how civilised
I used to work in Dubai. We had an odd mix of nationalities in the office including a decent smattering of us lot from Blightly. There were of course a fair few Muslims in the office as you would expect. Culturally, it does take a little while to adjust to the different ways of working – weekends are Friday Saturday, Sunday is actually Monday, clients will shout and bawl in meetings, talk amongst themselves, make phonecalls and lie straight to your face - little things.

But I soon settled in. Whenever I’ve won a new client or completed a big job back in the UK, it was customary to go out and get pissed, at least it was in every other place I’ve ever worked. Not in Dubai though. Early on we won a major pitch once and I sent round a ‘drinks are on me over in such-and-such a boozer after work’ email, as you do. This caused massive consternation. Not as much though as when one of the girls was leaving and she decided to produce a bottle of Champagne (she had even asked the MD if it was OK as all her colleagues were ex pats). Unfortunately one of our more ‘fervent’ employees in another office got wind of this. A rambling, long winded, badly written, spittle flecked rant was sent round the whole office and the MD had to make a grovelling formal apology. That’s not to say Dubai isn’t a non-stop party town. Going out to overpriced bars, getting completly battered and shagging some vapid bint on the beach is pretty much the only thing there is to do. But then no one said Dubai is not a land of lies and hypocrisy.

So as soon as I adjusted to Thursday being the new Friday it was business as usual. The usual suspects would (quietly) arrange to go for drinks after work on a Thursday (there were of course a few there that were not supposed to be drinking but that’s none of my business). My usual drinking buddy was a big Geordie bloke, I’ll call him Matt Hale – because that was, and still is his name. Matt didn’t give a flying fuck about anything as far as I could establish. He was our IT guru and also a MASSIVE boozer. I did say Geordie didn’t I? In addition to all this, I was one of the lucky ones that had a licence to shop in one of the few hidden away, legal off-sales, so we would always have a bottle of something stashed away for late nights in the office. Port was popular because the Arabs didn’t seem to grasp it was a fortified wine so it wasn’t as ridiculously overpriced as say – a bottle of Jack Daniels. We kept a bottle in a small storeroom next to the kitchen. It was not unheard of to nip in for a quick sip to warm the cockles in the excessively air conditioned office.

So this arrangement worked just fine – come the end of another hard, dusty week we would try and bugger off as early as possible down the battle cruiser. That is until one Sunday morning we had a problem – there had been a complaint that non-drinkers were being ‘excluded from office social events’. Heads were scratched and imaginary beards stroked until a ‘genius’ plan (mine) was hatched that we would invoke the quintessentially British and utterly harmless tradition of Afternoon Tea. An email was sent inviting all and explaining the nature of this quaint British tradition. That way, everyone could get together for a cuppa some faffy little sandwiches and little pink cakes – then those who wanted to could bugger off to the pub. We even bought a bone china tea service some doilies and some of those little three tiered cake stands that we stored in same cupboard we kept our illicit hooch in – admittedly a recipe for disaster. Nevertheless the plan worked a treat we even had a laugh imposing ridiculous made up rituals and etiquette. Matt and I continued to have heroic sessions most Thursday evenings and there were no more complaints. All was well.

One evening I was working late (again). I was the only one in the office. If I do have to work late I actually quite like that arrangement as I can have whatever music I like up full blast and have no one to bother me. I sent a large artwork document to the printer, which I knew would take bloody ages to rip – so I decided to do what any sane person does at such times – dick around on teh internets. Not so easy as it sounds in Dubai where so many sites are barred. Then I remembered the Port! Bellowing along to ‘Smack my Bitch Up’ I toddled off down the stairs and breezed into the store room.

Now I should say that I have never actually soiled myself as an adult, but at that point I came bloody close. On the floor was a lifeless body with a large pool of slick glossy blood formed around the head, lying motionless on the bare concrete. Fuck! I have no shame in admitting panic set in. But the real heart attack moment came a second later when the ‘body’ groaned and rolled over. I nearly fucking died, then i looked at the claret stained features and suddenly realised - it was merely (a completely paralytic) Matt Hale from the high tea sip port cupboard.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sat 26 Sep 2009, 15:10, 6 replies)

ha
very clever indeed

Took me two or three reads to get the ending, but well done.

I shall be clicking this

*clicks*

I suggest you lot below me do the same
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Sat 26 Sep 2009, 15:15, closed)

Hoorah!
Excellent work!
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Sat 26 Sep 2009, 16:11, closed)

Oooooh.
That totally doesn't work in my accent.

Jolly nice when I remember you lot are British though :)
(Scritty Bakerman., Sat 26 Sep 2009, 17:55, closed)

it helps that mine is Scottish - my accent that is
'It's ma tale from the...' etc.

coat/
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sun 27 Sep 2009, 1:11, closed)

Bravo!
Jolly good.
(danalan Pretty good, for an amateur., Sun 27 Sep 2009, 11:56, closed)

fuck me
That was a long one.

Had me going to the end there though...bastard.
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Thu 1 Oct 2009, 0:06, closed)