The annual Christmas office party has arrived. Woopi doo – I think I’ve wet myself. Why, on God’s earth do we put ourselves through this hell? Parties are for having fun with people you like (and might even fancy). Offices are for grinning and bearing with people you want to slap. Why put the two together? So, there I am on a Monday night in a cavernous working men’s club so hideous it makes Phoenix Nights look like Studio 54. Under the glare of a stuttering strip light, I sit in a circle with my co-workers, (many of whom I barely recognise under their slap and sequins) cradling a paper plate of lard while discussing facial hair and how best to get rid. Never, ever pluck seems to be the main take-out. I go to the bar under the steely glare of an old couple of men/women/freaks playing dominos. During my trifle when the conversation turns to bed sores, someone puts the juke box on and three ladies of a certain age attempt a menopausal shimmy by the dart board.  �