THE RELUCTANT SOCIALITE

reat social gatherings were once the backbone of my week. Years ago, work events were constant, brilliant, and effortless to navigate. Somewhere along the way, however, the "social rust" set in. It isn't that the desire to be social has vanished—I’m no shy-away type—but the "tribe" has to be right. There is a world of difference between sharing a table with a few trusted friends and navigating the broad, noisy sea of a workplace crowd. With the former, the guard is down; with the latter, the armour is firmly buckled.

Trepidation is a heavy weight when a work social day looms on the calendar. In a smaller group of kindred spirits, I’m grounded and engaged. But in a vast, professional setting, the effort of "performing" feels far more taxing than it used to. Having missed the last event due to injury, the pressure to show up was mounting. There was a genuine fear of becoming the office ghost, yet the thought of that specific, large-scale socialising felt daunting.

Beneath the nerves lies a deeper fear: the risk of truly revealing myself. To be clear, there’s no risk of turning up naked; it’s the exposure of those aspects of my character that colleagues rarely see. Years ago, a "middle ground" persona served as a convenient buffer, but those days are gone. At my age, the philosophy is simple: if who I am isn't acceptable to you, that is your problem, not mine.

Determination eventually won out. A Viking doesn’t just sit out the raid because the wind feels cold. Donning my best battle vest, a tactical decision was made: show up, engage, and honour the invitation. It wasn't about being the "life and soul," but about standing in the line and being present. With that, the journey began toward the bus stop and Sheffield City Centre.

Gathering at the meeting point just before 2pm, I found the numbers were healthy—around nine or ten of us, despite a few cancellations. We started at a Wetherspoons before moving on to an Irish-themed bar called "Four Leafs" on West Street. I’d initially thought it was previously 'Barkers' back in the day, but that was actually next door.

​With St Patrick’s Day looming, the place was packed and the vibe was high. However, instead of the obligatory Guinness, I opted for a pint of Welsh Stout—Tiny Rebel’s Coal Drop. It felt like a quiet middle finger to the transatlantic commercialism that usually surrounds the season.

​The night was enjoyable, though the absence of my work bestie was certainly felt. It was a genuine opportunity to show my true self and, equally, to see others without their professional masks. My hope for the future is that we see more of these events; it would certainly make for a better, more cohesive team.

​I chose to depart just after 7pm. It was the right time for me to make a move. I did consider popping into the Dove and Rainbow—a long-established rock and metal bar that’s more my speed—but time was short and I’d had a few by that point. Had I been out with Morticia, I likely would have ventured in, but the draw of home was stronger. The bus was perfectly on time, delivering me back to the door with enough of the evening left to take Magnus out for his walk.

​Sometimes, the victory isn’t in being the last man standing, but in knowing you showed up, stood your ground, and returned to the longhouse on your own terms.

The spirit of the "Urban Viking"—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. It’s a space where the same themes of authenticity and grit meet the dry humour of just trying to hold the line without losing your mind.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more about my path, my tactical social raids, and the daily battle to stay unmasked (and fully clothed) over on social media. Join the shield wall there:

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