Fine, maybe not everybody loves a party, but most of us enjoy a thrash or two – particularly at this time of the year. Yes, Christmas is the prime party period. Office parties, special interest group soirées, bashes at home... this is definitely when it’s A-OK to let it all hang out and enjoy the lighter side of the festive season. Or not?

Speaking personally, I avoid like the plague anything that smacks of dressing-up or, even worse, fancy dress events. It’s not a question of being miserable or – that oft-clichéd accusation – a spoilsport. The sight of people like the family doctor, my bank manager or my neighbour (a university professor) dragged up as snowmen, pirates, bunny rabbits or, worst of all... tarts, is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.

I also have severe reservations about the annual office bash. I once worked for a firm that held a sort of an apology for a festive staff do, in the actual office at around midday, a few days before Christmas Day. We would do a full morning’s work, before breaking off to hang a couple of coloured streamers across the room and set out the plates of pastizzi, pizza and Miss Doublesin’s almond tarts.

The main event, and the principal reason for the whole shebang, was always the chairman’s speech. He was a crusty old git who regarded anything that took the mind away from making money for him and his family as “not serious behaviour”. So, as you can imagine, he was a bundle of laughs at the annual do.

His speech never varied. It took about 20 minutes out of everyone’s life and consisted of two separate halves. The first half was spent bemoaning the fact that the past year had been a totally dreadful one for business (not true) and that disaster (unspecified) was staring the company in the face. This was obviously intended to dissuade anyone from applying for a wage rise.

The second half of the speech was an exhortation to everyone employed with the company to put in an extra effort to ensure a better year to follow. At which point the old miser would sit down – to muted applause – and accept his first glass of cognac. There was invariably a definite air of doom and gloom about the whole thing, and not the sort of atmosphere to put anyone into anything approaching the Christmas spirit.

At another company where I did time, we actually had a proper canteen in which to stage the annual staff party. Once again it was a midday thrash, since the management deemed it less likely to end in a drunken brawl if it was held in daylight. How wrong they were.

On one occasion, everything was going along nicely, the office girls were in one knot, sipping their Aperol and lemonade and giggling about... God knows what; the management, in another distinct group, were clutching their whiskies and trying to be civil to one another; while the drivers and the garage mechanics were grouped on the other side of the room, shuffling from industrial boot to industrial boot and slurping cans of lager or shandy.

The main event – and the main reason for the whole shebang – was always the chairman’s speech

All went swimmingly and I really thought that this year there would be no uprisings – until Big John – probably the least likely offender, a mountain of a man and a mechanic and one of the quietest, gentlest people I have ever known – suddenly and to everyone’s surprise, gave a roar and took an unprovoked swing at the nearest person to him.

Fortunately, he missed, so he proceeded to promptly put his massive fist through the glass door. Blood everywhere, Big John screaming threats, while four of his colleagues tried to restrain him. Luckily, they eventually succeeded. An ambulance was called and Big John’s staff Christmas party ended for him at Mater Dei’s Casualty Department.

But every cloud has a silver lining: Big John’s drama at least took up enough time to dissuade the other members of the garage staff from knocking lumps out of one another – for that year at least.

Probably the most bizarre home-based Christmas party I ever attended was one where the host’s present to his wife was... wait for it: A male stripper. Now I – and I expect most of the other guests – were expecting Romeo Brutus to be some six-foot tall Adonis with muscles on his muscles. Erm, wrong.

There were certainly muscles, but these were attached to a frame barely over five feet tall. He was tiny, minute! He also, poor guy, had continuous problems with his ghetto blaster. This was providing a somewhat wobbly rendition of “Big Spender” to which he cast off his apparel with – I have to admit – a certain amount of panache. Except when the disc stuck, when Romeo and his trusty assistant (an even tinier version of Romeo) would let fly with a few choice obscenities and set about restoring the music. Then, after a few peremptory apologies, it was back to the musical undressing charade.

I have to admit, I found the whole thing hilarious. Eventually, we got down to the G-string bit, whereby Romeo – bless – strutted around my friend’s sitting room teasing the ladies with a half-flash, then mincing away ‘provocatively’. And finally, I’m sorry to say, he did remove the final piece of clothing, revealing very little really.

At which precise moment, so he informed our host later, his assistant was meant to switch off the light. Sadly, for more than one reason, the assistant was too busy making sure the music didn’t falter again so he forgot. Cue a rapid exit for Romeo, stark naked, accompanied by another stream of profanities.

I’ve been to many thrashes since, but I have to say: that sure was one Christmas party I will never, ever forget. Or, indeed, want to repeat.

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