Here we go again. Christmas parties, footballers, drink, an allegation of rape. Just when everything seemed to be going so well for Manchester United – Champions League qualification, everyone fit and healthy, the win away to Liverpool on Sunday – they collide with a juggernaut.

Note that I use the word “collide”. Who collided with whom? Nothing is proven. Once again, though, the festive season is marred by claims of footballers behaving badly, of rich kids out on the town and out of control, of horseplay gone wrong. Even in an apparently secure environment, danger can lurk around every corner.

Frankly, it is time for the club Christmas party to end. The all-too-rare night on the tiles may be good for team bonding, a time for the players to break out of the football “prison” in which they live 24/7. But is it worth it any more? Certainly, not when the potential fallout is so severe.

Imagine Sir Alex Ferguson this morning. He won’t like the headlines one little bit. He will have given his blessing, albeit a guarded one, to the party and given his players a chance to relax in each other’s company, to get away from the humdrum routine of the training ground, away from the pressure-cooker of matches, away from prying eyes. And now this.

OK, some players can go a bit mad at the Christmas “do”. Any group of young men will want to enjoy themselves, especially if – like most footballers – their social lives consist mainly of a quiet dinner with the wife or girlfriend. These days there are so few places for them to go without attracting unwanted attention.

In the past, these parties were often not a problem. When I was at Celtic, we had a fancy-dress party. I went as Popeye, Chris Morris [the full back] was Tina Turner. He looked fantastic in his high heels and stockings. Yet nothing untoward happened when we were out and about Glasgow, even when we met some Rangers fans.

Managers would even encourage the parties – “OK, lads. Have the bash on Wednesday, take Thursday off to recover, but don’t be late for training on Friday.” The end-of-year get-together was one of Eric Cantona’s favourite occasions. The United legend loved them.

But today, managers hate them. They sit by the telephone the next morning, waiting anxiously for reports of destruction and debauchery. Some players now charter a plane and hold their party abroad – Dublin is a favourite. Out of sight, out of mind, perhaps.

Even then, it doesn’t stop an opportunistic member of the paparazzi, or someone with a mobile phone, taking photographs of the lads on tour. Pictures can be taken out of context – like words – and the screaming headlines rarely tell the full story.

The day I gave up playing, in 2000, I was delighted. “Don’t you miss it?” my friends would ask. What? Not going out on Wednesdays or Friday nights or Sundays? Not being able to do what I wanted, when I wanted? I’d lived like a monk for years. I’d almost gone stir crazy. Retirement was a welcome release.

There appears no alternative to the Christmas party. If you give the player a bodyguard for the evening, a chauffeur to take him home, he would probably end up fighting with one or the other. And even if he’s as good as gold, there are still those lurking around a corner who might have you believe otherwise. It’s a case of heads you lose, tails you lose.

The festive footie knees-up may be traditional, like turkey and mince pies, but it has to end. I may sound like Scrooge with all his humbug, but I cannot see any other solution.