A supplier-sponsored Christmas party is the cause of this morning’s sore head.
Before hitting the free champagne and canapés, I thought I’d slum it with Magic and a couple of other ex-colleages; Halo Sailor and Turnup Turnip. As long-term sufferers of this blog will recall, Magic lives within gobbing distance of Darling Harbour and has been supremely hubristic about his chances of scoring highly in the Richmond Game because of its tourist-drawing ability.
Generally, he’s failed of course.
And I can see why; I stood outside the nasty Cargo Bar for about an hour watching the tourists waddle by in their Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts and Disney baseball caps, inhaling burgers and supersize cokes and was amazed at how few (none) Richmonds were to be seen.
I almost gave up and paid attention to my ex-colleagues’ inane conversation about office politics. But then, as I decided to stop drinking crap beer paid for from my wallet and wander to the corporate event, I spotted a 67 point Richmond. Mission accomplished, as George W. Bush might say.
In addition, I finally took a photo of a cruise boat that I’ve seen a few times and has annoyed me with its spelling.
And the onto the free booze. As always with these events, some lame entertainment was arranged. This time it was mime artists. For the avoidance of doubt, mime artists are right up near the top of my list of people I despise right after golfers, lawyers, estate agents, recruitment agents, celebrity TV chefs, “ute” drivers, clowns and people who talk loudly on their phone in public.
These mime artists were like the crap ones to be seen in ancient squares in tourist destinations around the world; i.e. they weren’t even good enough to mime without props. They had some sort of a costume that incorporated what seemed to be one of those sun-shades you leave in the windscreen of your car on hot days and “artistically” waved them around making lots of different shapes (two; a circle and another circle) and posing by clients for pictures which will presumably be proudly displayed on people’s mantlepieces.
What a crock of shit. Still, the booze was free.