Work Christmas parties aren’t what they used to be. Or maybe, I’m not what I used to be; i.e. 25. Then, I didn’t feel like I was into the seasonal swing until I’d at least thrown up on my boss’s shoes and snogged the nerdy one that never spoke. Now, I just hope it doesn’t clash with David Attenborough’s Dynasties and there isn’t a train strike on. 

I wore a catsuit beneath a massive Ikea lampshade covered in tin foil for a Christmas bash once. An advertising agency were hosting a disco-themed fancy dress, so I thought, why not go as the actual glitter ball? I was so thrilled with my creativity, that in my head, I’d already won the crate of wine for ‘best dressed’. So when the DJ announced I’d been beaten by Bjorn, there was only the bar for solace.   

It was a better event than the one I attended in 1996. There were just two of us working at the video production company, so my boss decided it would be more fun to shun the idea of joining in with other smaller businesses in the area and opted to treat me to absolutely anything I wanted to eat at a greasy café in Bradford. Even pudding. He claimed it was quirky and meaningful. I knew it was because he was tight. 

At what point should the top brass to make their exit? My dad, who had his own business, thought a couple of hours at the start of the night was about right. Show your face, have a beer, leave some dosh behind the bar, then disappear before someone starts telling you how to run the company. Everyone knows the party doesn’t really start until the large fromage has left.  

And what about partners? Do you/should you bring your other half? Mine basically refuses on the grounds that all media parties descend into one-upmanship, with showbiz tales getting louder and more extreme until finally someone throws down the “who’s the most famous person you’ve dallied with?” gauntlet, but nobody can think of anyone outside of local radio. 

They’re a bit like wedding receptions really, aren’t they? Only good if you’re drunk. The worst are ten pin bowling parties, where you’re forced to team up with those you’d ordinarily avoid in the atrium. The pre-worn sweaty shoes, unforgiving strip lighting and liquid cheese nachos do nothing to enhance the overpriced Carlsberg in a plastic cup. You can’t even take the mickey out of your colleagues’ technique without fear of Human Resources getting involved. 

I think the best bashes are the simplest. Someone sends an all-site email with a date and the name of a pub near the office and anyone who wants to go, goes. Straight after work, before you have chance to change your mind. No hard feelings if you don’t fancy it, no scramble for a last-minute secret santa and no meal deposit lost if you wish you’d chosen cheesecake instead of Christmas crème brulee.