So last night was my work Christmas party. Well, one of them. There are four this year. Starving children and all that, and we still spend copious amounts of money on getting fat, and buying shit presents. (Well, others do... I just get fat and try to avoid buying any presents at all). I work for a large law firm in the City, in their business services division. Basically, that means I have a well-paying but totally shit job on the bottom-rung of the hierarchy. Even our offices could not be any lower as we're in the basement. Seriously... The basement. No light permeates these depths, which is why I must fry my skin with unnecessary sunbed "treatments". Well, there's that, and that it's so hard to compete in London's gay scene with so many bronzed Brazilians working it.

Anyhow, the Christmas party. I can barely tolerate my job for the regulated 37.5 hours per week, so I shudder at the thought of forced socialising. Why do I attend? It's a free meal, I guess, and I have to make some effort to charm them and be sociable or they might see through the endless days of "busy work" and sack my poor-performing ass. So my first thought on arriving at random City event venue, is that the fake snow (soap bubbles) is a nice touch. But the "white Christmas" theme gets me thinking. Maybe I should have brought some ____ to wire my way through the inane chatter. Hang on, I think, didn't I leave that dreg bag in my backpack... I rummage through it while waiting for the coat check (trying to be discreet, where is that gum) before remembering where I left it... At home. At this point, I break into a brow sweat, and realise I have to be sociable without any chemical assistance. Being gay and in London, this is very hard for me.

I grab a glass of sparkling white wine, dry retch on tasting it, but too lazy to dump it, and then find a corner of the room where I can text my friends. I text one friend, and convey my ____ desperation, but he doesn't reply. The bastard. Still refusing to chat with anyone, I pretend to become distracted by the ball juggler who is the evening's entertainment. (Seriously. The Firm bills £1 billion each year, and they give us a ball juggler.) His skill is impressive, but I can't help but be distracted by a thousand other thoughts like, how did he learn / is this a gift he was born with / could I learn it / is anyone watching me watching him / does anyone know how much I don't want to be here / would anyone notice if I, say, punched the juggler?

Just when the evening couldn't pick up any more, I discover that our table seating is pre-allocated. The good news is that this means that I don't have to sit next to the nerds in my team. The bad news is that I have to sit next to strange/unknown nerds from other teams. So I take my seat, and proceed to comfort eat through the boring conversations about work, practically snorting every dish placed in front of me, including a heart-stopping cheesecake dessert that, while delicious, will haunt me when I next attempt to strip off my shirt at a club. Around the time the chocolates were served (I had 3) I managed to find myself seated next to my drunk team manager, who babbled on about the last time he went to a club, on VJ day I think. The DJ started, predictably with "Pump Up The Jam", but we had to wait until the Rolling Stones started up with "Satisfaction" before anyone had the guts (read: sufficiently pissed) to start dancing. Funniest. Sight. Ever.

A random office worker joined the team manager and I, and I leaped on the opportunity to excuse myself to use the toilet, which was truthfully an excuse. I needed to get away, and the toilet seemed like a nice quiet place to text more friends for help. They didn't reply... Again... So I forced some urine out and prepared to leave, when I overheard whispering from a toilet cubicle. Either there was sex or drugs going on in there, probably the latter, but either way I was on the wrong side of the chipboard wall. The bastards. I realised it was time to leave.