OK, so it all started yesterday lunchtime. Lunch with Neil, much chat about the stuff we did together at BBC Three Counties, gossip about house buying, publishing and radio. Back to the office for the afternoon, then out to the office Christmas party.

It was at the CC Club beneath the Trocadero. Venue of the Big Brother after-show party et al. Very convenient for us all, and VERY LOUD. Kathryn, Emilie and I made a pact not to dance. We were plied with stupid amounts of free champagne, though, and within thirty minutes were up on the podium jiggling about to some truly awful tracks.

Not much in the way of meat-free food and a couple of hundred journalists all letting off steam in an enclosed environment all conspired to get me very dizzy very quickly. As far as I can remember - and nobody can remember all that much - there wasn’t much in the way of gossip, but I woke up this morning with a very thick head, knees that ached from several hours of uncoordinated and inelegant dancing, and a rather stiff neck. Oh, and rather late for work.

It seems I wasn’t the only one suffering. Between us we could claim six thick heads, three stiff necks and several ringing ears. Mine are still chirping away to themselves even now.

Emilie brought in croissants to make us feel better, and we cracked open a bottle of champagne mid-morning, then headed out to Belgo for Christmas lunch.

Belgo Covent Garden is very much like the Industrial Zone in the Crystal Maze. Lots of chicken-wire and thick metal mesh, and row upon row of long tables and hard wooden benches. It was made slightly less Crystal Maze like through the addition of several hundred cash ‘n’ carry crackers and the strange monk-like outfits worn by the waiters.

So more eating, more drinking and more taking of photos - many of them painfully embarassing. An official snap of each member of the team by the person sat opposite, pretty much everyone wearing the comedy moustache and fingernails out of the crackers and, as the afternoon wore on, our faces getting longer and more drawn as the excesses of the last 24 hours, and the lack of sleep, kicked in.

We decamped to Freedom, the micro-brewery across the road, and flopped down on the long comfy seats, where we stayed for the next four hours, the size of the group slowly dwindling until eventually there was only four of us left. I was up for heading out to find a coffee shop, but a few swift calls and a cold walk across Soho found us at the IBM Christmas party in the Sun and 13 Cantons with a guy who bore a striking resemblance to Morten Harkett.

The Sun and 13 is a very cramped little pub, and a strange place for a party. We stayed 20 minutes before heading up Poland Street to the Text 100 party in Porters, and during that time at least two glasses got knocked off tables and smashed on the floor by people passing by, heading for the loos.

Porters - not my favourite place by a long shot - was far more pleasant. Room to sit down, and a steadly supply of free drinks and - eventually - food. Cheesy tortillas, dippable pitas, and chips coated in head-blowing chilli powder. I taught Susie, Kathryn and Emilie a trick with the books of matches left on the table and pretty much everyone burnt their fingers trying to copy. Susie, somehow, managed to get the burning head of a match stuck to her fingers as it flared up. Flicking her wrists to knock it off she threw it onto the sleeve of Morten Harket’s jacket. He jumped up in a panic and the still-flaring head dropped to the floor leaving a small white mark on his arm.

Stumbled in the vague direction of a train home around eleven and have set my alarm for a foolish time in the morning. I have a meeting in Westminster I could well do without.

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