HAS anyone ever actually photocopied their backside at an office party?

I’m not convinced this was ever really a thing - or that Christmas office parties even took place in actual offices. Isn’t that something that only happens in films or sitcoms?

Sitting on the photocopier, like throwing up in the boss’s bin, belting out I Will Survive in a tangle of streamers with the IT guys and ending up in a steamy clinch behind the filing cabinets with Keith from Accounts, is a hackneyed office party cliche. Even if festive fuddles did once take place in offices, it probably hasn’t happened since about 1983.

Health and Safety has been around for a while now, and barely a week goes by without office staff having to complete yet another online course in codes of conduct, workspace wellbeing etc, so I think the days of boozy knees-ups in the staff canteen and dancing on desks belong to the lost age of the sandwich trolley (which I still miss) and the fax machine.

I have worked in offices and newsrooms for 30 years and, while I’ve never had a Christmas party in the workplace - always in pubs, restaurants or hotels - there have been occasions that called for a bit of a do at work, with everyone leaning casually on desks as a colleague gave a leaving speech or passed round the birthday cake.

It can be quite awkward. I remember a particularly excruciating moment when I had my first office job; a rather soul-destroying six months booking appointments for carpet sales reps. One afternoon the monotony of cold-calling and counting the hours till 5pm was broken by the announcement of a 50th birthday. It was a mild-mannered chap who barely spoke to anyone and was clearly mortified at being the centre of attention, as we all shuffled towards his desk clutching plastic cups half-filled with warm wine.

It soon got worse for the poor bloke, when a ‘roly poly strip-o-gram’ arrived. Within seconds she had him lying on the floor and, wearing an industrial strength basque and little else, restrained him with handcuffs and produced a whip and a can of shaving foam. I remember him smiling weakly and adjusting his beige tie as she made mincemeat of him while we all stood round, trapped in the hell of enforced saucy fun. It was almost certainly the worst 10 minutes of his life. Even in a nightclub, with pumping music and disco lights, it would’ve been horrendous. But this was mid-afternoon, in a dingy office with strip lighting, a few limp balloons, warm plonk and zero atmosphere. There was some half-hearted whooping and slow clapping, but everyone just wanted it to be over.

When she finally ended her ritual of humiliation the strip-o-gram rolled up her whip, put her coat on and rummaged in her handbag for her car keys. We returned to our desks, unable to look each other in the eye.

That’s the tumbleweed-blowing reality of the office-hours party. Contrived jollity. It’s not so bad after hours in a bar or restaurant, and some companies really push the boat out - a friend of mine always had a lavish Christmas works party with a three-course dinner, free bar, a comedy gig and raffle prizes that included iPads and New York trips. But with many folk now working from home, is the works do becoming a thing of the past? I hope not. It’s just not Christmas until you’ve stumbled through the Conga with Keith from Accounts.