Why, oh WHY must all workplaces host the same dull affair? Honestly, there's no need for Christmas party planners anymore. Here's the formula: rent a local RSA hall or the meeting rooms of a bowling club. Supply cheap bubbles and smoked salmon of questionable freshness. Hire a cover band and teach them some supposedly 'hip' carols; Mariah Carey knockoff singer optional. For bonus points, charge attendees for their meal and ask them to invite spouses and friends so that as many people as possible are subjected to the madness. Oh, then add one sleazy boss. Job done.
Your boss at 7pm
Your boss at midnight.
But never fear, I have a plan. Ever seen "Ocean's 11"? OK, well it's a bit like that, but minus the high-scale thievery and the mob-like Vegas casino owners and the absurdly attractive men.
Picture one hot mama in neck-to-toe black latex, whip and gag in hand. Picture her legions of readers and sympathisers in tow, Burberry trenches hiding various torture devices and killer pencil skirts. Our Humbug Army will go after the event planners first; their office polls of "chicken or beef" will become incoherent chickerbeefy dying gurgles. Then we'll take down the sleazy bosses, impaling their throats with scratchy mistletoe until they cough in mangled renditions of "White Christmas."
Finally we'll tackle the big guy:
Pictured: our goons. Don't worry, I know a guy who knows some guys.
When it's all over, December will be ours again. OURS, for normal summer fun and evenings spent with real friends, not Linda from Accounts.
Or, we could just put up with a month of lame parties. If that's your preference, I can at least offer you a classy purse.
OK pikers, the purse it is. Frankly, I don't blame you. This is unlabelled, but it looks enticingly like an authentic 1950s clutch, complete with fancy embroidery and heavy click-clasp. This is the kind of piece that - like a fine artwork or a Baywatch alum - will never age.
So get in quick to TradeMe: http://www.trademe.co.nz/Browse/Listing.aspx?id=259500268&ed=true
And, of course, Twitter: http://twitter.com/vintagemadam
Until tomorrow,
Love and cheap bubbles,
The Vintage Madam.
Picture one hot mama in neck-to-toe black latex, whip and gag in hand. Picture her legions of readers and sympathisers in tow, Burberry trenches hiding various torture devices and killer pencil skirts. Our Humbug Army will go after the event planners first; their office polls of "chicken or beef" will become incoherent chickerbeefy dying gurgles. Then we'll take down the sleazy bosses, impaling their throats with scratchy mistletoe until they cough in mangled renditions of "White Christmas."
Finally we'll tackle the big guy:
Pictured: our goons. Don't worry, I know a guy who knows some guys.When it's all over, December will be ours again. OURS, for normal summer fun and evenings spent with real friends, not Linda from Accounts.
Or, we could just put up with a month of lame parties. If that's your preference, I can at least offer you a classy purse.
OK pikers, the purse it is. Frankly, I don't blame you. This is unlabelled, but it looks enticingly like an authentic 1950s clutch, complete with fancy embroidery and heavy click-clasp. This is the kind of piece that - like a fine artwork or a Baywatch alum - will never age.
So get in quick to TradeMe: http://www.trademe.co.nz/Browse/Listing.aspx?id=259500268&ed=true
And, of course, Twitter: http://twitter.com/vintagemadam
Until tomorrow,
Love and cheap bubbles,
The Vintage Madam.
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