The young, experience-less elf that I am, I have never had the good fortune to attend a Christmas Party before. The only one I’ve ever been to was one which I myself had to plan and organise. After the foreseen gasps have vaulted from your mouths, I can continue to explain. Why is this such a surprise? How many organised specifically Christmas celebrations can you remember pinned to the corkboard of your past? I’m guessing most have been pinned face down thanks to the vomitary explosion covering two colleagues after sitting down to dinner, or being confronted with your own underwear the next morning, it being retrieved from the dance floor.

These are the, I’m sure more common than anyone would think, memories of the ‘Work Christmas Party’. Doesn’t take much to plan a good one you might think. The hire of a bar (or area), a tab, a spread/sit down. The tab itself assures Brenda from Accounts will be getting plenty friendly with Jeremy from Marketing, resulting in embarrassing runs between her desk and the toilet, and nervous sweats every time she blindly enters the break room for the whole of January. Add to this the surely insufficient provisions, and you’ve got empty stomachs ready to be conquered by Nazi Alcohol troops like 1942 France sat around smoking and playing cards. The vegetarians are by far and away the worse offenders, their only option being one small bit of pita, a slice of dry cheese and a pickle.

Well down here in Vauxhall we like to do things a little differently. Any after-work Christmas party would certainly have seen half the workforce feel ill, become tired, or just get bored and leave early. Leaving the other half to party the night away, one badly judged hand’s placement away from instant dismissal. So whilst there was a lovely, traditional party at Nordic Bar off Oxford St, this was only after a day of fun and hi-jinks.

The day started off at about 10:30 with mince pies and Irish coffees, for all the non-England based readership, mince pies I’m sure represent Britain’s personality of revelling in breaching the barriers of mental insanity. ‘Mince? In a Pudding!? No no no no no! What is this satanic force?!’ These were proper Irish coffees as well (I’m told) as opposed to simply making coffee’s ‘Irish’ by adding Whisky – Which is actually pretty racist. You have to use half coffee, half whipped cream, and sugar as well as an amount of whisky relating to the temperature. Of course, no one had remembered the electric mixer, so by the time the cream was whipped, I’d forgotten my resulting beverage was Irish at all, took a big first swig and almost spat the contents into the CEO’s face. If you’ve ever gulped down a thirst-quenching pint of water to find it was actually vodka, you’ll know what I mean.

After our cockles (what are cockles?*) had been warmed to within an inch of their lives, as we stood in Conference Room D, listening intently, and not-very-covertly guffawing at Fergal’s smudged lipstick, the challenge was set out. 4 teams of 5 and one of 6, would split across the city, Notting Hill, Camden, Marylebone, Soho, and Angel. We had £5 each to our name, and were tasked to return with items of luxury, charity, fun, iconic, and one freebie. Once our time was up, we would be given a clue as to our next destination, and from there, another clue would greet us and take us to the final meeting point to present our gifts. The team to which I was enrolled were given the hunting ground of Angel. The team was instantly confirmed as ‘Vauxy’s Angels’ led into fearless battle by Vauxy. Along with Dixy, Maxy, Daxy, Jaxy, and Alan. We sought the barren lands of Angel for the ultimate gifts (for under £5 each). In the one and a half hours of begging, stealing (N.B. there was no stealing), lying, cheating, and tricking our way through, we came away with these.

Luxurious Gift: Golden Satin scarf wrapped in luxurious Persian ribbon.

Iconic Gift: Crystal Angel Christmas Tree Ornament.

Charitable Gift: Kangol hat from Oxfam.

Free Gift: Hamper of free Buy One Get One Free items.

Fun Gift: Sparkly fairy skirt.

Because our team was gifted one extra angel, we also decided to purchase an extra ‘Foxy’ gift lest there be too few gifts for everyone back at the ranch. This was a Feather Boa.

After securing the gifts well before our time was up, we were text our next clue in the great race. The clue led us to Research Studios (a Design Studio in Angel) where we were treated to wine and mince pies. From here our next clue led the final destination, the Nordic bar, Nordic Bar. Whilst en route to the chequered flag, we managed to construct a powerpoint presentation of Vauxy’s Angels’ latest mission, and record our own version of Robbie Williams’ Angels to go with it. Sprinting across the finish line with seconds to spare, we were forced to give up on a more planned presentation, having to improv it on the fly, but at least we made it on time. Turned out not to matter as all the other teams were about half an hour late having spent the extra time really working on theirs in the pub. They had original songs, poems, plays and scripts and everything! What did we have? Powerpoint.

After hearing 4 separate versions of the Nativity story, and looking like a lemon without the lime, not really sure what I was supposed to be doing, or saying, struggling through our botched tuneless chav wedding classic, all the £5 gifts were gathered on a table. There they were passed in front of our very eyes, across to disappear under a cloth on the other side. Afterwards we were tasked with remembering as many as possible. Like The Generation Game itself, there was even a cuddly toy. The more we remember? The closer we are in the queue to pick a present. Out of about 30 gifts, I scored 25. Not bloody bad, and enough to give me ample time to snatch the Oxfam hat I’d been wearing all day away from the clutches of another memory/fashion maestro.

As is customary at these events, the food didn’t show up for another couple of hours (3 hours late), and when it did it involved some prawns on toast (to which I didn’t get a look in). Pretty soon after, the food level grew and grew until barmaid after barmaid flowed through the private hire back room like a tidal wave of party food, clutching tray after tray of meatballs, mini-burgers, mini hotdogs (cut-up hotdogs), pineapple wrapped in bacon, fish goujons & chips and the vegetarian option (the vegetarian option was to fuck off and find something elsewhere then come back 30 minutes later).

Once hunger had subsided and half the food had disappeared, it became obvious that it was pretty disgusting, and a lot of people left. I stuck it out for half an hour or so, sat about chatting about nothing, but left pretty early myself. The actual day running about town looking for presents was just so tiring itself, no one had any energy left for a big boozy party as well.

If nothing else, it wasn’t your usual Office Christmas Party, no one had sex on the photocopier. Alas.