I tend to shun office parties like a hydraulic shunning device attached to the front of a train, but this time I had my own nerdly reasons for wanting to attend the Madame Tussaud's [yes I still work there] Magic so called Update party. You see the museum [if it can be so loosely named because at this point it's about as much a museum as my kitchen is a stage for Gladiatoral combat] will be receiving some brand new figures soon and an entire refurb of the inside comes with them. The figures in question will be OH MY GOD NO I CAN'T SAY OR I'LL BE FIRED OUT A CANNON INTO THE FUCKING OCEAN! There's something of a fear based system in the place about posting things about work on the internet these days. For this very paragraph I could have my ears nailed to the floor while monsters piss in my eyes, so I'll end it right now before I get myself into any further trouble.

The party takes place right after a long winded and stats heavy talk by a couple of higher ups where every department is endlessly lauded for its myriad accomplishments, including the bloke who cleans the toilets [honestly] but not including my department ever ever. Once the PowerPoint presentation of guttural disappointment is over we wend our merry way up the stairs into the ‘A-List Party’ section, which these days features the smirking lecherous face of AWWW-PATZZZ in his starring role as Count Smugula from those sparkly tween porn vampire flicking-off festival movies. Prick.

Pizza on tap and free beer by the blue box load. I'm an advocate of getting as drunk as is possible when at staff parties, to try and dull the feeling that I'm spending my free time at work with the people I work with. The novelty of getting leathered around wax works has massively worn off now, like the colour on the box art for an old board game left in the window of a village corner shop since the mid to late eighties, but thankfully I don't mind the company of one or two of the folk down there at the mines so I was happily chatting away, chumming it up like a regular person might do.

Having accused my immediate superior of being dressed like the rich bully from an American Pie style teen comedy, a realisation struck me. We'd all been talking and laughing and remembering adventures past, and as you do had formed a circle of trust in which to weave tales in relative safety. It was a good 10 minutes in before anyone noticed that we'd subconsciously included the Jennifer Lopez wax figure into our campfire community. Bit disconcerting, if I'm gonna be honest with you. Which I'm not, because a handful of things happened at the party, which I'm not at liberty to discuss.

Yes yes, I'm guilty of the same lilly livered self censorship that I often [every week] clash with James over, but like I said these are sensitive times. Once I leave the hallowed halls of the twice-bombed statue looking parlour then maybe I'll spill all my beans like a work experience waitress, but that day is not today. There was dancing, drinking, an excessive amount of picture taking and at one point a potential international incident was averted when a Frenchman tried to start a fight with an Englishman, only to have the whole thing kiboshed by some well timed Human Resources training.