The perils of the office Christmas party, currently striking home in star soccer circles, will come as a nasty surprise for many of more modest social status this year. For them, the shock will not come in screaming headlines but the shrieks of outraged spouses or the ominous thud of solicitor’s letter on mat.

Turns out that the unwary are being watched by enterprising snoops who are cashing in on the season’s sexual excesses. Funded by worried partners keen to confirm their worst fears, the ever-game gumshoes have been turning up at restaurants and bars and joining in the festivities. This gives them a ring-side seat from which to observe their targets. As time wears on and the inhibitions subside, the evidence gets easier and easier to gather. And all from comfortable surroundings, too. Sure as hell beats freezing your whatsits off in an unmarked white van for hours on end.

This type of surveillance has turned into a nice little earner for the lads and lasses of the PI (Private Investigator) community, apparently. So much so that an email has gone out encouraging more to the fray. Since infidelity forms a large part of a PI’s business, I suppose it simply represents a new initiative on their part. But there’s something scary about Open Season being declared on the office bash. Something that smacks more of loss of innocence than privacy. Then there’s all the PC nonsense to contend with.

Some employers cancelled Christmas this year – scared off by the possible repercussions. Seems you can be sued for everything from harassment through to religious discrimination by having an office party. On top of that, there’s a ‘duty of care’ to make sure everyone’s got a racing chance of getting home in one piece. The new interest registered by our PI friends can only make things worse.

What a shame. It’s almost got to the point where it’s difficult to breathe in company without causing offence. Time was when the office party consisted of getting a bit silly with trusted colleagues then wandering back and taking it in turns to sit on the photocopier. The lewder shots, inevitably pasted up in the most public of places, would be ogled next day through blinding hangovers with rueful smiles but no-one got very upset. Of course, some people inevitably went rather further than that. Usually in the stores cupboard with somebody from accounts. But apart from the odd nudge-wink from those in the know, nothing was mentioned. The erring partners were anyway usually mortified by their own behaviour by then.

All that would seem to have passed into a golden age. Not a moment too soon for some, no doubt. And before you start flaming, I don’t say I advocate a return. But I do mourn the passing of personal responsibility. Especially at this most wonderful time of the year.