Yule regret it in the morning...

THE DOMESDAY OFFICE PARTY, AD1086

"The probleme wythe thys Domesday Project is
You bette your bootes that Saxon peasant Johne
Will not admit to beastes he really ownes
But hydes theme in the foreste till we've gone."
Godric from Personnele hadde overdone
The Wintere Punsche and boye, was he onne one:
 
"The bottome lyne, when you come doune to itte
Is, even when the informaschyonne's inne
– The pigges, the shepe, the oxen and the ponds –
It's target-driven stuff, propped up wyth spinne
Which as we knowe is bolloquez in the maine
So fyve yearez downe the lyne, we starte agayne.
 
Some more of thisse new fylthy Norman wyne?
They won't allowe uz any meade this year
Not after what occurred last Christemasse time
The Sherriffe's office made it very cleare
They'll flaye alive all those not fitte to ryde
– Designated waggoners wait outsyde.
 
The rumoure is, next yeare we'll relocate
To London Toune, wherevere that may be
Some Godforsaken hellhole, myles from here.
Shame. Winchestere has alwayez suitede me.
Retraining see? It's what The Conqueror willez.
So goodbye, slate and hello, hi-tech quillez."
 
The Conqueror! Who does he thynke he is?
Ande what about hys wyfe's peculiar smyle?
Methought: "Gyve him a chaunce" when he got in.
Butte now I hate hys presidential style
Hast thou copped Lady Courcy from Acqountez?
By God, I'd give thatte somme in large amountez.
 
Alle thys dounesyzinge then. What do you thincque?
I see they've let Odo of Bayeux go
Or "redesygned his brief" – the actual phrase.
They saye it's alwayez you who's laste to knowe
Yet if they tooke him on for counting shepe
Bitte riche to sacque him if he felle asleepe!
 
Here, telle you what, let's go and see the scribe
He'll sketch your buttocques if you paye a penny
Then putte the likenesse on the bossez deske.
She'll nevere guess it's you, she gettez so many.
You've gotte to have a laugh though, haven't you?
I'm crazy me! I cayre notte what I do!

THE GREAT FIRE OFFICE BASH, 1666

'Tis Yule it seems, so best be merry
Have a nutmeg-dusted cherry!
The office bashe and yet agayne
We're in a Butte of Malmsey chayne.
Is this the beste the firm can do?
Let's blame it on September/Two,
September/Two or "Pudding Lane"
They've sought the miscreant in vain
Nine/Two, a peg for all our ills
From scrofula to unpaid bills
To blame the Devil's far too vague
His breath hot on the back of Plague
Whose curse itself surrounds the place
From agencies who hate our race
So let our fair administration
Pledge now to protect our nation
Promising us potions, pills
To buttress us 'gainst noisome ills
And have five million nosegays waiting
Lest smallpox be circulating.
 
Still, 'tis Yule and best be merry
Have a nutmeg-dusted cherry!
Brandy? Pox on't. Keep it quiet
Our master has me on a diet
And pounds turn bushels if they mount
Which shows on our Sedan account
Observe the carriage-men take fright
When new congestion charges bite
How art thou getting home tonight?
I'll share thy cab if that's all right.
'Tis far enough to Surrey now
Commuting must be brooked somehow
If Clapham be a two-hour ride
'Tis pretty in its countryside.
 
I'll wager here, 'twill not be long
Till "Hugh and Ralph" burst into song
When oysters, grape and grain conspire
And too long standing, back-to-fire
Puts stomach's contents on parade
Embossing Boss's best brocade.
Oh piteous thing it is to see
Chalk-faced, next morning shaking, he
Who was so cheery, full of wit
Now dead contrite because of it
But still, 'tis Yule, so best be merry
Another nutmeg-dusted cherry?

THE SOUTH SEA BUBBLE, 1720

Thin gruel for Yule as we have seen
Some beanfeast this, without a bean
And all the country mired in debt
Remind me now, lest I forget
How much we are in trouble.
 
But gin is cheap, so sup I pray
Lest they should take the cup away
Whilst winding up this company
Whose shares with all their equity
Helped pump the South Sea Bubble
 
With maid and money joined in marriage
Knaves displaying the newest carriage
All of this on bills of credit!
How long would it last? You said it:
'Til the dream was rubble.
 
So Prudence, Mr Walpole claims
Should figure foremost in our aims
Perchance she'll foot the bill for knowledge
With our offspring both at college
Soon their fees will double.
 
And Merry Christmas to the clerk
A-scratching at his paperwork
Who made his fortune four months past
But comes down to the world at last
From short sojourn on Bubble
 
What is this stuff – our stock-in-trade
That's quickly loaned and quickly made
Depended on for empires planned
Yet can't be grasped within our hand?
'Twas bound to lead to trouble
 
And when the duns din on the door
In Janiveer – if not before
Best not conjobble then with Nell
Lest paid in coin, she'll give you hell
As well as charge you double
 
Oi! Guess how much my house is worth?
T'was cheap, though now it costs the earth
Yet if I sold the place somehow
I'd have to buy in Essex now
Alas we burst the bubble
 
So Merry Christmas. Here I bring
A Pine Apple – a novel thing
A trader sold it, now he's gone
I warrant it will not catch on
With all this South Sea trouble.

McADAM & CO OFFICE PARTY, 1848

It was scarcely a week before Christmas
and the firm had been kindness incarnate
They donated a tip of a railway trip
and a chit for a chophouse in Barnet
Just to make it complete, an additional treat
on the half-afternoon allocated
Was a lecture on hardcore, loose-chippings and tar,
which our ledger clerk gave while we waited.
 
The trouble with things in our railway age
is that getting to one's destination,
Within London at least, has arrived at the stage
where one braces oneself for frustration.
The wait for a wagon to whisk us away
would be long, due to general congestion,
And the train would be fine – once we got to the line
and our walking was out of the question.
 
The head of the office now asked us
surveyors, the clerks and assistants –
With the time bearing down and us all stuck in town,
how we planned to traverse this great distance?
We might miss the chophouse, our venue,
it was already dark and too late now
So the untasted joys on their menu,
though we pined for them, might have to wait now.
 
Then a boy, an assistant, stepped forward
proposing that since the congestion
Had put the kibosh on the prospect of nosh
perhaps he might raise a suggestion?
"If everyone stumped up a tanner
To pay for some beer and some gin fer us,
I know an old pudge on the manor
who'd sackbarrer some of it in fer us."
 
Our ledger clerk here was outvoted
and had no recourse but go easily
He nodded reluctantly, threw in a coin
a thrupenny bit – which was measly.
In a later speech praising the railways
and damning the problems of travel
He claimed that the loads on our overworked roads
Would make God's macramé unravel
 
Since heaven was latticed with railways
but Hell unrolled roads for the sinner,
With the Devil as tutor, the future commuter
might end up in torment near Pinner.
We laughed, how we laughed at our colleague
and persisted in laughing like drains
At the theory so rum, that all problems to come
might be gone with investment in trains.

MISS CLARKSON'S CHRISTMAS TEETH, 1948

She looked at the dull brown linoleum,
The bottles of beer and the sherry,
The cheap wrapping paper, its holly
Too self-reverentially merry.
The off-cuts of steak from the butchers
Steak? Maybe so but a coarse meat
Tough, not enough for the purpose
And then, almost certainly horse meat.
 
To get the canteen looking festive
A lunchtime spent paper chain-making
– The painstaking licking and sticking,
Left tongue, lips and fingertips aching.
Balloons were blown up and the windows
Were covered with cotton-wool snow,
With Dam Busters March on the wireless
The party was ready to go.
 
She checked her reflection beforehand
To see if her teeth looked the same
Now what had they said at the dentist's
– After she'd filled out her name?
"Best have these teeth out, Miss Clarkson
They're flawed and they've had a good run
Claim your free false ones for Christmas!
Everyone's having it done!"
 
She'd had them pulled out in November
Some 20-odd teeth from her head
The firm sent her home in their lorry
With scarf round her jaw and to bed.
And Mr Throckmorton, the dentist
Played Cupid – the way that he saw it:
"The gels with the best teeth in Britain
Were merried – and heppier for it."
 
While testing her teeth at the party
And giving young men a good eyeful
Smiling and eating proved easy
As long as she stayed with the trifle
But further emboldened by sherry
She set them to work on a sandwich
And here she fell foul of a morsel
Too tough for her top-plate to manage.
 
Both teeth and occasion were ruined
She fled to the lavatory broken.
Replies to proposals from suitors
Were destined to never be spoken
In spite of the setback, Miss Clarkson
Would surge on to later success
Since she and her teeth were both British
Hoorah for the new NHS!

MY SELF-EMPLOYED OFFICE PARTY, 2002

Went self-employed in noughty-one
It has its pitfalls, lack of fun
And overwork had left me tired
Some sort of party was required
As boss and workforce talking here
I'm not as hard as I appear
Though disagreements had occurred
And if they did I had a word
About myself and with myself
But mainly seemed to like myself
Till halfway down that jug of port
I told myself just what I thought.
 
The problems with the new IT
Were mainly what defeated me.
And what I found the most frustrating?
Constant crises with updating.
As boss I sympathised with this
Forget it though – a Christmas kiss
Perhaps under the mistletoe?
I told myself I ought to go
But drinks went down, the discs went on
The Kylie, Abba, Elton John
I'd warned myself about this stuff
I didn't listen hard enough
 
Well that's the last thing I remember
This occurred in mid-December
To the week, a year ago
And this tribunal ought to know:
As sole employer/employee
I've always liked a laugh with me
But fondle my own buttocks? Ah!
I definitely went too far
Look... it was just a bit of fun
– A boss and worker one-to-one
Though, I've proved harder to convince
And haven't spoken to me since.
 
The outfit that I wore that night?
Provocative? Well, rather tight
I cried and grabbed my coat to go
I've got to learn that no means No!
I stopped the party, locked the place
And started this harassment case
What can I say? I'm in the wrong
Though having known myself so long
I'd always thought I was a friend
It's awful that it's had to end
In dragging myself off to court.
This year I'm staying away from port.