I want to know
which cheesy novelty record B3tan "1" bought at the age of ten, as recounted in the first ever QOTW answer in 2003. I think it would bookend the whole affair nicely.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Tue 30 Dec 2014, 9:10, 3 replies)

Is that it then?

(Joy Division Oven Gloves Death to false metal, Tue 30 Dec 2014, 7:47, Reply)

We all dressed up as penguins and Moonwalked the night away

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Tue 23 Dec 2014, 22:57, 3 replies)

Worst Party Ever
Normally our works do's are pretty good. A decent meal, plenty of free booze and some decent entertainment, but as the company has grown the cost has become higher, and we've wound up doing less of the "Office Christmas" events and more "Hotel, Meal and Disco".

Last years was good, shared with 2 other companies in a big room, with a disco afterwards, a good time was had by all, but this year this was not to be.

For the MD had been to "Fawlty Towers" at a similar do earlier in the year, and decided that this was a lot of fun, and audience participation in the entertainment was key. So he booked us Ted & Co, a Father Ted style group, and a room for a meal at the local hotel.

Now, earlier this month one of our colleagues sadly had a fatal heart attack at work, and his funeral was just 2 days prior. So you can imagine people's reaction when their opening gambit was Father Jack, lying dead on a table in the centre of the room, with the actors encouraging people to go up and "pay their respects".

Needless to say, I'm surprised nobody punched them, I was pretty close until they recognised that I wasn't happy about being included in the entertainment and left me well alone, ditto with a few others.

Luckily the free bar made up for it, and my partner did her best to drink it dry, eventually getting cut off at around 10.45PM and passing out in the lobby as I fetched the car 15mins later... however once the actors were done, they packed up and fucked off, and took their speakers with them! Nobody had thought to organise a bit of music for people to dance to! Worst Party Ever. Dunno what the bar tab was, but the MD didn't look happy as he was paying it!
( Alex Save a Tree, Eat a Beaver!, Tue 23 Dec 2014, 16:37, 13 replies)

Long Time Stain
Some time around 1998 I went out way too hard at the Christmas Eve lunchtime office drinks and ended up in foetal position, around 2:30pm, in the midst of lots of happy Christmas shoppers, power chundering and violently dry retching foul bile across the Ye Olde cobblestones of the busy shopping precinct that is the Hobart Mall.

I could not move for some time. Eventually some nice people helped me to my feet and pushed me onwards, and I staggered home, covered in vomit, grime and remnants of tinsel.

The stain remained on those cobblestones for some years, and sometimes I would glance fondly at it, as I trudged to work in later times.
( Ken Oath, Tue 23 Dec 2014, 14:49, 5 replies)

I used to edit a travel magazine that was sister to a foodie magazine.
The two MDs had touches all over the catering industry - they could seriously up or down a restaurant's reputation, so our Christmas party was the private dining room of ... some bloody poncy pea--and-mint-puree-with-a-hint-of-freshwater-salmon-mist-type establishment.

We started at 12pm with champagne, and had the correct wine with each course or whatever, and were then 'allowed' to free-drink, as it were - order whatever we wanted.

Then came the games - we had to identify weird foodstuffs and ting, and then - since one of the MDs was a qualified wine connoisseur, we had a red wine which he told us about - the long finish, the notes of bumblebee shit and lamb's vomit or whatever. It was alright, but by this point we were all pretty well trashed, and I remember him saying it was about £170 a bottle, and I couldn't help thinking that a bottle of Jacob's Creek would have done the job absolutely fine.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 23 Dec 2014, 13:08, Reply)

I went to the office Christmas do, and I pulled a cracker,
if you know what I mean!
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Tue 23 Dec 2014, 11:30, 14 replies)

We all do secret santa and always get each other funny hats to wear at the christmas party.
It's hilarious
( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Tue 23 Dec 2014, 8:09, Reply)

Mine was rather lovely this year
We had champagne on the London Eye then dinner on a boat on the Thames. I made my excuses and left shortly after the shots and the dancing began and I was home and relatively sober before midnight, carrying a bottle of wine from the secret santa.

My missus, on the other hand, drank white wine at her office do. 99% of the time she's a mild-mannered, gentle creature who barely raises her voice but once she's had a taste of the white wine it's time to hide behind the sofa cushions. It wasn't so bad this time, but apparently she'd fallen out with two people who work in nearby offices and had a blazing row with the "gay fuck" and the "fucking bus bitch". I would attempt to recount the argument here, but even after having it described to me four or five times later that evening in increasing levels of volume I have to admit I'm still hazy on the details - it was about a business plan, or something like that. Like Dragons' Den but with swearing.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 22 Dec 2014, 18:00, 5 replies)

Always the organizer, never the pisshead
For the last decade or so, it's come down to me to organize the office xmas do. I've got this down to a minimum of fuss; essentially get a couple of the younger women to do the decorating, as my sense of aesthetics is pretty lacking and they seem to enjoy it. Stick on the same 300-song playlist. I order in the nibbles, wine, glasses, ice etc from the same companies I've used for the past n parties, and set up my desk as the bar, and serve people drinks all night. I have a few myself, naturally, but always stay sober enough to be able to pour straight. Consequently, the most exciting thing to happen to me personally was have a colleague grind her arse into mine (and several other mens) crotches, but I've seen a few other things...

1) Accountant got pissed and forgot about the concept of toilets. Opened up the window (4th floor) and pissed onto the street from there.
2) I once hired 2 bar staff to do the drink-serving instead of me. I said they could help themselves to a couple of drinks if they liked. One got thoroughly pissed, basically joined the party himself as a guest, started smoking indoors, wouldn't stop drinking when I suggested he'd had enough, got more and more obnoxious... eventually we kicked him out without paying him. Silly twat.
3) Have had a couple of extra-marital tawdry affairs start at office parties. Only witnessed the initial flirting and the leaving together, rather than the affair itself mind. More's the pity.
4) Had a regular associate make his excuses and leave as "he'd better go an untie the girl in his dungeon". This wasn't a joke; he's really into that kind of stuff. He had been at the party for 4 or 5 hours, the poor/lucky girl, depending how you look at it.
5) Seen a 50+ year old woman flirt utterly outrageously with an 18 year old lad. Stopped short of actually fondling his wang, but frankly she may as well have done.
6) Seen a colleague have to be physically restrained and dragged home before he shagged the boss's wife.
7) Seen the same woman burst into tears in a fit of self-hatred, every other year. Usually after speaking her mind to someone important, then it was probably a mistake.
8) Had the same gay man try it on with me every year. Always maintains that the only difference between a straight man and a gay man is "about 8 pints", so I don't think he's going to give it up.
9) Watched a hilariously painful and squeamish scene, when an older chap brought together a girl and guy and gave a matchmaker speech, saying what a wonderful couple he thought they'd make, and why don't they think about getting together, unaware that they'd previously gone out and split up in less than amiable circumstances a year or two before, and had being trying to avoid each other for the entire party.
10) I can't just leave a list at 9, now can I? Hm. Well... er... I'm pretty much out of embarrassing anecdotes worth repeating, but this ones interesting to me at least: I suspect I might almost be 'in' with a lesbian. I mean, she's a lesbian, so probably nothing in it, but she basically hangs around me almost the entire time at these things, talks pretty vividly about her sex life (and complains about the lack of it), draws attention to her boobs and how her outfits never quite fit because of them, tousles my hair every so often... maybe I'm just her new SBF, but still, it's nice to think about, if only for the ego boost :)

Merry xmas, you bunch of filthy bastards.
(nobuttocks last besmirched the internet on, Mon 22 Dec 2014, 17:43, 7 replies)

Recently started a new job, newly single, and the Chistmas party came early in my tenure
A couple of the girls I worked with had - not at my behest - identified two female colleagues as having, er, "previous form" at this annual celebration of enforced jollity. Being so long removed from the art of pulling I decided to accept their help graciously.

The first, upon entering into our initial conversation beyond "hello", went on at considerable and high-pitched length about how wonderful it was that I was so comfortable in, and overt about, my homosexuality.

Whilst it was very amusing correcting her mistake, the look of slack-jawed astonishment on her face at this point rather made her resemble the last trout in the frozen fish section, which somewhat dulled my desire.

An hour later I was talking and - I think - flirting reasonably well with Melissa. I was hardly an expert before I surrendered my genitals to another, many years ago, but I'm pretty sure she was flirting back. Until another chap came over and said hello, after which she looked somewhat disconsolate. It transpired she'd entered into negotations with this gent, some time prior, as regards regular access to her vagina, and these had not reached a satisfactory conclusion.

Were I a cad or a bounder, I could have preyed upon her emotional state. I could even have played the "take solace in my manly (well she doesn't know better at this point) arms" card. I did neither of these things. I went straight into GBF mode, asked her all about him, and them, and why it didn't work, and what she liked so much about him, and concluded our conversation by packing her off in his direction with the words - I kid you not - "Now you go and show him why he'd be lucky to have you, then come back and tell me all about it!"

She did not come back.
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Mon 22 Dec 2014, 16:04, 6 replies)

It may be boring...
But, after the edict received that "anyone who has confirmed they will be going, and doesn't attend, will be charged for the night", became "there are people here who weren't invited", and then degenerated into "we've only paid for one bottle of red and one of white per table - so you can't have any more wine", I figured it was best to feign food poisoning, and leave.

No-one noticed my leaving...

However, since I hadn't worked for them for 3 months, I see it as I got a free dinner...

TL:DR - learn to read!
(SatchmoR No, mummy, don't put knitting needles in my ears!, Mon 22 Dec 2014, 14:18, 3 replies)

Ah, yes - the enforced company-approved jollity of the staff Christmas party, at which the high-ups throw a bone worth less than their bonus to the proletariat and expect them to be grateful.
What fun!
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 22 Dec 2014, 10:05, 3 replies)

1989 maybe, could have been 1990.
At the tail end of the ostentatious 80s, my first proper job. The boss, who was (still is) a well known figure in the world of football and liked to show off a bit, stumped up for a private room with lavish fodder at the Hilton in park lane for about 20 of us.

Much pissedness later, the staff were getting fed up with our apparent reluctance to leave, and offered to sneak us into a larger party which was going on in the main ballroom.

Having agreed we'd have some of that, we all formed a conga and wound our way through the kitchens into EMI's christmas party.

Now, to be fair to the boss, he had stuck his hand deeply into his pocket, and could be forgiven for being a little miffed when the next day the only subject of conversation was the party we'd gatecrashed, and how many famous people we'd seen.

One of our traders tried unsuccessfully to get off with Natalie Cole. He declared himself to be gay about 2 years later, so maybe his technique was unpolished.
(username failed moderation, Mon 22 Dec 2014, 9:18, 5 replies)

Fannybaws

(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Mon 22 Dec 2014, 8:36, 1 reply)

Merry Christmas B3TA

( Zuowan, Sun 21 Dec 2014, 15:45, 8 replies)

There was the year we decided to do 'Swan Lake'
I was the cavalier in tights and he tutu-ed himself up as a white swan. Cue the Tchaikovsky. He sallied out stage right in front of the bosses and assembled host. I tried to pick him up and do a graceful 'fish' but he was tall, we hadn't practiced, and instead I dumped him on the brick floor.

The memory makes my teeth hurt.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Sun 21 Dec 2014, 8:44, 2 replies)

I can think of only one thing worse than having an office Christmas party.
Having a fortieth birthday party at the office. People chip in a few quid for a shit cake and a card and everyone sings happy birthday and eats a slice of said shit cake before getting back to doing their boring jobs. That must be so depressing.

Sorry to everyone who works in an office, your Christmas party is probably really good and no-one is just loading up on free booze before they go out to meet their real friends.

Also, is Shambo still here? Or that mad Aussie with all the accounts? How about that Marshmallow bloke? They were entertaining. Sometimes this place can get a bit dull. Not quite UsVsThem dull but it could happen.
(Thor McLegend FUCK SHITPANTS PAC MAN, Sat 20 Dec 2014, 0:14, 8 replies)

smiley smiley
A little before Christmas the lads decided to give me a bit of a "leaving do" and we visited "Directors" wine bar in MK (90s sometime...). My mate paid for one of the scantily clad female entertainers to select me from the crowd and subject me to some humiliation on stage. This involved a marker pen and cigarettes... More of which later.

I finally crawled home at some stupid hour and fell into bed. I certainly wasn't 'well'. However my 5 year old son had other ideas and woke up with a bout of acute asthma which necessitated me sobering up at least a little in order that I might get a doctor to the house to help with this problem. On getting out of bed my wife was horrified to see the state of my backside (I'd not seen it.)and just told me to get out of the way. Propped up against the wardrobe when the doctor arrived, the doctor was concerned as to my welfare but was, understandably, more concerned with my son as my problem was entirely self inflicted.

A few days later it was the staff Christmas party at a hotel in Woburn Sands: "Moore Place". Word had got round the rest of the staff - all the women... The staff do was a murder mystery evening. Some 'wag' had tipped off the actors in the company putting on the event and to cut to the chase I ended up stood on a chair with my trousers and pants down just so everyone could see the smiley face on my backside (into which, apparently, a lit cigarette had been placed (between my bum cheeks), whilst on stage at Directors). At the end of the evening we were asked not to return to the hotel as we might have offended some of the the diners in the restaurant. I've never been allowed to forget it and I've never been allowed to go back to the strippers.
(gearanach #wankwankwank, Fri 19 Dec 2014, 22:27, Reply)

Drunk fifty-something salesmen act like right fucking pricks.
Even more than when they're sober.
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Fri 19 Dec 2014, 21:48, 4 replies)

Pissed out of my gourd on free red wine,
I found myself stuck in conversation with a colleague's other half, being regaled by tales of life in the forces, and how great it was that he was getting paid to travel abroad to shoot "rag heads".
He really enjoyed killing "rag heads", and told me that he liked it best when they got up close, as it meant that he could stab them. He went on like this for quite some time - pretty sure it was mostly bullshit, but there was a lot of free red wine, so I let him carry on, whilst I snuck the occasional glance at another colleague's impressive bust, and got more and more drunk.
Not a bad evening, but the hotel was shit.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Fri 19 Dec 2014, 21:14, 3 replies)

I've never worked in an office in my life.

(Plague Hedgehog 'posting crap', Fri 19 Dec 2014, 20:11, 2 replies)

the best Christmas parties are when you end up with your arse in a sling.

( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Fri 19 Dec 2014, 19:47, 8 replies)

I feel sorry for all of you
who have to work with cunts, and therefore would never consider socializing with them. The marine scientists I work with are fucking ace, and last nights Christmas party was once again awesome (getting up at 8 this morning to build a fence was not).

In my previous life, however, when I worked in medical research, one Christmas party stands out. I had my drink spiked by persons unknown (possibly one of the doctors who was gay). Luckily, having been exposed to MASSIVE DRUGS for many years, I realized something was wrong, ran away, broke down my front door and passed out on the bathroom floor, thus avoiding being arse-raped.

My girlfriend was not so sympathetic in the morning, insisting I go to B&Q and buy a new lock, and then fit it, which was achieved with the addition of a significant amount of vomit.
( A Rory Borealis here under duress, Fri 19 Dec 2014, 18:11, 10 replies)

It’s A Wonderful Death
This happened on the way to a Yuletide gathering, so it counts.

My many fans will no doubt recall that, in one of my incarnations, I once held a senior position in a large corporation. They will also remember that I once had to tell someone that they were going to be made redundant, just before Christmas. Here are the details:

www.b3ta.com/questions/sayingtheunsayable/post1830292

Now for the sequel. A heart-warming tale of Yuletide love and goodwill. Read on, gentle cunts, read on, and prepare to be entered by the true Spirit of Christmas.

The date: Christmas eve, a month or so after I sacked Bill (not his real name. Which was John). The scene: a cold, frosty urban winter’s evening. A chill wind is howling around the concrete and glass canyons of Plutus Park. Above, a deep black sky with a shining canopy of twinkling stars, that neither know nor care about the antics of the creatures moving about the face of the Earth like the blind, helpless worms that they are. Below, the icy passageways empty save for a crisp packet being blown down the cavernous concourse between the gigantic edifices of Babdastard Bank and Ultracaust plc.

But what is this? In the vast coldness and cold vastness, hearken! Voices, voices merry with merriment! A woman laughs, the sound a tinkle of Bacardi being poured over iced gold. Her male companion (me) joins in, a chuckling avuncular baritone so charming that Prince Charming himself would pooh his pants upon hearing it. Hearken! And viddy well: down the corporate canyon between Babdastard Bank and Ultracaust plc, people, happy festive people, well-wrapped against the winter chill, stepping quickly, their expensive shoes striking the frosty paving-slabs with precision and confidence, the sound echoing efficiently around the concrete enclave. Four people; two couples: myself, my then consort, the sexy Stephanie, and two of our friends, David and Samantha. We are making our way through Plutus Park to a fancy restaurant sited on the far side thereof; we have just spent a merry hour in the pub, and are well refreshed and looking forward to a slap-up Christmas grill. We – me, Stephanie, David and Samantha – could not be happier. It’s Christmas eve, we are with the people we love, we are about to deeply indulge in sensual pleasures (and I’m not just talking about food, you know!), we are bollocking bastard rich, and we fear nothing. Ha!

As I walk beside her I gaze down into Stephanie’s face. Her cheeks are reddened by the cold air, and her dark eyes gleam like the stars in the heavens above. I give her gloved hand a squeeze. She squeezes back and I imagine that hand (sans glove) around my erect penis, wanking it slowly yet determinedly and lovingly until it shoots out pumping great squirts of creamy jizz. I kiss her, my tongue exploring the inside of her mouth which feels excitingly hot against the cold winter air. We then walk on, catching up with David and Samantha, who are also holding hands, and also thinking about having sex with each other. Of course, by now I am nursing a prodigious erection.

As we draw level with our friends, a sad, croaky, hoarse voice rends the air. ‘Spare change?’

My erection melts away like an icicle dipped in hot tomato soup. I stop. I turn and look down.

There, huddled against the wall of Ultracaust plc, is a pathetic, shivering figure, pale and stubbly, shrouded in stinking rags. Its eyes stare up at us, hope gleaming within their reddened, hollow sockets. ‘Spare change?’ repeats the creature again.

My first instinct is to destroy. To stamp, to smash, to rid Plutus Park of this fucking lump of shit. How dare this abject, wretched turd, this worthless, hopeless failure, have the temerity to address us, its superiors? How dare this foetid smear of whore’s cuntbutter dare to puncture our jolly Christmas mood? And fuck ‘goodwill to all men.’ This is not a man; it is a worm. A worm to be crushed underfoot, scraped against the kerb, washed away by the rain and forgotten forever.

We have all stopped and are all staring down at this putrid germ, all thinking the same thing. But then I recognise the figure shivering within its foul coverings of piss stinking rags.

‘Bill?’

The human-shaped object attempts a smile; it is ghastly and wretched, and I clench my fists, wanting only to punch the cunt’s teeth in. ‘Yes, Sir,’ gurgles the thing. ‘It’s Bill. Remember me?’

‘Oh Bill,’ I purr in my best Bond villain voice. ‘How could I ever forget you?’ I then turn to my dear friends, David and Samantha, and my gorgeous Stephanie, who all appear as gigantic gold-plated gods next to this grovelling, base insect. ‘Do go on,’ I say. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

I hunker down next to the creature. I am trying not to burst out laughing. ‘Well, Bill, how’s things?’

Bill looks up at me with fear in his eyes, eyes which, to my disgust, emit hot little tears which steam gently in the Christmas Eve chill. His broken, wretched face then folds and creases and a choking sob is emitted from between his cracked, flaking lips. I am about to stand and start administering the kicking when the miserable being seems to master itself, and speaks:

‘Well, after losing my job, things went downhill. I started drinking heavily, spending all my redundancy money on alcohol. I began losing my temper and beating my wife and children. She kicked me out, and I was going to move back in with my parents, but they both died in a car smash. I begged my wife to let me move back in with her, and she relented. Then my children got abducted, raped and butchered by paedoes. My drinking and violent mood swings got worse, and I started using prostitutes. My wife found out and kicked me out again, but let me back in when she discovered she was pregnant. Then I found out that I had caught HIV off of a prostitute and passed it on to my wife. When I told her she had a miscarriage and killed herself. I then started drinking more and more and I now have cirrhosis of the liver and full-blown AIDS.’

I really have to struggle hard not to burst into laughter. ‘Oh well,’ I manage to say. ‘Never mind. It’s Christmas.’

At these words Bill’s face cracks completely and he lets out a howling wail of deep soul-crushing woe. It is the sound of a tiny thing completely at the end of its tether, the sound of profound and inescapable despair.

I decide that I have to do something.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ I say, putting my arm around the quivering mass of useless flesh and bones. ‘Don’t be like that! Tell you what – you can come and stay at my house for Christmas. Tonight you can have a nice long hot bath and get into some cosy clean clothes, and then have a slap-up Christmas Eve supper. I’ll put you up in the spare room – it’s very cosy and the bedsheets have just been changed. And then tomorrow – Christmas Day! – I’ll make sure you have the best Christmas you’ve ever had!’

The wretch gazes up at me, a dim gleam of hope igniting in his poor little eyes. ‘Really?’

I chuckle good-naturedly. ‘Yes! In fact you can stay with me for as long as it takes to sort yourself out. And in the New Year I’ll take you to see my doctor friend, who will be able to cure your liver disease and AIDS.’

A shadow of doubt passes across Bill’s grimy, tear-streaked face. ‘Really?’

‘No, not really, you stupid fucking cunt.’ I stand up and kick him in the face. He yelps as blood courses freely from his now broken nose.

‘You feculent speck of stinking excrement!’ I spit. ‘Did you REALLY FUCKING THINK I WOULD HAVE A PIECE OF SHIT LIKE YOU IN MY HOUSE? AT CHRISTMAS? OR AT ANY FUCKING TIME?’ I bellow.

Bill blubbers and howls and tries to mop up the bloody, snotty mess that used to be its face.

‘You are a worthless, useless, hopeless waste,’ I explain. ‘You are a sad, sorry little turd, waiting only for the flush. WELL HERE COMES THE FLUSH!’ I reach down and box his ears, knowing well how much it will hurt in the cold air of this frosty Christmas eve. I then kick him several times in the stomach, and consider pissing on him, but my erection would make it difficult to urinate. Instead I spit on him. ‘I hate you, I gob on you, FUCK you!’

It’s high time I left this mess and returned to my loving friends. I start to walk away, but hesitate. I can’t leave this unfinished.

I turn back to the snivelling, sorry wreckage of the thing that used to be Bill. ‘I can’t allow you to remain here,’ I inform it. ‘Spoiling the frontage of the Ultracaust building like this! What if one of the shareholders sees? Come on!’

I haul the thing to its feet – it feels like a sack of spuds – and shove it along the concourse. ‘Now FUCK OFF!’

Bill obeys mutely and begins to stagger away. He seems to be finding it difficult to walk, so, in a show of Christmas goodwill, I offer him my arm. We walk together for a while, Bill silent, me humming Christmas carols, until Bill mumbles that he is tired, so very tired, and needs to rest.

We come to a halt in the middle of a bridge over the railway, and Bill leans heavily on the stone parapet. In the distance, I can see a train approaching, and I come to a decision.

‘Would you like to die now, Bill; or would you prefer to wait for the complications of AIDS or cirrhosis to kick in?’

Bill says nothing. He merely stares into the night, shivering, his breath misting the festive air.

‘Only, the latter option would involve a protracted, painful, ugly and undignified death, during which you would have ample time to think back over the catastrophic failure of your miserable existence. Best to end it all now, quickly, and relatively painlessly.’

Still Bill says nothing. The train draws nearer. From some nearby hostelry, the merry strains of Mariah Carey’s festive hit ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ can be clearly discerned.

‘So, Bill, which is it to be? Quick death now, or horrible long-drawn-out death later? Hurry up and decide, the train’s almost here.’

Bill mumbles something, but I can’t quite make out what it is. ‘Sorry?’

A whisper issues from the beaten lump, a whisper colder than the depths of winter. ‘Death now.’

The train is getting closer, closer. ‘Death now, what?’

The whisper comes again. ‘Death now, please.’

Closer and closer. ‘Death now, please what?’

Bill turns to look at me. There is nothing in his eyes. No fear, no hate, no pain, no broken heart, nothing. They are empty of life. He is already dead. ‘Death now, please, Sir.’

‘Okey dokey.’ I grab him round the middle and with one big heave pitch him over the parapet. Just in time! There’s a sort of wet crackling thump, and the air is rent with the piercing shriek of the train’s brakes. I sigh. A messy delay for all those poor passengers, but something to talk about over their Christmas eve suppers.

I walk away, and catch up with my friends David and Samantha, and my gorgeous lover Stephanie. We go on to have a lovely evening, and later, I fuck Stephanie, and spray my semen all over her face, hair and tits.

Merry Christmas, Sweeties! And a happy and prosperous New Year.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Fri 19 Dec 2014, 17:49, 8 replies)

Mine is tonight
I will regale you with my ENTIRELY SOBER* tales of fun and games tomorrow.

*I am driving so no drink for me
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 19 Dec 2014, 17:22, Reply)

Mine starts in 45min.
I'll get drunk and people will comment on that for the whole year.
Fuckem'
(waxdart hello., Fri 19 Dec 2014, 17:16, Reply)

I rocked up at the dinner table where all the senior management were seated,
and with great enthusiasm greeted them with an affable "'ELLO CUNTS!".
(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Fri 19 Dec 2014, 17:03, 4 replies)

First
I have never attended an office Xmas party. This is for the best.
(McChinaman banned, Fri 19 Dec 2014, 17:01, 1 reply)