🌶️ Sue’s After-Dark Diaries Ep25: Tinsel & Total Loss of Dignity

There are two types of Christmas parties.

The ones where you sip warm prosecco, make polite small talk, eat a vol-au-vent, and leave by nine.

And then there are the ones that involve glitter in places glitter should never be, a pulled hamstring, someone crying in the toilets, and at least one conversation that starts with, “Please don’t tell my husband.”

This was very much the second kind.

If anyone ever asks me what Christmas spirit looks like, I won’t say goodwill or generosity or peace on Earth.

I’ll say: Sharon, in sequins, attempting Dirty Dancing with a chair while half the town watches in festive jumpers with slogans like Sleigh My Name and Ho Ho Hold My Beer, mild disbelief.

Optimism: The First Mistake

It all began innocently enough. That’s how these things always start… with optimism, a bit of mascara confidence, and the dangerous thought: It’ll be fine.

The local hall smelled of mulled wine and hairspray and had been decked out like Santa’s grotto. Tinsel dripped from every surface like the building itself had given up resisting December. Fairy lights blinked with the quiet threat of a power cut. Paper snowflakes were taped at aggressive angles. The Christmas tree leaned slightly left, as if it had emotionally checked out.

Sharon arrived before me, which should have been my first warning.

She was already on her second drink, waving at me from across the room as if she’d just won bingo and a court case.

“SUE! OVER HERE! THEY’VE GOT A DJ! AND HE’S NOT AFRAID OF VOLUME!”

Her eyes were shining.

That never ends well.

I hung up my coat, adjusted my dress… black, sensible, with just enough cleavage to say I still care… and took in the scene. Folding chairs around plastic tables. Men in festive jumpers stretched in places where jumpers should not stretch. Women clutching handbags like emotional support animals.

And Sharon.

Her dress was red. Sequinned. Tight. Ambitious. The sort of dress that doesn’t forgive sudden movements, gravity, or joy… and absolutely did not have the structural integrity to survive the evening.

“Is that dress legal?” I asked, kissing her cheek. “Is it… safe?”

She looked down. Her boobs shifted independently, like festive pendulums.

“They’re secure,” she said confidently.
“Emotionally.”

“It’s Christmas,” she added. “The rules are suspended.”

She shoved a drink into my hand before I could argue. Warm gin. Suspiciously strong.

“To festive regret,” she toasted.

I drank.

Mistake number one.

The Music, the Men, and the Beginning of the End

The DJ was one of those men who thinks volume is a personality. Christmas classics thudded through the hall with all the subtlety of a freight train. People nodded politely at first. Tapped feet. Mild shoulder movement. Polite dancing.

Then Wham came on.

Sharon froze.

Slowly turned to me.

Her grin was unholy.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

“Oh YES.”

She grabbed my arm. “We have to dance.”

“We absolutely do not.”

“We absolutely do,” she insisted, dragging me toward the dance floor. “Just a little dance. Loosen up. It’s Christmas.”

Before I could object, she was already moving… hips pre-programmed for festive seduction… dragging me into a vaguely open space where three women and a man called Dave were swaying with determination.

I tried a safe sway. Something tasteful. Something that said I am a woman of restraint.

Dave was already sweating.

Sharon was having none of it.

The DJ, sensing blood, transitioned straight into that song… the one that makes poor decisions feel inevitable.

Sharon began moving in a way that suggested she’d misinterpreted the word dance as an audition for Dirty Dancing, something requiring a late-night channel.

Men choked on their drinks. One dropped a sausage roll. Another stared into the middle distance, reassessing his life.

“Sharon,” I hissed. “People are watching.”

“Good,” she said. “Let them.”

She spun, nearly took out a pensioner, and laughed like a woman possessed by the ghost of Christmas Bad Decisions.

The Chair Wins

Sharon turned back to the chair.

She attempted a sensual lower hip swinging movement.

The cheering got louder. Someone wolf-whistled.

Her knees disagreed.

She tried to circle it.

The chair fought back.

Her boobs… dear God… they flailed enthusiastically, bouncing and playing peekaboo with festive abandon for the sheer delight of every man in a Christmas jumper within a five-mile radius.

A man near the bar fixated and dropped his drink.

Another whispered, “Jesus.”

Sharon re-adjusted her boobs and attempted a leg lift.

The leg lift did not succeed.

The chair skidded.

Sharon windmilled.

The chair collapsed.

Sharon went down in a flurry of sequins, boobs and limbs, laughing hysterically from the floor.

Two men rushed forward. She waved them off like a fallen gladiator.

“I’M FINE,” pushing her boobs back undercover.

The DJ cut the music.

Silence fell like judgment.

Sharon stood, arms raised.

The hall erupted.

Cheers. Applause. Someone yelled, “BEST NIGHT EVER!”

Mariah Carey started up like an apology.

And the spell broke.

Mistletoe, Mayhem & Memory Loss

Someone produced mistletoe, of course, they did.

I will never forgive them.

Suddenly, it was everywhere… above the bar, near the toilets, suspiciously lowered near the dance floor. People paired off like festive magnets.

I nearly collided with a man in a jumper reading Santa Likes It Naughty.

He pointed up. “Well?”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Worth a try.”

Sharon treated the mistletoe as a suggestion, not a rule.

Pecks. Cheek kisses. One hug that lingered too long.

“You’re going to start a rumour,” I hissed.

“Already started,” she replied cheerfully, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The hall manager appeared, he took one look, and retreated again… a man choosing self-preservation.

Meanwhile… Back at My Flat

At exactly this moment… though I wouldn’t know it yet… Dan woke up.

Mark was at my flat. He’d made tea. Put the heating on. Sat down like a normal, unsuspecting man.

Then my abandoned handbag began to hum.

Softly at first.

Then louder.

Then unmistakably.

Mark stared at it.

The bag vibrated. Shifted.

Dan, somehow activated by absolutely nothing, began doing his thing like he’d been summoned by chaos itself.

The dog barked.

Dan buzzed harder.

And that is why my phone rang in the middle of the hall.

The Call That Confirmed Everything

I answered, breathless, glittery, mildly unhinged.

“Sue.”

Mark’s voice was tight. “Do you… have Dan?”

“No, I’m in a village hall.”

A pause.

“…Then He’s vibrating.”

I closed my eyes.

“Of course he is.”

“He’s very… confident.”

“I’ll explain later.”

“I’m not touching the bag.”

“Wise.”

Behind me, Sharon shouted, “THIS IS BETTER THAN LAST YEAR!”

Aftermath & Acceptance

By ten-thirty, the hall looked like the morning after a wedding nobody wants to discuss.

Tinsel on the floor. Makeup smudged. People suddenly remembering they had knees.

Outside, cold air slapped us back into reality. Heels off. Dignity somewhere behind us.

“Well,” Sharon said, linking arms. “Same time next year?”

“Absolutely not.”

She grinned. “Liar.”

My phone buzzed.

Mark: Please come home. Dan is menacing.

I laughed so hard I nearly cried.

As we walked under the Christmas lights, I thought:

If this is what happens at a local hall Christmas party…

God help us at New Year.

And that, dear diary, is how Sharon lost a battle with a chair, I became festive filth against my will, Dan terrorised my flat, and the town gained several new stories it will never let us forget.

Merry Christmas to us. 🎄

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