We are at A Function. Myself and eight hundred colleagues. I am being hassled to dance.
Grant From Work: LOOK AT IT TIRED! There’s not one bloke on the dancefloor! It’s a minge-pit!
I’m attending because I have to. It’s some sort of charity thing to do with cancer or something and apparently we’re going to cure some woman someone knows if we all attend this thing.
She’ll die anyway but if we get the cash together she might not die so soon.
Grant From Work: If you don’t get in the minge-pit, you’ll never have the minge! Let’s have the minge!
Thing is, she has young children. The treatment we’re raising money for might prolong her life for a few years.
Me: Look, Grant From Work. I can’t dance, I injure people. Go away.
Grant From Work: Me and you Tired. Me and you are going to make twats of ourselves and get in the minge-pit.
I don’t really want to go in the ‘minge-pit’. To be frank, I don’t even like the sound of the 'minge-pit'. It makes me think of that desert scene in Return of the Jedi.
At the end of the evening, we raise £13,000. Enough for two treatments. She’ll live for a bit.
I’m on the dancefloor.
Grant From Work: Tired. Keep your arms down. Actually no. Go and sit down. That’s the second woman you’ve accidently smacked in the face.