I remember being bitterly disappointed with Christmas in England when I spent my first December in the country. Thanks to Charles Dickens, legends of carolers and wassail, and hundreds of Christmas cards that looked like illustrations from Jane Austen novels, most Americans figure that England must be the font of all good holiday cheer. Perhaps I didn't really expect capering children dragging the yule log across a snowy green to the manor house, but I thought I'd see something close.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I realised that the British Christmas is a pale shadow of the American celebration, and all those pretty traditions we Americans imagine happening in the old country are mostly consigned to history. The English don't really decorate the outsides of their homes (though Christmas lights are catching on), they don't do Christmas baking, and they don't put their trees up 'til late in the month. Their town centres and shop windows ... even London's ... fall behind most American small towns. If you're used to the holidays in the States, it's all quite disappointing.
There's one exception: the office Christmas party. In America, this is rarely an official thing, and rarely funded by the company. A team might get together for drinks one night after work, or a generous boss might host a pot luck and gift exchange. But in England, the office party is an institution ... practically a workers' right that would bring on high protest if cancelled. It's funded by the company, can often be lavish, is always alcohol sodden and may sometimes trigger outrageous couplings and legendary embarrassments. These are very big deals. In the past 13 years I've been to balls at country houses and museums, wild times in nightclubs, ice skating inside a Georgian monument and a lot of very long, very boozy lunches. If you work at a large corporation, you can really hit the jackpot, as you're likely to be part of multiple teams, all of which are hosting some sort of festivity.
One of my great joys as a boss, therefore, is to host my team Christmas party. And though I do get invited to a variety, this one is always my favourite. For the past four years I've co-hosted it with my PR agency, the one constant as both my remit and employees have changed. Sadly, this might be the last year. As my team grows ever bigger, I'm not sure I can afford such a serious party. (We weighed in at 21 this year.)
Conscious that in previous years the wine-sodden-lunch-followed-by-evening-in-cocktail-lounge format had endangered livers, we thought we'd throw in some physical activity this year to vary the pace. Thus we ended up at All Star Lanes, a private bowling alley, American diner-themed restaurant and cocktail lounge in West London. I was a little hesitant about the bowling idea, but let the planners at the agency get on with it. And how right they were. I haven't been bowling since I was 20 (and am just as dreadful at it now as I was then), but it turned out to be a perfect event for a spot of team building. The venue is beautifully maintained and extremely authentic; were it not for the accents I wouldn't have been surprised to emerge into Michigan or Ohio when I walked out the door.
After the bit of exercise it was back to the seasonal standby of drinking a lot while exchanging gifts. We dined at the bowling alley; ironically, off a set menu that offered a variety of sophisticated choices. Smoked salmon salads and fish stew are all very well, but in that atmosphere I was actually dying for a cheeseburger and a chocolate shake.
We were on our way to our next venue by 7, opening up space for more revellers to come in behind us. Next up, the sophisticated surroundings of The Gore Hotel bar. A conversion of a grand Edwardian house in the neighbourhood around the Albert Hall, the high ceilings, wood panelling and portraits on the wall might have given the impression that Oscar Wilde was about to stroll in, were it not for the hip dance tracks playing over the sound system. Fortunately, they pulled off that difficult trick of keeping the music loud enough to hear, but not so high that you're yelling to make conversation.
We started here with a round of champagne toasts, before heading into a list of cocktails that was probably quite unwise. Raspberry mohitos may taste good, but they're probably not something you want to be adding on top of an evening of wine. Fortunately, common sense took over this year. Most of my direct team had called it a night by 10, leaving me with just two direct reports and my agency staff. I decided to head for my last direct train home, no doubt saving myself from some serious peril. Those I left behind pushed on 'til 3am, evidently doing a fine job at singing the entire repertoire of Bond theme tunes to the rest of the bar.
Ah, to be young again...
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