Oh Gawd, this old chestnut.

One of the great markers that the holiday season is upon us is the numbers of bored hacks writers in the Sunday papers churning out pieces about what to do and not to do at the “office Christmas party”

For those completely clueless, said writers produce gems like “drink in moderation”, “don’t wear revealing clothes” and “don’t goose the boss while shouting ‘let’s re-create Operation Barbarossa, you saucy minx’,” and so-on and so-forth.

Even more painful are the humorous takes on what to do and not do at the office Christmas party, as witnessed by The Dev in the Age today.

Therefore in keeping with the clichés of the season, I present the Ramon Insertnamehere guide to what to do and not do at the office Christmas party.

Don’t fuckin go.

For those who do work in an office, consider your co-workers for a moment.

Aren’t they the most insufferable bunch of arse-clowns you’ve every come across? I mean, you’d rather go wild on gin with Tony Abbott than spend a minute more than you have to in their malodorous presence.

Sweet Jesus.

For those of you who work from home, however, this is the perfect time to drink all those bottles of Polish vodka you’ve been storing and make abusive calls to the Pope while wearing a reindeer costume.

You know it makes sense.

Memories of holidays past

Everyone has a smell, taste or sound that is guaranteed to trigger evocative memories from their childhood.

For some, it’s the smell of the beach, from Summer holidays past when the whole tribe would pile in the Kingswood wagon the day after Dad finished work and head to the beach before it got invaded by grey-haired antique shop owners and Texan inspired goth pirates. For others, it may be the song on the stereo when you finally got your hand up Michelle Petersen’s jumper.

Today I encountered a new one.

My family and I are currently on a short sojourn in the wilds of Williamstown Victoria, before a return to Manila to pack everything in boxes so we can move back to Canberra. Got it? Simple.

Today, in order to keep the young Fadlets happy, we took a quick trip completely across the city to go and ride Puffing Billy. It’s a steam train, my son loves Thomas the Tank Engine – too easy.

I spent the first seven years of my life in Melbourne. Most of my immediate family are in Melbourne. The Catholic side of my family account for most of the population of Melbourne that isn’t Jewish, Greek or Sudanese. We spent many, many holidays around Melbourne and Victoria, even after we escaped the family to move to Canberra of all places.

Sitting on the window sill with my legs hanging out the window watching the scenery chug by was great. Memories of doing the same with my family started flooding back - particularly of Dad dropping us off at the station with Mum and then magically appearing in the car to wave to us at every crossing.

Then, it happened. A fucking cinder in my eye… and another!

Fuck! Get it out!

This was the trigger of which I speak. Suddenly, the real memories shouldered their way in, pushing the other, nicer ones out of the way. The only REAL reason we ever went on Puffing Billy was for my parents to lull us three boys into a false sense of security before dropping us off in Emerald with the bogan relatives from hell, so they could spend a week in Queensland. That week was spent with the Australian equivalent of the Griswald cousins in the first Vacation movie.

I now remembered… God, I remembered!

So fuck you Puffing Billy! And your fucking Thomas the Tank Engine sales points!!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my first TSFKA outing.

I don't care who's making the feckin' gravy

People must know by now I’m a huge Paul Kelly fan but in the lead-up to Christmas, 774 in Melbourne has been flogging perhaps his worst song pretty much non-stop.

“How to make gravy” is a compendium of crap Paul Kelly songs; musically overblown, trite and schmaltzy.

But these lines really give me the flying shits.

Just add flour, salt, a little red wine and don’t forget a dollop of tomato sauce for sweetness and that extra tang.

Fuck Paul, who makes gravy like that?

Spoon the stuff out of the Gravox tin, whack it in some boiling water and get back on the sauce like everybody else.

And on that festive note, I’d like to wish all the wonderful CuntCunts at TSFKA best wishes and happy travelling.

See you when all this madness is over.

Buy me this for Christmas, you crunts.

I think you'll find it's a bit more complicated than that

Details here.