How I learned a harsh lesson at the office Christmas party

Paul Fitzpatrick

'Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!”

- Dr Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas!

 

I would love to be able to say that this week’s column is not based on reality, that’s it’s just a parable around which to hook some moralistic teachings. 

It would be nice to be able to include a little legalese stating that all references to characters are entirely fictitious. As Red said when recounting Andy Dufresne’s misfortunes in The Shawshank Redemption, I wish I could tell you that.

But I can’t. My name is Paul Fitzpatrick and I have been rumbled as a tight-arse, a miser, a scab, the worst kind of Scrooge.

I’ll cut to the chase. Have you heard of a phenomenon called re-gifting? No? Don’t worry, before last Friday, I hadn’t either.

That was the date of the Celt’s Christmas party and this year, some bright spark in the ads department (note: we wizened hacks are wary of those creatures, with their shiny clean desks, 5pm knock-off times and overly-generous stock of stationery) decided to run a ‘kris kindle’.

You know the craic – a Secret Santa-type thing, where everyone picks a name from a hat and buys them a present. The identity of the purchaser is supposed to be shrouded in mystery but, like some of those who stay quiet all year before unleashing themselves at the festive frenzy, it always gets out.

Anyway, the missive from the sales room dropped in our email. I should have backed out when I read the first line.

“Ho ho ho,” it began (shoot me now), “Is everyone happy to take part in a wee secret santa for the party night on Friday? Limit of €5.”

A poxy fiver, I thought. Sure what could I buy for that? A Sunday newspaper? Novelty socks? No, this wouldn’t do; if we are being forced to show some yuletide cheer, let’s do it right. I hit “reply all”.

“Can we make it €10?” I asked, breathlessly showing off how generous I am.

“Sure,” came the reply.

So, the draw was made and I was landed with Tom Lyons, new man on this beat, from Longford and with a strange rugby fixation but otherwise not a bad skin. It being nearly Christmas and all that, I silently vowed to make an effort.

I’ll make the fella welcome, I thought to myself, with the best damn present in-or-around €10 can buy. I thought of going for a combo approach - maybe two cans of beer and one of those all-singing, all-dancing scratch cards that offer 10 different ways to win (as an aside, I quit buying scratchers this year - anyone else find the most they ever win these days is a free ticket?).

But the road to the Christmas piss-up is paved with good intentions. No sooner had I planned my purchase than I became distracted. That was Tuesday - the next time I remembered the gift was Friday afternoon, a couple of hours before throw-in.

In my defence, town was packed - where would I park? And I had so much to get done...

Luckily for me, there was a package on my desk that morning containing a fresh new copy of The Pocket Guide to the GAA, sent out by the good people in the media department at Croke Park. Nobody else had copped me opening it.

Great, I thought - this will save me some time and a crispy tenner.

So I wrapped the tome - hardbacked and fully illustrated and with that delicious new book smell - quickly and, away from prying eyes, placed it in the sack with the rest of the presents, confident that nobody would know from whence it came and, lo, Tom would surely pronounce me a prince and cherish it for ever and a day.

After all, this was, as the back cover told me, “a fascinating and colourful introduction to Gaelic games, covering football, hurling, camogie and handball.”

There was more. This pocket-sized book featured “all the key events in the GAA’s illustrious history, as well as biographies of famous players, rolls of honour, county information and the stories behind some of the GAA’s cups and trophies.”

Sure you couldn’t beat that, I reckoned. My only reservation concerned how it would be accepted by a Longford supporter - would he take it as a slur, given their lack of “famous players”, an “illustrious history” and connection to “cups and trophies”? No, I decided, this was a gift he’d surely cherish.

Act two takes place in Crover House that night, where the beer is flowing - on the table, on my jeans... All were in good tune. The meal done, my big moment drew near. I rubbed my hands with glee.

Soon, all around me, colleagues were opening their mugs and make-up and magazines but I only had eyes for one package. My gaze was fixed across the table, where Tom’s eyes lit up as TPGTTGAA emerged from the wrapping paper.

I studied his reaction - joyous (naturally) at first. But what was this? I sensed a change come over the gathering as revellers became aware that something terrible had gone down. (Did the lights dim? I can’t confirm but in my memory, yes, yes they did).

Tom’s child-like grin had turned to a scowl. What had gone wrong? Surely he didn’t already have a copy of this smashing new publication? Could he have, after all, taken it as a grievous insult, poking fun at the footballing troubles of his tribe?

Alas, no; would that it were. A sickening feeling began to rise in the pit of my stomach as the realisation of what I had done dawned. Chamberlain-style (“I hold in my hand a piece of paper...”) he rose to his feet, brandishing a ‘with compliments’ slip, bearing the GAA logo, that had fallen from the centre of the book.

With a glower, he silently dropped it to the table and I caught sight of the first line.

“Dear Paul,” it read, “please find enclosed...”

There was no talking my way out of this one. I hastily retreated to the bar, venomous cries of “Fitz, you mean bastard!” ringing in my ears. 

And as the band struck up Fairytale of New York, I ordered a drink (no, not a Humbug) and sat alone in the drunk tank, pondering where it all went wrong.

You try to be thoughtful and look where it gets you...