I hate office Christmas parties with a passion having many memories of waking up the next morning with excruciating memories of the night before.
Take the Xmas party back in 1987-ish when I was working as a PA / occasional copywriter for a small advertising agency in Leeds. The wine flowed so profusely that I ended up being guided into my house by the Deputy MD for fear I’d fall over.
Or the infamous time my Creative Department chums and I gate-crashed the directors’ bar at Yorkshire TV following an afternoon Xmas advertising awards ceremony. (Yes we did bump into Richard Whitely and yes we ask him about the ferret episode…)
Nah, the great thing about being a freelance copywriter is that there are no office Xmas parties to go to.
And, anyway, I’ve reached the age where meeting up with friends for coffee and a large slice of cake is more appealing than getting wasted on Champers.
(Neat shoulder pads in the 1980s photo above, hey? Hmn…)