Nothing beats a raucous festive night out with your colleagues, writes Moreen Simpson, as she remembers newsroom parties past.
In toon the other day, the majority of tables at oor eatooterie were taken over by a Christmas office lunch.
The noise increased with every course and glass of vino plonko. Our sedate little group could hardly hear oorsellies. Horrors, some juicy bits of goss were almost inaudible. So we harrumphed, they should be thinking of others and toning it doon.
Then it dawned on me – just as if! Scraik and giggle on, you guys. The revellers brought back memories of past, and distinctly hallirackit, festive work dos. Some big, some little, all very loud, raucous even, and usually fraught with multiple dramas involving tears, tiffs, broken romances or inter-departmental feuds. Great stuff.
Somebody usually suggested we start thinking about the night around September, followed by various bods whinging: “I organised it last year, so dinna look at me. Why doesn’t a man do it this year?” Never happened.
In the 1970s, the EE editorial staff probably numbered nearly 100, including reporters, subs, photographers, secretaries, copy-takers, messengers and bosses. So, we’d often hire a coach to take us to venues aboot the place, wherever there was a dance or disco for us to get wellied into.
The quines would a’ buy glam new dresses. One year, I trailed the toon for the perfect one, ending up spending a small fortune on a black lace-and-velvet creation from Watt & Grant. Affa tight and fluted at the hem. Losh, but I loved it. Affa fantoosh.
All would have been well, had I not gobbled every mouthful of the turkey and plum pud dinner. Later, plum-fu’ and giving it laldie on the dance floor, I lugged a ripping sound when I lifted an arm in a rhythmic frenzy, only to discover a distinct lack of lace-and-velvet under my oxter. Tryin’ desperately to hide the gapin’ hole, I went aboot the rest of the night bent ower like Quasimodo.
An unexpected entertainer
A’ you politically correct folk better read no further. Definitely our best EE Christmas night was at Bucksburn’s beloved Cloverleaf, where you got chicken in a basket, a show (usually Stevie Cameron) and a bop for only a pucklie pounds.
As it happened, it was probably the best festive do ever. The stripper was hilarious
We booked our do well in advance, but, nearer the time, word went roon that our “entertainment” would be a… stripper – one of their most popular attractions. Feminist Mo here straddled her high horse, protesting that it was demeaning, dirty even. Sez the deputy chief reporter mannie: “Well, ye can aye bide at hame.”
As it happened, it was probably the best festive do ever. The stripper was hilarious; dressed as a charlady, keeping on more than she took off. So, girls, enjoy your various nights oot with colleagues. But dinna wear onything too tight.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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