Christmas party? Erm, I think I'll miss this one this year . . .

Moments later we were standing at the school gates, hot notes in our grubby little hands, recalls Andy Richardson.

The same three-letter-thought passed through our miscreant, sixth form minds and as our eyes met we simultaneously said: 'Pub.'

We looked up at The Coach & Horses, a temple to under-age drinking. It's landlord had done for under-18 alcohol consumption what Pablo Escobar had done for fans of the devil's dandruff – a reference that I trust you won't find too oblique. Sniff snort, wwhhheeeeeeeezzzzzzzz.

But first, we had to get the tree.

The headmaster had not misappropriated funds. Except, of course, he'd imagined we'd buy the tree from the local branch of B&Q, rather than uh-hum, Dodgy Barry, who was banging trees out for half the price at the back of the bus station.

Our febrile minds did the maths: 'That'll be £25 quid to Dodgy Barry, a tree delivered straight to Mr P and £25 for the Pied Piper, as we liked to call the landlord at The Coach & Horses.'

"It's commission," said my mate, who later went on to have a successful career as a commercial accountant, advising big city law firms. So, forever denigrating my lofty post of Head Boy, I set off in pursuit of festive thrills with my ne'r-do-well mate.

Dodgy Barry came through on a tree. No questions were asked and to save money on transport, my mate and I carried the 12ft tree three miles through the streets of West Bromwich, piercing passers-by with its bony Norwegian needles.

We deposited the tree at the sixth form gates, were congratulated for our efficient work by the headmaster and given the rest of the afternoon off for being such good students. Back. Of. The. Net.

The Pied Piper had our Newcastle Brown Ales lined up on the bar when we arrived at The Coach. And then, we proceeded to do what all sixth formers do at Christmas: get smashed.

'Twas the season of festive shindigs and, in truth, my track record wasn't good.

My elder brother had introduced me to house parties three years earlier.

My track record was worse than Paul Gascoignes'. My first visit to a house party had been memorable for two reasons:

1) An 'older woman' had poured boiling coffee in my face, after I'd made a, errr, how should I phrase this delicately, 'suggestion' to her on the stairs

2) I'd spent the 20-minute walk home drunkenly rehearsing the following lines for my parents: 'Hiya, I'm not drunk but I'm really tired. I'm going straight to bed. Night.' Hic.

As my mate and I quaffed at The Coach & Horses, word soon spread. Within minutes the Pied Piper was serving half the sixth form his £1 bottles of Newcastle Brown from our 'commission'. We'd unwittingly created a Christmas party.

My girlfriend, Sarah, joined me. And so did another girl, Joanne, whose back-combed, hair-sprayed barnet did for personal beauty what Donatella Versace did for plastic surgery.

There's always one at a Christmas party who overdoes the sauce and gets frisky, and this year it was Joanne. While waiting for the bus, Joanne produced a sprig of mistletoe. 'Christmas kiss?' she asked. Momentarily, the fug of Newcastle Brown made me think she was asking my girlfriend for hot lip-action. 'Go on,' I said, involuntarily, realising all manner of teenage fantasies as I egged them on.

And then she turned to me and snogged my face off, in front of my girlfriend, for a full five minutes.

Santa crossed me off his Christmas card list that year. And Sarah discarded me like a used chip shop wrapper. I learned my lesson and I learned it hard.

Christmas is all about avoiding parties.