Dreadful Nonsense

There's something extra special about going out and about in a social manner around the Christmas time. It's a little detail that I do forget almost every other time of the year. You tend to begin to take it for granted. It's just there and present and correct. Then at this good, religious holiday time of year, when we're remembering the fact that the Good Lord (who is, of course, fictional) sent down his Only Son (likewise, a fictional creation) to save the rest of us from Hell and Damnation (not really though), it disappears.

That missing quality? The simple ability to walk through a crowded bar without being groped.

I think it's the Office Christmas Party spirit that takes over all gentlemen this time of year. They view it as a sudden free-for-all, and when the spirit moves them, they're determined to be moved by the spirit as much as possible. It's a festive thing. I don't think it's got anything to do with the amount of alcohol being taken. Certainly, more people are out and about in a social manner around this time of year than at any other, and there are more amateur drinkers taking on board more alcohol than they would really otherwise consider wise, but this does not happen on St Patricks Day. This kind of business really only happens at Christmas.

Case in point: Myself and Mrs Bishop were out last night with a collection of other people, both of the lady and the gentleman persuasion. We were standing slightly off to the side from our main group, all the better to have a girly gossip (you know, nail varnish and dolls and boys and tampons, that kind of thing). I was wearing a t-shirt that bears the legend "Disco Queen". This legend, like all legends on t-shirts worn by girls, is written directly across the area you'll also find my lady bumps. I've worn this t-shirt out a lot. This is one of my favourite t-shirts to wear.

A man came up to us, pointed at my lady bumps, and read aloud the legend. He then, without a moment's hesitation, grabbed hold of my lady bumps. This gesture is of course strictly reserved only for my fiancee. I, in no uncertain terms, told him to fuck right off. He did so.

A moment later, another man approached us, and grabbed hold of Mrs Bishop's behind. She leapt, as a lady does in a cartoon, spun around and told him to fuck right off too.

Mere moments later, two more men approached us, and the first man declared it was the second man's birthday, and as a celebration of his life, we must flash our lady bumps at the both of them. We, as one, told them to fuck right off.

We then thought perhaps a good idea would be to move back in to the thick of our group, so as to be protected by the good gentlemanly folk that we had come to see as protectors of our lady virtue.

I swear, that only happens at Christmas.

This entry was posted on 23 December 2004 at 10:40 am. 0 comments

Dreadful Nonsense

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