Ah, the company Christmas party. It seems that even in recessions, debauchery dies hard. Deprived of our annual champagne-fuelled, freewheeling bashes sponsored by some faceless corporate giant, some bankers nevertheless refuse to kiss goodbye to the golden opportunity to get obliterated, then humiliated, in front of our co-workers. And at the end of the day, why should we?

I, for one, have kept the time-honored tradition alive. It was around midnight on the eve of my own Christmas fete that I realized I too was swiftly crossing the line from acceptable holiday merriment into the zone of embarrassment. Perhaps it was because I refused to eat our barely-edible, self-funded Christmas feast that the alcohol went straight to my head. In any case, excessive boozing lead our team to one of those vile City after-hours joints like Reflex, Abacus and Revolution, and it was around then I noticed that not only was I wearing some other girl’s high heels, but I had jingle bells in my curls. At least I woke up in my own bed the next day, which is more than I can say for others on my team.

But alas, both my and my teammates’ foibles pale in comparison to the Christmas party antics of an ABN Amro credit salesman who, in the heat of an argument over trading ethics, let his inhibitions fly and headbutted a fellow trader, sending him to the hospital. But while both men were arrested, only one of them has returned to work. The bank, apparently, has suspended the headbutter; his Zidane-style tricks violated the bank’s corporate values, which include “integrity, teamwork, respect and professionalism”

Have City bankers gone mad? When did seasonal fervor begin to resemble Jerry Springer? It could be that traders are seeking the risk they CAN’T take in the markets via amateur bar brawls. These kind of attention-seeking flare-ups may have had their heyday in happier times (for example, at “Gladiator-themed” parties, before our Roman Empire crumbled to bits), but with 180,000 financial services jobs axed globally this year alone, clobbering colleagues inevitably invites the wrong kind of holiday drama.

I can almost understand that depressed parties require bankers to “make their own circus” so to speak. As our magicians and dancers have vanished, the delivery of high jinx starts and ends with us. But if you lose your head to the extent that you knock out a colleague's Christmas lights, just don’t be surprised the following day when your bank “head-butts” you our of your job.