Friday, December 09, 2005
Through The Years We All Will Be Together
“Christians are fucking unbearable at this time of year, aren’t they?” asked Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, as she slammed the phone down. “Season of good will my arse.”
She turned to look at some photos she’d been emailed. They showed a group of young women, shit faced in strappy dresses, hanging around outside the Fishergate Centre. It looked like they’d crawled up through the paving slabs. They were the living dead in Prada.
“Which one is you?” I asked.
“There,” she pointed. “Sat down with my head between my knees.”
She was wearing a tinselly headband with a sprig of mistletoe attached to it. In one hand she held a stiletto with a broken heel, and in the other was a half eaten kebab. A lump of mechanically reclaimed meat appeared to be making it’s way up her left leg - the inedible in pursuit of the unthinkable.
“Tabs says I was snogging anything with a pulse. You should have come. It was a good night.”
In the next picture, the girls were unconsciously mimicking the poses of the dummies in Debenhams’ window. It was like one of those ‘before and after’ makeover photos. The dummies looked down on them with a weary ‘seen it all before’ expression.
“So who did you snog?” I asked.
At that moment Neil, my former team leader, walked into the office. He was wearing a pink tight fitting T-shirt, that read in sparkly lettering “Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was HOT like me?”
He saw Stella, blushed and twirled his hair around with a pencil, and then about-turned sharpish back out of the room.
“Buggered if I know,” she replied.
“’Tis the season,” I said and wandered off to see the lady at the gate with the dreamy soft white baps. I’m sure they can’t really have been reindeer and cranberry, but I was too distracted to ask, and now it’s bothering me.
She turned to look at some photos she’d been emailed. They showed a group of young women, shit faced in strappy dresses, hanging around outside the Fishergate Centre. It looked like they’d crawled up through the paving slabs. They were the living dead in Prada.
“Which one is you?” I asked.
“There,” she pointed. “Sat down with my head between my knees.”
She was wearing a tinselly headband with a sprig of mistletoe attached to it. In one hand she held a stiletto with a broken heel, and in the other was a half eaten kebab. A lump of mechanically reclaimed meat appeared to be making it’s way up her left leg - the inedible in pursuit of the unthinkable.
“Tabs says I was snogging anything with a pulse. You should have come. It was a good night.”
In the next picture, the girls were unconsciously mimicking the poses of the dummies in Debenhams’ window. It was like one of those ‘before and after’ makeover photos. The dummies looked down on them with a weary ‘seen it all before’ expression.
“So who did you snog?” I asked.
At that moment Neil, my former team leader, walked into the office. He was wearing a pink tight fitting T-shirt, that read in sparkly lettering “Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was HOT like me?”
He saw Stella, blushed and twirled his hair around with a pencil, and then about-turned sharpish back out of the room.
“Buggered if I know,” she replied.
“’Tis the season,” I said and wandered off to see the lady at the gate with the dreamy soft white baps. I’m sure they can’t really have been reindeer and cranberry, but I was too distracted to ask, and now it’s bothering me.

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