It is not Christmas until that 45-year-old bald man in your office who says six words a year gets pink and pissed and tries to grab the mic off the party DJ. It’s not Christmas until a sturdy organiser-type from accounts stands bored by your desk and offers you a Santa hat full of folded up name slips of people you have never heard of or met. It is not Christmas until you have had one-thousand, one-hundred-thousand, one-hundred-thousand-million emails about what time to leave for the Christmas party and where, each email escalating in severity and tone, until in the end they are just a high screech like a car alarm with a Love Actually .gif attached. It is not Christmas until you have been allowed to leave at 4PM on a 5PM-end work day as a special treat and the one person in the office who "gets in early" every day has an absolute shit-fit about it. It’s not Christmas until "Last Christmas" has pinged on the office stereo for the fifth time today and everyone looks up and, instead of groaning, is touched for a moment with the wholesome festive spirit. It’s not Christmas until someone has shouted, with semi-hysteria, "Will someone PLEAse eat these mince pies? If we leave them over the weekend the mice will have them!" while everyone puts their big coats on and files into cabs. It’s not Christmas until your Office Christmas Party has ended anti-climactically.
Here’s the Choose Your Own Adventure version. It’s fucking Christmas now:
This article originally appeared on VICE UK.