THE annual Christmas party season is upon us.

Carte blanche to dress up to the nines, drink copious amounts of alcohol, photocopy inappropriate body parts, smooch someone you shouldn't and fall over (not necessarily in that order).

As the tinsel and turkey is wheeled out, decorum is cast aside as normally sedate workplaces become seething pits of lust and bad behaviour – a perennial routine you could set your watch by.

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6.31pm: Crack open a bottle of wine. 7.03pm: That went down fast. Open second bottle. 7.23pm: Ignore food, too busy drinking.

9.31pm: Where did the past two hours go? 10.46pm: Open vodka won in the office raffle. 11.13pm: Challenge managing director to an arm wrestle. Win.

11.37pm: Discover that the lip gloss you are dabbing seductively onto your lips while making eyes at Kevin from the mailroom is actually an electric blue mascara. 11.38pm: Realise you don't care.

12.03am: Slur into the ear of Dawn from accounts, who you've spoken to about twice previously, that you are new BFFs (Best Friends Forever). Don matching reindeer antlers. Upload picture to Facebook.

12.47am: Found sleeping in a toilet cubicle. 12.48: Fortifying shot of tequila. 1.05am: Hit the dancefloor. Literally. 1.06am: Pick self up. Dust party popper streamers from your rear.

1.21pm: Strut your stuff to Beyonce's Single Ladies. No-one has looked this hot since, well, you. 1.27am: Attempt to lasso the boss, Gangnam Style. 2.15am: Jägerbombs!

2.37am: Why is the room spinning? 2.48am: Taxi. Blurry streetscapes. 3.23am: Fall into a drunken slumber on doorstep cuddling a kebab. Darkness. 5.34am: Wake with pounding hangover; The Fear sets in.

Rest of weekend: Throbbing head. Distended liver. Slowly dying of shame. Never again-