Events
Nautical Farewell - Brought to you by James Wormald -
Across the many web pages of this here webzine, I’m sure I can be accused at times, of presenting the verity of my own opinion a little too much. I’ve always tried to keep my points fair, reasoned, and balanced. As well as reassuring the reading public that these are sorely my opinions, which I do not judge as gospel – however I’m sure a few sneak through every now and again.
With this event write up, I’d like to make it very clear that I am not the best or even one of the best, and hardly even suited to be writing it, however I am sadly the only person to have a platform such as this to do it from. Therefore, this burning torch falls into my hand.
I have worked in my current job for over 18 months start to end. Due to the nature of the job, and the cyclical employment trends of the business (employing 10-15 contractors for 3-5 months a year) you will inevitably become very good friends with people you’ll promise to stay in touch with, and meet up from time to time. But this never happens.
I’m not intending malice toward any ex-co-workers. This is simply (in my experience) what happens. When the inevitable time comes to part ways (when contracts end), it is a sad time. Diaries are scheduled, plans and even promises are made, but it’s always clear, even in the lowest depths of subconscious, these are all lies. Positive, well-meaning lies, but none of it will ring true.
A totally different ball game is played (like billiards – who knows the proper rules to that) when the staff-member to leave is (was) permanent. And this is why. Of course they weren’t permanent. How many people actually stay in the same job their whole lives? But it’s still thought of as such. It comes as much more of a surprise. And so, the traditional leaving party is a time for tears, hugs, smiles, memories, and a lot of drink.
This event was the send off for 3 individual people at the same company, Anna, Nina and Steve. So it was decided that the plain usual ‘Couple of drinks down the local’ wouldn’t suffice. At the same time, we are in recession so nothing that special was on the cards. Pre-party, different pub, more people, bit of a meal, solid.
The pre-party was at the office. Food, drink, tunes, and a picture reel of all the shots Dion could find of the three after sieving through the server, Flickr, Facebook and probably their houses.
The ‘Different Pub’ was Tamesis Dock. This is an actual boat moored on the Albert Embankment. I had no idea it or anything like it even existed. ‘I’m an old hat at drinking on boats’ I boasted to myself. ‘Out of my way’ I thought, barging my way on whilst reminiscing the good ol’ times on the Dry Dock in Leeds. Well, let me tell you sonny. The difference between drinking on a boat in a dry dock, and one on water is very different. At first it wasn’t too bad, hardly noticeable even. Got myself a pint (or Rob bought me one rather), went up to the top deck murmuring ‘Captain James is aboard!’ to myself when no one could hear… Giving it the old mingle, spreading myself about a bit, wagging my chin mostly in Amy and Nina’s direction as well as others. All good. No no.
Come around 7pm, the tide starts to come in (or up) on the Embankment, encouraging the boat deeper and deeper, lending more and more of its own fate to the cruel mistress Sea Queen as it knocks us around like Baby P. With this, and the wind having dropped directly on top of the boat like an elephant clutching a cocktail umbrella, it’s about time we sheen. Just after Steve is presented with a lovely bunch of flowers we’re off to more familiar, warmer, and most importantly grounded surroundings. The Lav.
This recession stuff isn’t all bad you know, 8pm Thursday night in The Lav, and there’s still the big back table to be had.
I’m still chatting away with Amy, Nina, Quique and John… This goes on for roughly 4 seconds until the realisation of just how hungry we all are truly sets in. Everyone either skipped or significantly lowered their lunch intake as we were pre-warned of the immense spread on offer at the pre-party. We were told it would be like that TV show where Gillian McBulimia shows you all the food you’ve eaten in a week, on one table. Our version must have come from after the fatty had given up dieting and stapled her stomach. A few olive paste mini-pancakes, couple of crisps, monosodium glutamate (MSG) Satay, and 2,000 tiny profiteroles. Please don’t misconstrue, I’m not complaining of the food, t’was nice there was anything at all. But by 9pm, the situation had been severely mis-judged. Time for bar chips. Regulars will remember me banging on about the food in The Lav, mainly the chips. So this almost turned out to be a happy coincidence. Sadly not.
If you’d have tried ordering that night, you’d have come across this Press Director’s nightmare of a line – “The chef hasn’t turned up today. We’ve gone through all the chips we have, but don’t have anyone to go out for more. Sorry.” Distraught and verging on insanity, just like Aladdin, Amy and I turn to stealing stale bread from a basket on the side of the bar. To be fair, no one’s going to eat it if they’re not doing food are they? So we filled our boots. I’m pretty sure I saw Amy stuff some up her sleeve before she left too.
Suddenly the night got even more interesting and dangerous when someone (Dion assures me Nina although I heard it from him) suggests we should end the night in the Queen Anne. I was strongly of the opinion that if that were to happen, we’d end the night without our wallets, phones, cameras, trousers, jewellery, underwear, and possibly lives. But of course I’d been drinking, so I managed to vent these worries with simple words. Shouting “I’m in!” Like a pubescent invited to a… well to a strip club.
That idea, as it is every Friday night was thrown out the window, and replaced by that of a curry. Really that should have been the end of my night. It was 11 by the time we got to the restaurant. For me to get the last tube we’d need to order, eat and pay in 40 minutes. Admittedly I wasn’t really thinking. Plus I was hungry remember? At least it was a bloody nice curry.
Being Inuit when it comes to curries, I of course ordered a mildest of the mild Korma. Barely being able to taste any spice whatsoever, my tongue was in bliss. The trip, last tube/train sheared many out of the meal… leaving just Quique, Donal, Chantal, Jane, Rob, Steve, Nina, myself, and I’m sure someone I’m forgetting, but if it’s you then you know who you are, if not then what’s your problem?
Of course… I DIDN’T get out of the place in time, getting to the bus station at 00:30. Cue a 2.5hr bus expedition to Far East London, and I’m asleep at 03:00, dreaming of my leaving celebration being half as welcomed, long, well attended, and fun.