# Fancy That . . .



## Ravel (Jul 20, 2012)

[FONT=&Verdana]We were invited to roll into the office in fancy dress, under the theme of “TheBest of British”. This has an added complexity when “work” is 150 miles away and you are travelling by train. It’s a brave man or woman who jumps onto the7.50 out of Derby dressed as Dennis the Menace or who squeezes into the quiet coach resplendent as Queen Victoria. And there are few costumes of any worth which will compress into my handy travel suitcase, along with the week’s regular supply of socks and shirts.
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I flirted briefly with the option of taking the day off (as oneof my team did) or simply dressing down rather than dressing up (like the contract staff did). But as a senior manager one has little option but to man-up and to dress the part. Not doing so would label you forever as some awful hybrid wimp/spoilsport/dull person. No, the whole point of these events is to conspire together in the ritualistic semi-humiliation of “the management” with a smile and without a complete loss of dignity and respect.
[FONT=&Verdana]I received some advice about the options from a keen member of my team who was worried I might just bottle it. Hiring a ready-made costume was not practical for the aforementioned logistical reasons. And I had already left it too late. So it would haveto be a DIY character or caricature.
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[FONT=&Verdana]Could I cobble something together from the contents of the various domestic wardrobes? My sons travel commendably light through life. Neither had left behind anything to help me turn into a sportsman, a school boy or a super hero. Besides most super-heroes are unsurprisingly American. Which fortunately meant that my superman cape and pants could stay in the drawer. My wife’s and daughter’s wardrobes apart from being unfathomable recesses I would never dare explore, only surfaced the appalling prospect of cross-dressing. So knickers – as it were – also to that.
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[FONT=&Verdana]Two other ideas were quickly dismissed. I am often teased playfully in the office for my northern socialistroots. I googled images of traditional Lancashire attire. But I had neither theclogs nor the flat cap and the rest of the outfit would be tediously drab. The oppressed proletariat – commendable as they were and are – are rarely noted for their colour or fashion sense. The only thing going for it was the copy of the (erstwhile Manchester) Guardian on the kitchen table. At the other end of the social scale, dressing as a Cambridge graduate, whilst eminently achievable with my gown and college tie would label me as even more pretentious and elitist than I probably already am perceived to be.
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So I am afraid I went for the rather easy and obvious idea of turning up in the guise of an England football supporter. The very Best of British. I travelled with just an England t-shirt and my scruffiest pair of jeans and the hope that the 24 hour Tesco near to my flat would retail sufficient bits and pieces to make me look almost convincing. 
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Hence it was that I found myself, late at night, scouring the aisles of that Best of British supermarkets alongside the lonely shoppers buying company and solitary tins of soup. I was in luck. The combination of the jubilee, the euros and the Olympics has persuaded the buyers to stock the shelves with a multitude of red, white and blue bling and over-priced trivia. Probably made in China. Patriotism is an unashamed opportunity for profit without principles. [/FONT]
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I dropped two England flags into my basket as easily as I would drop in a couple of ready meals.These were quickly supplemented with a cap and some rather attractive union-jack socks. I was buzzing. I tossed in some red white and blue wristbands, careless of the expense. But what I really wanted was one of those redand white frizzy wigs so adored by the England football intelligentsia as they represent all that is good about our country abroad.[/FONT]
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It's hard enough to find fresh milk in Tesco and almost impossible to find mint sauce. Finding a football wig defies all categorisation. The other patriotic products had been on gondola-ends. But I had seen no wigs. I looked in the women’s section – plenty of dresses, jewellery and other mysterious items, but no wigs. I discovered a hair-products aisle strangely positioned opposite barbecue products. There was a hair-dryers, hair curlers, hair straighteners and a staggering range of hair products. Maybe this is where Rooney and Carroll and the WAGS purchase their bits and pieces, but clearly not the fans themselves. Needless to say I wasn’t going toask a shop assistant. Despite the contents of my basket, I still have someself-respect.[/FONT]
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And so I arrived at the checkout with £20 worth of dodgy merchandise, including a set of union jacknail transfers and some red & white face paint – to make up (as it were) for the absentee wig. I decided to self-scan discretely.[/FONT]
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I got up early the next day.Folk lore has it that a woman needs an hour to get ready – to do her face andnails and whatnot. This, gentlemen, I can reveal is a myth  I was ready in ten. It could have been less except for a schoolboy error in applying the face paint. A tip; when drawing St George’s crosses on your face, do not draw the horizontal line over the vertical. It will smudge. Draw the vertical and then apply the horizontals on either side of it like arms.[/FONT]
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Sticking on the 10 union flag nail transfers was easy for a boy practised in the delicate operation of positioning transfers onto airfix models. The golden rule is not to let the thing stick to itself. I did however learn the self-evident truth that doing anything to your right hand can only be done with your left hand. A rather obvious point for more experienced nail-varnishers. Now I understand why people need manicurists. [/FONT]
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And so I was ready to walk to the car and arrive semi-triumphantly into the office. It would be the day that the neighbourhood was swarming with burly builders painting the flats. Never explain, never justify. I will hopefully never see them again. And don’t flinch when the lady in the car in front double-takes on the football hooligan in her rear view mirror.[/FONT]
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It was inevitably with some trepidation I arrived at the office, unsure whether I was over or underdressed. Not an uncommon experience in life for many of us. Maybe the whole thing was a hoax. But I got away with it. In between the Dalek, Britannia, Nelson and the disproportionate number of soldiers and sailors I was just about “in the mood” but not too conspicuous. I sat down at my desk, flashed my nails to my team and caught up with Dick Whittington and Jimmy Saville about last night’s software deployments.[/FONT]
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It is interesting to see how people reveal their ego or their alter-ego in fancy dress. What would you wear? It is your big chance to be the person you always wanted to be. To express your inner-Robin Hood, Maid Marian or Stan Laurel. The three directors turned out aseggs, bacon and sausage. One involved, one committed and one with a bit ofsizzle. No doubt expressing their latent fear that, one mistake, and the MD would have them for breakfast. Actually, the bacon was off sick, so his place was taken by a leaner stand-in. [/FONT]
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The soldiers with guns were just as likely to be the silent withdrawn programmers as aggressive alpha-male managers. The mass murderer is always the quiet one you didn’t notice. One guy turned up dressed as a funeral director. Make of that what you like, but I’m going to keep my distance. It takes all sorts. And, when all is said and done, we are a community of weirdo IT nerds.[/FONT]
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Only my nails attracted any real attention or comment. And not of a particularly favourable kind. The lady in HR said she was quite disturbed. I must have been asked a dozen times whether I had painted them on myself. Of course I had, I protested. But it was all uncomfortably close to the proximity of the suggestion of being rather too comfortable with my feminine side. I started to wonder what deep psychological scar had possessed me to buy them and stick them on. I scratched them off before I drove home and scrubbed off the face paint, just in case the builders were working late. 

Next year, I will order my cyber-man outfit in good time.[/FONT]


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## Potty (Jul 20, 2012)

Very good! Most enjoyable, I've never been to a fancy dress party in my life and often wondered what I would go as... I keep thinking Tron, but if I had to go with a british theme? Probably have to be knickerbockers and a satchel.

Though a quick wiki tells me they are american... my world has just been shattered.


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## Ravel (Jul 20, 2012)

No - all very English ! your world is reconstituted !


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## The Backward OX (Jul 21, 2012)

What a lot of trouble, when the use of imagination would have carried the day with little effort. One could go as a poofter, simply with affectations of speech and manner, or a drunk, simply with slurred speech and tie askew, or a homeless person, simply by wearing mismatched shoes and carrying a few supermarket bags crammed with rubbish. All of them very British. Need I go on? 


“I decided to self-scan discretely.” 

I think the word is discreetly. Discretely means disjointedly; discreetly means tactfully or carefully.


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## Potty (Jul 21, 2012)

The Backward OX said:


> What a lot of trouble, when the use of imagination would have carried the day with little effort. One could go as a poofter, simply with affectations of speech and manner, or a drunk, simply with slurred speech and tie askew, or a homeless person, simply by wearing mismatched shoes and carrying a few supermarket bags crammed with rubbish. All of them very British. Need I go on?



..... Oi!


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## Divus (Jul 21, 2012)

Ravel, nicely done.

You had to be English, there were too many clues.

But you forgot to include the bit about the office romances.


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## Ravel (Jul 21, 2012)

Always better to scan discretely than continuously - one item at a time (but well-spotted)!


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## Divus (Jul 21, 2012)

Dear Ravel
I read your article with my morning coffee.   It  came across as a piece of whimsy , an everyday story of personal events.   The sort of stuff I write about when I am not putting the world to rights or discussing horses.      There are one or two typos and maybe a spelling mistake but nothing of any importance.      I had the feeling you had  written it seeking a critique but I don’t like to criticise unless something in the piece provokes me.       But the next job after breakfast was to mow the front lawn and your article was still in the back of my mind.    So as I was going up and down and around the tree trunks I got to thinking about it.   Think critical I thought to myself.  Well, herewith critical thoughts.
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The story is all about you a senior manager in a Derby based catching a train to go 150 miles to attend an office party.   You don’t say why the party is being held – could it be the award of a massive Government contract?    
Then you hunt around Tescos of all places for fancy dress gear and you decide to dress up as a football supporter – you don’t say if you are supposed to be a hooligan or not.     You decide to bedeck yourself in red white and blue, which suggests you do attend modern football matches especially those against a Scottish team.       You have difficulty in finding a wig but since you confess to not being able to find the mint sauce in a grocery shop no wonder you can’t find a blonde wig.     Maybe you should have gone to Asda!

 You don’t say why you are travelling on a Saturday or why wifey can’t attend.    But you have a flat in town – so when do you stay at home?

There is no sex in the story except for use of the evocative  word ‘knickers’.   I though women wore ‘thongs’ these days – whatever they are.    

Noone was caught with a secretary in a stationery cupboard.    
No couples sneaked off home early for a bit of nookey.
Noone photo copied their butt.
No fresh young female employee arrived at the party clad semi naked, décolletage in abundance, wearing a mask and fishnet tights.  (You could let your imagination go riot here)     

Noone got drunk.     
There were no clouds of smoke rising  from wacky bacco.    
Noone was sick.

The boss did not make a boring speech.      
The assistant boss did not make a smarmie flattering speech.     
Noone was given an engraved silver mug for not having been made redundant years ago.    
Noone moaned about the lack of a salary rise.

All I can think of accounting for these lapses is that you haven’t been to many office parties.  
It is time you went to one in the City of London on a Friday night.

However you did write about painting your finger nails with nail warmish – what colour may I ask?
As you so rightly say, people look oddly at men – even cross dressers – who paint their finger nails.
Or is that sexist – after all women cross dress when they wear the trousers don’t they!
Maybe P&G will now bring out a range of nail varnishes for men.   That’s a thought.
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No Ravel get to it.   Write the sequel but spice it up the next time.  I have given you some prompts.

With kindest personal regards,
Yours sincerely ,

Divus                                                                                                                                     Dv/Rv/party


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## Divus (Jul 21, 2012)

Dear Ravel
I read your article with my morning coffee.   It  came across as a piece of whimsy , an everyday story of personal events.   The sort of stuff I write about when I am not putting the world to rights or discussing horses.      There are one or two typos and maybe a spelling mistake but nothing of any importance.      I had the feeling you had  written it seeking a critique but I don’t like to criticise unless something in the piece provokes me.       But the next job after breakfast was to mow the front lawn and your article was still in the back of my mind.    So as I was going up and down and around the tree trunks I got to thinking about it.   Think critical I thought to myself.  Well, herewith critical thoughts.
------------------------

The story is all about you a senior manager in a Derby based catching a train to go 150 miles to attend an office party.   You don’t say why the party is being held – could it be the award of a massive Government contract?    
Then you hunt around Tescos of all places for fancy dress gear and you decide to dress up as a football supporter – you don’t say if you are supposed to be a hooligan or not.     You decide to bedeck yourself in red white and blue, which suggests you do attend modern football matches especially those against a Scottish team.       You have difficulty in finding a wig but since you confess to not being able to find the mint sauce in a grocery shop no wonder you can’t find a blonde wig.     Maybe you should have gone to Asda!

 You don’t say why you are travelling on a Saturday or why wifey can’t attend.    But you have a flat in town – so when do you stay at home?

There is no sex in the story except for use of the evocative  word ‘knickers’.   I though women wore ‘thongs’ these days – whatever they are.    

Noone was caught with a secretary in a stationery cupboard.    
No couples sneaked off home early for a bit of nookey.
Noone photo copied their butt.
No fresh young female employee arrived at the party clad semi naked, décolletage in abundance, wearing a mask and fishnet tights.  (You could let your imagination go riot here)     

Noone got drunk.     
There were no clouds of smoke rising  from wacky bacco.    
Noone was sick.

The boss did not make a boring speech.      
The assistant boss did not make a smarmie flattering speech.     
Noone was given an engraved silver mug for not having been made redundant years ago.    
Noone moaned about the lack of a salary rise.

All I can think of accounting for these lapses is that you haven’t been to many office parties.  
It is time you went to one in the City of London on a Friday night.

However you did write about painting your finger nails with nail warmish – what colour may I ask?
As you so rightly say, people look oddly at men – even cross dressers – who paint their finger nails.
Or is that sexist – after all women cross dress when they wear the trousers don’t they!
Maybe P&G will now bring out a range of nail varnishes for men.   That’s a thought.
----------------------------------

No Ravel get to it.   Write the sequel but spice it up the next time.  I have given you some prompts.

With kindest personal regards,
Yours sincerely ,

Divus                                                                                                                                     Dv/Rv/party


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## philistine (Jul 21, 2012)

TL;DR

Just wear a bowler (cheap enough), a suit (I'd imagine you already own one), and perhaps a cane. A fake moustache would be the icing on the cake.


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## Kevin (Jul 21, 2012)

Yes, the 'thong', as opposed to 'granny-panties'. The young office girls...some of them, to use the old Americanism, "can make a truck-driver blush."  
Stripper-esque (did I spell that properly?yes, I did)


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## Korrie (Jul 21, 2012)

Long but still I found myself reading all the way to the end. I liked the style and the informality - and the Britishness. Caught myself smiling on a few occasions.

One bit:


> There was a [WERE] hair-dryers, hair curlers, hair straighteners and a staggering range of hair products. Maybe this is where Rooney and Carroll and the WAGS purchase their bits and pieces, but clearly not the fans themselves.



Didn't like this sentence, thought it was weird.


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## Divus (Jul 21, 2012)

A little later in the day I read back what I had written - it turns out that I had written it twice but that is thanks to Microsoft - they keep changing the bl***y software.  The problem is that I go back to 'Ami Pro' or was it 'Word Perfect for Dos.   Anyway long before 'thongs'.    
I do remember 'knickers' - hence the word being 'erotic'.   Men wore 'underwear'.

It all brings back memories - long since lost in everyday life.   I can just about remember silk 'panties' and 'stocking tops with suspenders'. Flick, flick.

But I can't  remember discovering that it takes two pairs of hands to paint nail varnish remover on the finger nails.  Somehow that knowledge was irrelevant.

Still, we learn something everyday.

Dv


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## Ravel (Mar 10, 2013)

Oh wow - I never replied to your witty constructive comments Dv - even though you did issue them twice. Probably too late now to go into detail. But to explain the logistics - I work away from home 3 days a week, and do a weekly commute. The party was to celebrate the annual staff bonus award.

Ami-pro is almost as evocative as knickers. Almost 

I will publish another tale shortly.

Thanks again. And to the others of you for your kind comments. I'm glad it entertained !


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## stevetaylor67 (Apr 5, 2013)

Very entertaining Ravel! I've never been to a fancy dress party, but if I was to go to one I'd rather fancy the classic early Dexys Midnight Runners look (pre 'Come on Eileen') of Donkey jacket, Jeans and a small wolly hat. Although come to think of it people would probably just think I had come straight from a building site or something these days! On the Tesco front, my wife recently sent me to our local store for some bread and a packet of kitchen rolls. I had a bit of a look around when I was in there and returned home with a film on DVD and a large bottle of windscreen wash for the car. Damned place.


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