When you’re an unpaid intern, perks of the job are few and far between. A wage is pretty much the only perk you have in mind.
But when my three-month internship at a glossy lifestyle magazine recently ended without a job offer (merry bloody Christmas), I decided my dignity had been sufficiently battered and consequently I had nothing more to lose by accepting an invitation to the company’s Christmas party.
Whether my boss invited me out of guilt (sorry we made you work full time in a job we could have paid someone much less gullible than you to do), or because they didn’t think I’d accept it (you’re just one of a thousand futile faces we’ll see come and go here), I’ll never know. The important thing was that the party would be at a swish London nightclub with copious amounts of free, that’s right free, alcohol. So even though they couldn’t/wouldn’t employ me, they at least had the common courtesy to get me smashed enough to forget the last three months of slave labour.
Needless to say, the office Christmas party is usually a scandalous affair where bladdered fifty year old managers try to snog the secretary, some “joker” finally discovers what his genitalia looks like photocopied twenty times, and sometimes where (god-forbid) people try to network.

what a joker
Not me. I was quite content drinking my hopes of a media career away into a dark puddle of regret, disappointment and ultimately, vomit. There I was, not an official employee nor a complete civilian, but that shadowy intermediary figure, the intern; a person everyone secretly envies for your freedom, but disregards because of inexperience.
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