Charity.
Me: No, Grant From Work, there is no way I am dancing. Forget it. I dance, people get hurt. I don’t need the grief.
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.
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.
posted by Tired Dad at
9:23 pm
11 Comments:
Maybe your work colleagues will organise a benefit to raise money for dance classes for you.
Welcome back Tired Dad. I've missed you.
Ellie: Actually a couple of lady colleagues did try to convince me to go to Salsa classes with them. I had to decline on the basis that it would not have helped quell the 'is Tired actually gay?' rumours that sometimes go round. I must stop moving my hands so much when I talk.
J: A lurker. Hello.
Ooh, you sneaky bugger. You started up again. Welcome back.
I've been looking in every week for months. As soon as I give up you return.
You're an inspiration.
Great to see the blog alive again.
Katy: Hello and welcome back.
Star person: Em. Hi. Bit creepy but hi.
As awful as "Minge-pit" does it sound, its slightly better than "Gash-Patch" which always reminds me of Cabbage Patch Dolls.
Thats another destroyed childhood memory
Mia: Hello and welcome. No idea why you're reading this but hi. Two blogs though? Seriously. That's so two years ago.
'Gash Patch' by the way. Very good.
I want the minge pit.
You want an early night.
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