Roles assigned for office Christmas party

THE list of who will be the Drunken Bore, the Perv and Crying in the Toilets at the Christmas party has been put on the office noticeboard.

Random stereotypical roles are assigned so that everyone knows exactly what they have done when they wake up the following day with memory loss.

Account manager Wayne Hayes said: “Last year I had to be Strip Club Bloke, and staying out until 3am exhorting everyone to go Senoritas for a lap dance was hard work.

“This year I’m Insensibly Drunk During Meal which is fantastic because I get to leave by 9pm, once I’ve been sick on my cake.”

Joanna Kramer, from HR, said: “Some people were hogging all the roles –Starting Fights With Strangers, Shocking Emotional Confession, Obviously On Cocaine – and other people had nothing to do but watch.

“This way everyone gets to behave incredibly badly in the grand Christmas tradition without being stuck in a rut.”

Managing director Nathan Muir said: “This year I’m Dancing Obliviously with Penis Out. It was my turn.”

Reagan and Thatcher’s Dangerous Liaisons

Dear Ma’am,

My utmost apologies for my bold, forceful taking of Grenada, but what’s a man to do when the abyss of life in the colonies yawns empty without you?

Tell me, how progresses life with our young protégées? I hear they intend to write a hilarious Christmas song for the poor! Do write back with sordid news of the mother country,

Yours always, Ron

Sir,

Grenada is of no matter. I would have happened upon an invasion myself if not so immersed in our little amusement. Your notion to ensnare these two has been the highlight of the gay 1980s.

Young Mr Geldof is quite besotted, poor wretch. It wasn’t enough simply to take him; one doesn’t applaud the tenor for clearing his throat. No, I wanted him to give himself to me, all the while knowing he was betraying everything he held most dear. 

At the crucial moment, I whispered to him, “Would you care if Midge could see you now?”

“No, no, madam, let him see!” he replied breathlessly, spilling his Cremola Foam all over the chaise longue.

“Don’t worry,” I told him, my mouth a moue of satisfaction, “Mbumba will get that.”

But enough of my affairs. How is your precious Mr Ure?

Yours,

Maggie

My esteemed lady,

Last night as we lay together, the darling Scots pet timorously asked if he may use my back to pen his latest pop ditty. Tremendously impish, until he asked “Do you love me, Mr Reagan?”

Forewarned he had lost his senses to Venus, I replied “Do you know a rhyme for ‘nothing ever grows’?”

“Is the answer ‘rain or rivers flows!’, Mr Reagan?” “Well done, my sweet gamache,” I said, stroking his ponytail, “now what of ‘world of dread and fear’?”

Can’t wait to get our playthings back together. Think how we’ll watch their giddy, simple faces on TV and laugh our wicked laughs. Promise you’ll call me, I want to hear you doing it.

In anticipation,

Ron Ron