‘One for the money’, that’s what we call it. And considering the looks of this joint, they have a lot of it to splash around. In this, the time of the financial house of cards, it seems this bunch of product pimps are doing a roaring trade. All the signs are there: parking lot crammed with all the right insignia, rows of shiny new models, winking away as the dirt poor shuffle past the electrified fence. Labels and egos in all the right places. Row upon row of unmentionably dear champagne – and none that Methode Cap Classique tat either, no, no, no – the real deal, mate: Champagne. Johnny Blue, too, a couple bottles’ worth, and they’re mixing it with…oh my god…cola. And catering from the only Michelin star in town. For a goddamn office party. Fuck me.

In any case, can’t complain. Although we’ll privately shake our heads at the sheer blind gluttony of it all. Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to stand behind this DJ console and take requests like the hired help we are; sit back and think of the cash. One for the money, like I say.

They were already roaring by the time we arrived, god alone knows how messy they’ll be when we pack up and head to the next gig. If they'll let us. The men are leery, the women have wild eyes, swimming in pools of eyeliner and mascara; the innuendo is thick as cigar smoke. Bet your bottom dollar there’ll be a divorce hatched tonight, or at the very least a serious fall out, perhaps an engagement will get put on ice. Office parties are like weddings like that – there’s always the indiscretion, some foul play, someone offside. And someone goes home in tears.

Christ, it’s getting a bit Hieronymus Bosch round here now, they’re pulling at each other and hurling themselves around the room, mouths agape, eyes leering. There goes a pair, into the room where the Xerox machine is. Hmmm - who ate all the pies?

Best have a medic on standby; the glass on those things has a breaking strain of only 60kg’s...