There are some things you really don't expect from Christmas parties. Oh, you expect the usual stampede of misbehaviour; the filth and necromancy, the lying and preening. You expect to wake up at 5am somewhere on the Hanger Lane gyratory system with your trousers quietly smouldering. You expect, at a party hosted by the Erotic Review at which there is nothing to drink but absinthe, to end up redefining, with disturbing new nuances, the words 'guilt' and 'hangover'. You don't expect to see Malcolm McLaren dancing to Boney M. Badly.