The Last Hurrah & A Black Eye

Your twenties in London — when career changes are as frequent as Pret meal deals, and every farewell promises a night for the ages. I was bidding adieu to my fourth job, which, in my defence, I’d held for a respectable record of two whole years. In London terms, that’s basically tenure. And I wasn’t being shown the door — oh no, I was leaving on a high. Voluntarily! Triumphantly! Like a mildly tipsy gladiator walking away from a spreadsheet battlefield.

Naturally, a leaving do was in order. A big one. An end-of-an-era, shots-at-5pm, memories-forever-or-until-we-forget kind of night. I invited the whole gang, including this one bloke I’d only really started talking to when our office moved. Middle-aged, sweet, always nattering on about his wife and kids like he was auditioning for “Happily Married: The Musical”.

So I ask him if he’s coming out on Friday, reminding him that Monday’s my last day. He says, "Oh no, I don’t really go out with work people... I can’t handle my drink." I should’ve taken that as a giant red flag, but alas, I said, “Oh come on, how bad can it be?”

Reader, it was bad.

The night starts innocently enough. The drinks are flowing, the tunes are banging, and he — who until now had been Mr Quietly Competent — has entered full goblin mode. He’s suddenly the life of the party, or more accurately, the hazard. At one point, he lifts one of the girls clean off the ground in a gesture that was either celebratory or utterly unhinged. She comes crashing down, headfirst. It’s like watching someone try to dance with a fridge.

And then he starts getting handsy. With me.

First time: I laugh it off awkwardly. Second time: I move away, politely but firmly. Third time: I tell him clearly — “Do that again and there will be consequences.” Which is polite British for I will lamp you.

He looks at me, swaying slightly, eyes full of whatever mix of lager and regret is bubbling in his soul. And then he reaches for my boob like it’s a bloody elevator button.

So I punch him. Square in the nose. Boom. A moment of silence. The bar music is still going but the air’s gone electric.

Enter my other colleague — who intercepts faster than a rally car and peels the guy off the floor. He grabs his bag and with the steely tone of a man who’s done this before, says, “Mate, get out. Now.”

Now it’s just the other colleague and me. He checks I’m alright, gets me water, has that concerned face on. And then — of course — he leans in to kiss me. You know, because there’s clearly nothing women love more after being assaulted and traumatised than a married man making his move in a pub toilet queue.

I push him away. “Let’s not.”

What is it with married men in London and your last day at work? Is it in the handbook? Is it a rite of passage? Are they possessed by the ghost of office parties past?

Come Monday, handsy colleague is nowhere to be seen. Vanished. Like hangover mist. Word gets around — apparently, he’s a known liability. Once tried to snog the boss’s daughter at a Christmas do and later passed out under his desk. Classic. He’s probably still there, clutching a Carlsberg and whispering, “Tell the wife I love her.”

I imagine the hangxiety hit him like a freight train on Saturday. Waking up with a sore nose, patchy memories, and the creeping realisation that he tried to cop a feel and caught a right hook instead.

But me? I walked out of that job on Monday head held high, reputation intact, and one hell of a story in my pocket.

Lesson of the day? Never trust the quiet ones who “don’t go out.” And if you’re heading to your leaving drinks in London, maybe bring a boxing glove. Just in case.

Still here? Good. Because there’s more where that came from — tales of chaos, comedy, and questionable career choices await. Stay tuned, and don’t forget: always watch your drink... and your boobs.