Catherine Townsend: Sleeping Around

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The Independent Online

Last year, my office party was relatively well-behaved, despite the presence of a mechanical bucking bronco. But secretly, I've always wanted to experience the thrill of the bacchanal Christmas bash. For once, I want to be the one who disappears into the conference room with the hot guy from the legal department, leaves post-mojito voicemails for the boss saying I'm "keeping it real", and wears non-ironic reindeer antlers. But not at my own office party.

So this year, my friend Victoria and I hatched an ingenious plan for two drunk, horny girls on the pull: we became professional party-crashers. I considered the prospect of endless open bars and fit men an early Christmas present. Especially since I'll be spending the big day itself at my dad's house, in a dry county in America.

Our first destination was the holiday bash for a large investment bank, held at a nightclub near the City. I was nervous, but Victoria breezed through by insisting that we knew "Simon from accounts". Within half and hour we were breakdancing with the traders.

Victoria used my mistletoe hat to get a snog from the fit DJ. But we knew we were in trouble after an angry-looking girlfriend materialised and demanded to know who the hell we were. "Um, my name is - Misty," said Victoria. We bailed out immediately, but I learned my next lesson of gatecrashing: always have an alias. I chose Wendy Kroy, from The Last Seduction. Our next stop was an ultra-trendy film production company near Holborn. This time, I told the girl on the door that we were friends of one of the lawyers handling the film. "You know, the really tall blond one," I said vaguely. "You mean Robert?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "I'll take you to him!" I started to panic, but remembered Victoria's wise words: "If you get there more than two hours after the party has started, everyone will be much drunker than you."

Robert turned out to be pretty hot, so I enveloped him in a huge hug before he had a chance to get confused. "Oh my God," I said, "You don't remember who I am, do you?" With mulled wine acting as a truth serum, I admitted our deception. "I knew you were lying," he said, "because you're definitely not someone I'd forget."

OK, it was a cheesy line, bit I saw my opportunity. We snuck up into his offices next door, and he slid his hands up my dress to the tops of my stockings, lifted me up on to his desk and went down on me.

So far, Victoria and I have met loads of eligible men - and a few girlfriends - who we never would have run into otherwise, in every realm from pole-dancers to politicians. My only unsuccessful crash was David Cameron's party, because my political journalist friend Michael said he didn't want a repeat of the incident at No 11 a few weeks ago, when I caught my stiletto on Gordon Brown's suit. I had to spend several minutes disentangling my leg from his while apologising profusely. But at least I didn't drunkenly grope anyone. That was Wendy Kroy.