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13th December 2024
11:20am GMT
Ah, the office Christmas party where the office craic gets dialled up to 90 (or at least 70, depending on the bar tab). It's a sacred pilgrimage we must all undertake, armed only with goodwill, a cheap Secret Santa gift, and a stomach lined with sambos. Like the original apostles, every office in Dublin is a bit of a mismatched band. Each with their own quirks, united by the holy spirit of questionable decisions and mandatory craic.
Whether you’re slugging pints in Toners or trying not to spill prosecco all over yourself in Peruke & Periwig, here’s a guide to the merry band of characters you’ll meet: God love us all.
By day, they’re the grand mystery of the office—face glued to their monitor, headphones on. Usually they're as likely to crack a smile as the 145 is to arrive on time. They eat lunch alone in Stephen’s Green and only pipe up in meetings when the manager calls their name. But give them three glasses of wine (probably from Fallon & Byrne), and suddenly they’re leading a group singalong of Maniac 2000.
Come Monday; they’ll be back to their usual stoic self, avoiding eye contact and praying no one brings up their impromptu Riverdance routine.
Ah, the boss. They’ve worked hard all year, carrying the weight of the team and the budget cuts. Tonight, they’ve decided it’s their time to let loose—violently so. One moment they’re jovial, pints in hand, toasting the “best feckin’ team in the business.” The next, they’re arm-in-arm with the new intern, roaring the chorus of Fairytale of New York with all the gusto of a GAA team after an All-Ireland final..
By the end of the night, you’ll find them wearing a Santa hat at a rakish angle, trying to convince the bouncer to let them bring a pint out onto the street. Legend or liability? You decide.
They’ve been gazing wistfully across the canteen at that fine thing from Marketing for months, unable to string together more than a meek “Hiya.” But tonight? Oh, tonight is different. After three Baby Guinnesses, they summon the courage of a thousand Fionn mac Cumhaills and make their move.
Expect awkward compliments (“I’ve always thought you had a lovely laugh”) and clumsy flirtation that’s half charming, half mortifying. Success or failure, they’ll be talking about this moment in the smoking area for years.
This one lurks, pint in hand, ready to ensnare their next victim. They’ll corner you with the intensity of a door-to-door gas supplier. Expect a full debrief on their cousin’s wedding in Dingle or a rant about parking fines in Drumcondra. Maybe even a slideshow of their bathroom renovation before wading into the minutia of their son’s Leaving Cert choices.
No amount of polite “Ah, Jaysus, would you look at the time” will save you. Your only hope of escape is pretending you’ve lost your phone. Godspeed.
The office scourge from January to November, this fecker suddenly becomes your greatest ally after one glass of Chardonnay. Now they’re calling you “buddy.” Now they're slapping your back like you’ve just scored the winning goal for Ireland. For this one night they're finally spilling the tea on how they actually can’t stand Sharon from HR.
Enjoy the fleeting camaraderie, but don’t be fooled. Come Monday, they’ll be back to their old ways, cc’ing you on unnecessary emails and reminding you about that meeting you’re already in.
No office party is complete without this person having a full-blown meltdown before the last round of sambos is served. Maybe someone “looked at them funny.” Maybe they’ve been wronged in the Kris Kindle. Or maybe it’s just the Baileys talking.
Regardless, they’re now sobbing in the toilets as poor Mary from Accounts tries to comfort them with a packet of Tayto and an awkward side-hug.
“Come on, for the craic!” they shout, tray of tequila shots held aloft like a chalice of doom. This one is relentless. They’ll have you downing sambuca before you can say, “Sure, I’ve work in the morning.”
Before you know it your tie’s on your head, and you’re leading a conga line around the bar. There’s no escape. They’re the pied piper of poor decisions, and you’re marching to their merry tune.
While everyone else is still nursing their first drink and making polite chat about holiday plans, this person is already half-cut. Usually found regaling anyone who’ll listen with wild tales from their J1 in ’09. By 9 p.m., they’re telling the barman in Grogans their life story, and by 10, they’re missing a shoe.
They’ll be the first to hit the dancefloor. The first to break a glass, and—unfortunately—the first to be carried out. Monday morning? They’ll be the first to call in sick.
They’ve turned up begrudgingly. They loathe forced socialising with the passion of Christ himself. Easily identified among a thick crowed because they're typically slouched in their seat like a sulking teenager dragged to mass. Not for them the festive cheer or the karaoke machine. Oh no. They’re too cool for such frivolity. And they’re not shy about letting everyone know it. They’ll be out the door by 8, mumbling about the last bus back to Clondalkin.
Honestly, they’re part of the fun in their own miserable way. The office party wouldn’t be the same without a few well-timed eye-rolls from this Christmas curmudgeon.
They’re lurking in the background, sipping a soft drink, and quietly cataloguing everything. Every drunken slip, every ill-advised dance move, every “I’ve always fancied you” confession is being logged for future reference.
Come Monday, they’ll be at the watercooler, dishing out the dirt like a parish gossip after Sunday mass. Avoid at all costs—unless you want to feature in their Monday morning PowerPoint of shame.
After a few vinos, this one’s an open book—and you’d better believe they’re turning every page. No secret is safe. Who’s getting promoted? Who’s on thin ice? Who was spotted having a sneaky pint with the competition? They’ve got the scoop, and they’re spilling it faster than a toddler with a Fanta.
Approach with caution: their revelations are equal parts entertaining and terrifying.
They’ve arrived in a velvet suit, an LED Christmas jumper, or possibly both. Subtlety? Never heard of her. They’ll hog the karaoke mic. They'll dominate the dancefloor, and be lurking in every photo uploaded to the office WhatsApp. Annoying? Absolutely. But somehow, their relentless energy makes the night.
And there you have it, the holy (or not-so-holy) disciples of the Christmas party. Whether you’re the Dark Horse or the Hawk, the Drama Dynamo or the Grinch, remember: we’re all in this together. Sure, you might wake up with a sore head and a heart full of regret, but isn’t that what the holidays are all about?
