, I discovered that my prized seat was in fact obstructing a main thoroughfare to the bar and eventually, under protest, I had to surrender my post. I decided to mingle and headed toward the rear, with this in mind.
I was chatting to a few of the guys, as we hovered on the edge of the dance floor, which by now had music going and was showing video clips on several large screens. There were a couple of songs by some mob called the Basement Jaxx, there was the career defining classic by the bloke that only ever had one song, that went “Boom, boom, boom, come back to my room” and there was the Sneaky Sound System, which projected a dark skinned, afro haired woman complaining that she’d seen a UFO but nobody believed her. And quite frankly, I don’t believe her either.
Then they got on a run of what sounded like the same song, but had different, though very similar video clips. The cameraman for all these videos obviously spent considerable time on his back – because all the angles were straight up the rear end of beautiful women, in skimpy dresses, bikinis or hot-pants. First was the one with the marching band, then there came the one where the bikini girls play volley ball. Next was the aerobics, tiny leotard one and finally, there was one I’d not seen before – where a bunch of generously endowed but scantily clad stunners were using pneumatic power tools – mostly jack-hammers and various other thumping, digging tools. Though I hated the song, I did consider for a while, arranging to have my driveway excavated – mind you it’s in fine repair, but some of those ladies…….woof!
I was gonna suggest to the DJ that he just be done with it – get rid of this and just whack on a fully blown porno. The sleazy acid-jazz soundtrack could be no worse than the thumping rubbish he was playing at the time!
So with a fresh new five dollar drink in my hand, I recommenced the age-old traditions of the staff Christmas party, world wide.
I introduced myself and made jokes with the guys who I work with every day of the year, who sit fifteen feet away and yet I never speak to, accept at Christmas parties and the like. Good fellas, one and all – can’t wait to see them next year!
Looking around the room, there were your usual suspects. The older bloke, who looks and sounds like he started at the early-opener and hasn’t stopped drinking all day. He tends to use you as a hitching post and secures his balance with an unsteady, one handed grip on your shoulder, which invariably leaves him too close for comfort within your personal space. He is very enthusiastic and animated about something – you just can’t quite work out what? It’s like you walked in halfway through the conversation.
There’s the little blonde-haired, blue-eyed cutie, flitting round in a tiny red satin slip, with white faux-fur rimming the top and bottom. She’s glassy eyed and oh-so friendly and leaves many unsuspecting men fondly staring after her with a lecherous leer, as she lightly bounces away through the crowd.
There was the cute little shy girl from another section who was bubbly and sweet, just like the vodka and raspberry she was drinking. She’d convinced her partner to tag along and he was doing a grand job of pretending he actually wanted to be there. Handshakes, smiles and jokes all round and I really admired the bloke – he’s so obviously in love with the girl. A room full of drunks that he doesn’t know and yet he showed great spirit and enthusiasm in his greetings, simply to make his lady happy. A good man indeed.
I noted a few of the brass milling about the bar – and just like those pommy brothers from several years ago, these blokes were a bit too sexy for their hats! Perhaps they perceive it as not becoming their station, to be caught in public sporting unflattering head-ware? I’m not sure because a few seemed to actually have a hat in their possession – either the hand or the pocket. Maybe they thought this an appropriate opportunity to obtain a free hat for the kids – for they’ve been known to be quite frugal, these management types.
At some stage, the social club organisers mounted the stage and announced that there were prizes to be had. Earlier in the night, after I’d finished my five free drinks, the friendly barman tried to keep my spent ticket – I said ‘No thankyou friend, that there is my raffle ticket. I’ll be needing that a bit later’
So when they announced the lucky door prize was about to be drawn – half the punters had already tossed their tickets and were becoming agitated. Luckily, the clever social club staff had records on hand regarding who owned which ticket. There were two prizes drawn, I was seven off the first and nineteen off the second. Bitch!
The DJ started playing music again (albeit tracks that no one had ever heard before) and the lights went back down. Here, I feel the need to declare a long held belief of mine (which I just made up!). A good party takes three things – a good crowd, grog and thirdly, and possibly most importantly, good music!
Now on personal observation, I reckon the average age of party-goers in Monsoons that night would be around 37years. So, while I too am flattered,
I’m really not sure what made the pea-brained DJ think everyone was Eighteen! The weekend teenyboppers may think he’s cool and hip playing this stuff that was released in the past fortnight – but there were none present in the house. The only time I saw the crowd stir, was when he gave The Proclaimers a spin, with 500 Miles! He needs to learn how to cater to the crowd. Enough said on idiots.
The lights going down, in no way signalled the end of the Social Club giveaway bonanza for the night! They were distributing hats and beach balls and thongs etc. They began just lobbing them into the crowd, so random attendees could feel lucky by catching a prize. One of the girls-of-officialdom, however, had an arm like Brett Lee returning a cricket ball sizzler from deep third-man. She shot out missiles like Saddam and his scuds – they travelled far and fast but had zero degree of accuracy. Beware the unattentive punter – for several were accosted by flying merchandise, from they knew not where.
It was quite the spectacle. At one stage a baseball type cap hissed out my direction and the big fella in front of me, who’d been calling for it, missed the catch. Luckily, my panther-like reflexes allowed me to snap it out of the air with a flashing left handed swipe!
I put my new hat on, for I had no antlers to hinder me, and I felt pretty smug.
The hat was a khaki number with a Boag’s insignia stuck on the front.
A few drinks later and I looked around and the place was fairly full – I’m not sure about the 430 they expected, but I reckoned it’d be about 350.
I heard a “How are you?” and turned round to see an ex-girlfriend, who I’d managed to avoid for the past 18 months, emerging from the throng! Things had not ended particularly well – in fact, I’m not sure they really ended at all. I walked out of her place late one night and never spoke to her again. Yes, I know – that’s very brave.
I gave her a kiss and muttered something in my astonishment and she said she’d see me later and held on to my hand just a little too long and dragged her hand down my fingers as she left. I shook my head and finished my drink.
Shortly thereafter, I headed to the Gents. I did my business and while I washed my hands, and before I made use of the new turbo-blast hand dryers, checked my look in the mirror. I realised that my newly acquired hat looked more like a North Korean army cap, than a swish and trendy baseball cap.
So I took the thing off my head and ruffled my hair to disperse myself of the hat-head syndrome. I then folded the cap and put it in the back pocket of my jeans – a-la Springsteen on the album cover of Born In The USA! I was wearing jeans, boots and a black tee-shirt and I felt immediately very cool and confident in the knowledge that I now looked just like Bruce. Well – just like Bruce would look today – if he was 10 years younger and 45 kilos heavier, lacked the famous Boss charisma, walked with a cumbersome gait and spoke with a distinctly Australian accent!
So I strutted back out among the crowd and chatted to a few more semi-familiar faces and had a few more drinks. The music wasn’t really improving and it was approaching open slather time, where the public would stream in and pack the joint with untouchable young chippies and self obsessed young bucks (though still without proper antlers!). I turned back to the bar but it was packed and my free-drink ticket was still valid at Steve’s Bar back home – then I spied an empty cab waiting just down the road.
I declared it a night and on the whole, a good night it was.
So this time, rather than bitch about the music and such, perhaps I should join the social club committee and contribute to the cause?
Look out next Christmas for MC ‘Stag-Master Steve’ manning the DJ’s box, with a full set of antlers and howling along to Springsteen’s ‘Glory Days’!!!!!
“………..they’ll pass you by, glory days. In the wink of a young girl’s eye, glory days………..!!!!!”