You’re a mean one, Mr. Crunch.

In the City, there are few things that give you that warm, fuzzy feeling that could almost be described as “job satisfaction.” Topping this very short list was naturally, up until this year, Bonus Day. Now that the Credit Crunch has effectively vanquished this event, we look towards that second-best perk of City life: the Christmas party.

Yuletide celebrations in the Square Mile are the stuff of legend. Not content with the company-wide bash, we would warm up with "client lunches," lavish affairs involving Pom Perignon, fine bordeaux, multiple digestifs - and oh, some food.

The only thing more debauched than these - apart from the big night itself, of course - were the "team lunches."

Unconstrained by the need to remain remotely civilized by the presence of a representative of one of the organizations that actually paid the bills, levels of drunkenness could reach epic levels. The Romans had their vomit rooms to cope with this sort of excess but, in today's City, the pavements leading to Liverpool Street serve much the same purpose.

These "networking" and "morale-boosting" affairs amounted to mere limbering up for the main event, however: the Christmas party. In previous years, budgets of £50,000 were not uncommon and the ice buckets of champagne were accompanied by gimmicks apparently designed to speed the descent into chaos, such as ice-sculpture vodka slides. Stomachs fortified by little more than fois gras, canapes and marshmallows dipped in chocolate fountains had little chance against the rising tide of intoxication. No wonder so many senior executives end up snogging secretaries.

This year, alas, things will be very different. My employer, I am ashamed to tell you, has suggested we all pitch in £20 for a "team night" at Nando's.