The "Christ" of "Christmas"

"Now then, now then," he said, white curly wig and track suit aggressively up-front. "Welcome to the staff Christmas Panto."

I got told by my manager that I was allowed an hour for lunch, and I signed off my till thinking wonderful thoughts about the leisurely lunch I was about to consume. We normally only get either fifteen minutes or half-an-hour, so this was sheer luxury. There was a catch however...

The staff canteen was packed, every seat taken, tinsel and glitter everywhere with weird crepe paper things hanging from walls, chairs and tables. Tradition says that, a few weeks before Christmas, the staff a given the gift of a hour-long Christmas lunch. There was a sorry fruit salad in front of me as I sat down, the starter to a surprisingly good feed. Digestion, on the other hand, was not easy.

Firstly, there was the alcohol. Each table had a bottle of red and a bottle of white, and cans of beer for anyone who wanted them. This was, it should be noted, the very core of the working day at an out-of-town shopping centre, meaning the people before me currently quaffing like Roman gentry would have to work the rest of their day and drive home. I stuck to the water, distrustful of the alcohol - were the managers testing us, storing up a severe reprimanding for anyone to approach a till under the influence?

Secondly, it was the Christmas Pantomime - rehearsed and put on by the management team as an excuse for avoiding work. It was hosted by a man doing a lamentable Jimmy Saville impression. This man, it should be mentioned, was the same manager who told a cleaner it "was not like his job was hard." The lame joke was instantly more sinister when you realised Jimmy Saville was a brutal commandant. His turn was followed by an ABBA tribute, where four managers, decked out like cheap Christmas trees, in silver and gold, mimed to the record "Dancing Queen". People applauded limply.
Next up it was three women managers dressed as Freddie Mercury, miming to "Bohemian Rhapsody". These costumes made the women (slightly overweight and busty) look like Spanish truckers, with dodgy black wigs and stick-on moustaches. They were more clearly drunk than any of the other acts, and half-staggered, half-danced their way around a tiny stage.
Last it was The Kids From Fame, where the lead vocals were not mimed, but sung by a melodramatic bovine woman. It was all eyes clenched shut and fist aloft, and then at the climax of the song the store manager attempted some break-dancing. Once it was all over he stood up, out of breath and clammy, and wished "You and Yours a Merry Christmas" which would have sounded more sincere if he hadn't moved the mic away from his mouth and begun to leave the stage around the "Christ" of "Christmas".

We were then presented with crackers, turkey and trimming. And had less time to scoff it all down than we usually do, so the afternoon was full of indigestion and fatigue. Once down on the shopfloor the world returned to that echoing, piped in Christmas music and the miserable faces of Christmas shoppers, where your only master is the never ending conveyor belt of food and you feel like a robot with not enough RAM to rebel.

The worst thing was, that the management tried to be seen as team members and in cahoots with all the staff. The reality, this charade gave them more time not doing their job, and another opportunity to patronise an belittle. God forbid you don't hand-clap during "Merry Christmas Everybody" by Slade, then you will be singled out by a manager and forcefully told to get into the fun of it.

An interesting postscript: I went to the toilet today, and heard someone shouting into their mobile phone while in the cubicle. The shouts were punctuated by the rustling of toilet paper and then the flush. It was the cleaner-baiting, Jimmy Saville manager. And he didn't wash his hands...