Columns

'The Local' column appears in The South African, a newspaper in London with a readership of 105,000. The column been running since February 2007. 

A new column gets posted up here every week. You'll find all past columns handily located on The South African Website.

Dwarfs, cocaine and Christmas

(16 December 2011)

Last night, I did something very out of character. I went to a Christmas party.

I’m not referring to the one held for this paper by its publishers – that was a lot of fun, but it was very much some drinks and chow down the pub, and necking tequila with the editor. Newspapers tend to gravitate towards that sort of thing: sod the extras, just bring us the booze.

For the past three years, I’ve been entirely freelance. And while it gives me the swagger of being a mercenary, a gun-for-hire, a brigand, a renegade, it does mean that the office gets a bit lonely sometimes. And my Christmas parties have, for three years, consisted of pizza, a sixpack and PS3. Nothing wrong with that of course, and it certainly minimises any chance of disgracing myself in front of the boss, but it’s hardly what you’d call festive.

But this year, I’ve enjoyed a regular freelance gig working in a radio studio, and they were good enough to invite me to their Christmas bash. This being a media company in London, the tradition is to go big or go home – and boy, did we certainly go big. For someone unused to such extravagance at Christmas, such as me, it was like dragging into the light someone who had been down a hole for ten years. I just sort of lay there and twitched.

There was a huge venue, lit my dazzling lights and with candelabra’d tables stretching to infinity. There were dancing girls, girls hanging from the ceiling, running around in skimpy outfits offering shots. There were dodgem cars, poker tables, a photo booth. Booze was free. We were expected – nay, encouraged – to get riotously, harmoniously sozzled. I was surprised not to see dwarfs wandering around carrying trays of cocaine on their heads.

Sod freelancing for a game of soldiers, I thought, watching the girls from sales do bodyshots. This is the way to go.

It is, however, time to admit something. I’m only writing about Christmas parties because I just cannot face doing another of those summing-up-the-year columns that breed like flies at this time of year. I don’t have to tell you what went down in 2011. You know what happened. You were there. If I am forced at gunpoint to summarise the year in a pithy phrase, it would be: break stuff. But I refuse to think about 2011 in hindsight: yes, it was a politically tumultuous year, both here and in South Africa, but we don’t need to rehash it. Here’s to 2012.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am biblically hungover. Seriously, there’s a full orchestra in my head, and they’re playing the 1812 Overture. It’s been a genuine pleasure meeting on these pages every week this year, but without putting too fine a point on it, I’m going to go and stick my head in the toilet.

Merry Christmas.

Legal: The copyright to all words on this page is held by Rob Boffard. All material was first published in the sources indicated. All photography was supplied to the publications for press purposes and is merely being reprinted here. Unauthorised reproduction, copying and use will earn your ass a beat down.