Under the influence

I blame one thing only...

[EDIT: ... a bottle of Bacardi Oro... (Blogger has messed up my image of a bottle)]

I was partying, Christmas-style, last Friday night with a number of work colleagues, and with my good friend Bacardi, at a house BBQ. It was the "pre-work Christmas party Christmas party". I had a good time, a very good time. Me and the Smack-ardi (cut with pineapple juice, Bacardi is very addictive) hit it off. I remember starting the bottle; hell, I even remember finishing it. But some of the minor details in between got a little fuzzy... like the drunken voicemail left on the mobile of a friend who didn't make the bbq, mainly involving me yelling over the top of the person actually making the call... and like when the trash talking between work friends somehow ended in the threat of a "dance-off" to prove who had the best moves. Hmmm, that just smells of trouble, doesn't it.

I spent most of Saturday in what could best be described as a "delicate" state.

Saturday night rolls around, and it is time for the work Christmas party. By this stage, I'm feeling great. Except for the sledgehammer pounding the back of my skull. The party is ok... average bar in Southbank, poor nibbles but at least the alcohol is free. Oh, that's right, I'm a wreck, so I'm not drinking.

During the course of the evening, some smart-alec, sober(ish) person (not entirely sure who), manages to mention the trash-talking and dance-off challenge of the previous night to assorted senior work folk, particularly those in charge of the "happy end of year work congratulations" and the Kris Kringle. Oops. You know how the story goes... the music is turned up, the crowd is chanting, (we somehow get a third participant in the challenge) and somehow a bad movie cliche has become my life.

How does it end? Would I disappoint you? Of course not. Winner, by unanimous crowd verdict...

Me.

Rock the house.