Farewell to festive bums on photocopiers – Covid has killed the office Christmas party

Covid has changed our lives in many ways, and one more potential casualty of the pandemic seems to be the office Christmas party. According to a survey which approached every company in the FTSE 100, many businesses are choosing to forgo the annual festivities and consequently, restaurant and catering bookings are massively down on those of two years ago.

Of course, some businesses may choose to cancel their office Christmas party this year in order to save some cash and who can blame them? It’s been a brutal 18 months. For others,  it’s a question of health and safety.

Christmas is coming at a pretty inconvenient time this year, with many office-aged people reaching a period where their Covid vaccinations have begun to wane. For many workplaces, the prospect of the annual knees-up turning into a super-spreader event just isn’t worth the grief.

With the festive season hanging in the balance, I wonder how many people will greet the news of the cancelled Christmas party with a sigh of relief, and how many will mourn another year without a drunken mid-afternoon snog with that bloke who looks a bit like David Gandy after six glasses of Glühwein?

As an antisocial middle-aged woman who hasn’t worn a frock or heels in years, I can’t think of anything worse than actually attending an office Christmas party, but as an occasional guest and voyeur, it’s another piece of life as we used to know it, that I miss.

Back in the olden days, I used to love being in the West End at the height of the Christmas party season. I enjoyed seeing overdressed women on early morning commuter tubes, sparkly dresses peeking out from sensible winter coats, and restaurants full of paper-hatted people wishing they were sitting next to someone else. OK, so sometimes the tubes home at night were a nightmare of pissed-up lads and weepy girls, but you know what? Give or take the odd pool of vomit on the Northern line, it was great fun for the nosy bystander.

There is something fantastically theatrical about a proper office Christmas party, the ritual of seeing the same people you work with every day looking a little bit different in their party costumes – the sequin frocks and dangly earrings, the new shirts and aftershave.

Office parties are a rite of passage. I might not want to go to one myself, as these days my feet hurt and loud music annoys me because I can’t lip read, but in principle, I think they’re an excellent idea. How else do you learn how to deal with shame?

As the workplace becomes more housebound, I do worry about the sex and social lives of young people. Not everything can be done on Zoom and there is something about the wild 3pm abandonment of a lunchtime office party that I thoroughly approve of. I adore the idea of people queuing up outside a stationary cupboard for a snog, of bras found in cheese plants the morning after, and hundreds of pages of photocopied festive buttocks and boobs.

Obviously, there is a dark side to the office Christmas party, as anyone who has seen the seminal 1960 Billy Wilder film The Apartment, can testify, with its fabulous black and white footage depicting horrific sexism all under the guise of a good time.

And for many performers, just the phrase “office Christmas party” is enough to bring them out in hives. When I was active on the circuit many years ago, there was a particular Friday in mid-December, “Black Friday”, which was the bane of every club comic’s life – a night when large parties of office workers would be block booked into a stand-up gig and havoc would inevitably ensue.

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I’m not sure that sort of behaviour exists now. Young people are far more polite than they used to be, and the manic drinking of the past is out of fashion. On the whole, this is a good thing and I don’t want to go back to the bad old days of sweaty old bosses cornering pretty young girls under the mistletoe, but I do wonder if anyone really has the opportunity to let their hair down anymore.

Once upon a time, the office Christmas party provided gossip well into the new year, because there was always someone turning up the next day wearing the same party clothes from the night before and reeking of sex and guilt. Personally, I think going to work on a hangover is something that needs to be done at least once a year, because it teaches you a valuable lesson that can only be learned by trying to throw up silently in the staff toilets at 11am.

Perhaps the traditional office party has had its day. But if that’s the case, I can’t help feeling a pang of nostalgia for its passing.