One of my colleagues, in typically sniggery fashion, photocopied a guide to  office Christmas party etiquette and handed it to each of us in preparation for our staff night out, last Friday. And it was nothing I hadn’t seen before, and nothing that anyone with any cop on could have disagreed with – don’t flirt, don’t fall over, don’t corner the boss so as to inform him of all he’s done wrong and done wrong by, don’t get drunk. I didn’t take too much notice of it; no adult should need reminding of any of those points.

And as it turns out, I’m no adult.

 

langers

 

God, I was polluted. Polluted. I proposed Jagermeister as an aperitif for the masses. I’ve was almost Christ-like in the amount of times I wobbled and fell over. I told every one of my colleagues exactly what I thought of them, which is worse than it sounds, because alcohol severely short-circuits my enthusiasm inhibitor. I’m like the company’s one-woman cheerleading squad.

 

“You’re marvellous, you are. You’re so great with clients. And your eyes are only beautiful. I want us to be friends forever. Why don’t we spend more time together? We don’t spend enough time together.”

It’s horrendous, because I like to think of myself as poised, intelligent, dynamic, forward-thinking, great company … oh, hold on, I’m reading from our corporate literature. The sentiment corresponds, though. I have a much higher opinion of myself than my actions warrant. My ambition far exceeds my capabilities as a functioning fucking person. Whenever I get too much alcohol into me, I turn into some sort of graceless bouncing ball of dribbly enthusiasm. It fucking kills me.

 

Well, don’t drink, then. Logic, no?

 

You’d think it would be easier than it is to follow the logical path. I’m not a huge fan of alcoholic drinks, taste-wise. I like a nice jammy red wine, and the odd cold pint of cider, and the lighter-tasting beers like that girly, girly Corona. Other than that, though, I’m quite hard to please. I often find myself stumped in pubs, with an audience of cranky barpersons tapping their talons off the bar and rolling their eyes at my humming and hawing. Perhaps I just shouldn’t drink. I wouldn’t be missing much, let’s face it.

 

Yet I persist. I find that if I don’t make a conscious decision at the start of the night to watch my intake, I get as drunk as a skunk and have to be sectioned for the sanity of strangers, all of whom are WONDERFUL and should be MY FRIENDS FOR LIFE because we are so COMPATIBLE. I’m not alone, either. I could tell you a thousand stories involving drunken gobshites. Friends twisting ankles in nightclubs. Other friends lying down in the middle of the road, crying. Friends starting fights with other friends, but not the other friends that were lying down in the middle of the road, other friends again. It’s a kaleidoscope of preposterously irresponsible carry-on, and one that, at twenty-eight, I’m far too fucking old for. Binge drinking isn’t just a health hazard; it’s a calamitous embarrassment. I don’t know why I do it – to keep up with the lads? Because the drink is there and I can’t say no to a free soaking? I’m covered in bruises and most of them are from my beating myself up about the whole thing; the rest of them are from falling out of my five-inch heels and my dignity.

God almighty.

 

I’m no lush; I don’t crave alcohol, nor drink every day, nor even every weekend. I don’t have the need for alcohol that I have for caffeine; if I had to give up my espresso, I’d struggle. I don’t feel like there would be a struggle if I gave up the sauce. So why don’t I give up the fucking sauce? Because how boring would nights out be without the fucking sauce?! GOD HELP US ALL!

 

Is this what the Christmas season is all about? Getting trolleyed? I don’t like being drunk, and I can’t stand hangovers, and I’m getting to the stage in my life where I have to take a long hard look at myself and the image of said self that I want to present to the world. Falling over in front of the MD won’t cut it.

 

I’m a grown-up. Honest to God. Now all I have to do is start believing it and acting like it.

 

Take it easy this silly season, readers. I ain’t going to say Don’t Drink, because I’ll doubtless forget all this mortification and have a tipple or two before the … hour is out. I’ll probably make a twat of myself again before the year is out, and wonder if I shouldn’t cut out such behaviour to spare morning-after blushes, because I’m hopelessly impressionable, and getting worse. Yeah. But you lot should take it easy.

 

I won’t be back here on Coddlepot for a good week or so, because I have things to do and people to apologise to. Fie on me and my Irish liver.

Happy Christmas.

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