Secrets of the Stick: The season of ill will

Our woman on the inside ruminates on the subject of Christmas

We’ve finally seen the back of December, a month I spent dragging my feet through the foliage of Christmas parties, drink masterclasses and ignorant twats at the bar ordering one drink at a time from my breasts (oi fecker, my face is up here). Not forgetting the obligatory ‘Wait…’ whilst they have a conversation with their companions and then decide to change their whole order at least three frustrating times.

I can understand indecision – being female it’s my prerogative, after all – but when the bar’s five-deep and I have people waving banknotes at me (which I’ll kindly offer a light for), the last thing I need is some prize A-hole changing their order halfway through. Have some consideration please.

It’s not only that, but just what is it about Christmas and office parties that turn our good friend Joe Public into a total and utter fuckwit? Let’s be clear on this one, douchettes: I may be here to serve you killer drinks with a decent amount of witty banter, but I am not here to serve you.

The order for ‘Three, no eight, no five “mo-jeet-ows”’ isn’t what pushes me to the edge of patience – it’s the fact that whilst I make them, the twat’s hand reaches over and scoops out ice onto the bar top whilst remarking to his compadré: ‘I’d destroy her…’.

No mate, by the end of the night it will be you that’s destroyed – oozing desperation and seemingly beating your chest to attract the attention of any stray filly left behind.

The office party has a Jekyll and Hyde effect on its participants, who feel the need to take their shirts off and slide up to – rarely into, I might add – any female. The pack-of-wild-animals mentality is monstrous; the males tend to be more King Cock than King Kong, and the females akin to braying hyenas.

A colleague of mine takes unkindly to this sort of behaviour, and an unfortunate patron who pissed him off by haggling over drink prices lost his whole order to the back of the bartender’s throat – all eight shots of sambuca went down the hatch one after the other. Sinking all eight certainly chilled him out (or maybe that was the sweet-smelling roll-up I saw him sharing with the KP), as it soon became clear that he was oblivious to the extent of his Zombie-flaming – until the smell of smoke filled the room.

Thankfully, the haggling imbecile from earlier remained oblivious to the fact the back of his coat was on fire as he leant against the bar. At least, he did until a kindly regular poured his beer over the ‘gent’ to extinguish the flames.

I have seen many bartenders fall at the Christmas hurdle, going under quicker than the Titanic; their tempers flaring up like the Fire of London, taking more victims with them than Hiroshima.

Over the years I’ve learned a thing or two, and deduced that Christmas stress can be dealt with in the same way as any other kind of stress. If your blood begins to boil, I’d recommend a step back, a shot of the golden elixir that is tequila and a deep breath. After all, it is the season to (at least try to) be jolly!

Editorial feature from Imbibe Magazine – January/February 2012