I am at a multi-day forum cum conference in London on Tuesday with an associate. I cannot stand these things and avoid them at all costs: the networking is amateur, the knowledge is poor, and the quality of the speakers is frankly rubbish.
In this era, who the fuck has days to swan around like this anyway?
The losers manning the booths avoid eye contact with me. They detect I am a predator and are confused as to why I am swimming in such shallow waters.
Wait. There is a very pretty petite blond in jeans and a white cashmere top with the most glorious breasts. Is she following me? I stop and turn. She looks away. I carry on. She carries on. I stop to speak to a booth loser. I make polite conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. She has stopped at the booth next to me and is perusing a brochure.
The hunter becomes the hunted. I am being stalked on the conference floor. My associate rocks up to my side.
“Check her out man,” whispers me, titling my head to the side.
“Good lord,” says he staring at her chest, “that’s got to be the 8th natural wonder of the world… and the 9th."
Slowly she looks up at us, smiles and approaches. We’re like stunned animals in the headlights. Dumb and dumber. I see a small bead of saliva drool out of the corner of my associate’s mouth.
“Hi guys,” she quips, “want to come to Afters with me?”
My associate is stammering a repetitive nonsense of monosyllabic gasps trying to extricate a response. I pick up the baton.
“Where are Afters,” I ask, my voice crackling like a pre-pubescent schoolboy whose balls haven’t dropped?
“Stringfellows,” she says smiling.
My associate and I look at each other and smile, chuckling.
Brilliant!. She is from the lap dancing bar and is doing a booming trade giving out passes to a free VIP Afters at the club. This is more like Vegas than London. She has the only proposition on the floor that most people understand relative to the collective heap of rabble.
We take our free VIP passes, thank her and leave. I am still hungover from a client dinner on Monday. Monday is a brutal night for a client dinner. I head to my hotel to bed. No Afters for this boy tonight.
Besides, it is Tuesday. Thursday is lap dancing night and not Stringfellows. I prefer the other place.
Beaverboosh
Showing posts with label Lap Dancing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lap Dancing. Show all posts
Friday, March 19, 2010
Friday, May 15, 2009
Just Expense It
The people of the UK have recently been exposed to a naked and shocking truth!
Politicians of all parties have been fiddling their expenses, at the tax payer’s expense. Quelle surprise.
In the case of the ruling Labour Party, more than half of Gordon Brown’s cabinet face embarrassment over their expenses.
The fraudulent activity is rife, and is not just for the odd restaurant meal and wine.
Members of Parliament are entitled to travel and housing expenses for London but are most certainly going to town with claims: renovations, all manner of furniture, flat screen tvs, gardening supplies and BBQs. The Prime Minister himself claimed £250 a month on a cleaner for his Westminster flat when he was the Chancellor.
Harriet Harman, Deputy Leader of the Labour Party, has been done for submitting hotel expenses claiming her husband’s porn viewing. If you have ever seen Harriet Harman this is quite understandable. I think taxpayers should subsidise her husband’s porn appetite out of sympathy.
When I worked in London, the number 1 client entertainment request was for the lap dancing bar on Thursday nights. Clients would expect to be entertained on account, for the whole of the evening. Of course I charged it back to them, one way or another!
The place of choice was a sea of dark suits and ties: lawyers, accounts, bankers, fund managers and management consultants filled the place. It was like English public school dinners, but with music, booze and semi-naked young girls pushing their pooties in your face.
Thankfully the tax receipt was for ACME Restaurant or something. I am sure this was known to all London firms including the Tax Office, but no one seemed to bat an eye. This was because most men that ran London firms and the Tax Office could reliably be found there on Thursday nights.
I would regularly expense receipts for thousands of pounds that were labeled FOOD. It most certainly was nourishment of a sort. All good innocent fun really!
My worst misdemeanor was after an expense crackdown under a new totalitarian regime in the firm. I chartered a plane to the North of England and took 12 clients to the Open Golf tournament for a huge piss up. The claim was in the tens of thousands of pounds. Not a word was mentioned. It never is in my business. It’s not the way. But my card was marked!
To fiddle expenses is human, to forgive unheard of.
Beaverboosh
Politicians of all parties have been fiddling their expenses, at the tax payer’s expense. Quelle surprise.
In the case of the ruling Labour Party, more than half of Gordon Brown’s cabinet face embarrassment over their expenses.
The fraudulent activity is rife, and is not just for the odd restaurant meal and wine.
Members of Parliament are entitled to travel and housing expenses for London but are most certainly going to town with claims: renovations, all manner of furniture, flat screen tvs, gardening supplies and BBQs. The Prime Minister himself claimed £250 a month on a cleaner for his Westminster flat when he was the Chancellor.
Harriet Harman, Deputy Leader of the Labour Party, has been done for submitting hotel expenses claiming her husband’s porn viewing. If you have ever seen Harriet Harman this is quite understandable. I think taxpayers should subsidise her husband’s porn appetite out of sympathy.
When I worked in London, the number 1 client entertainment request was for the lap dancing bar on Thursday nights. Clients would expect to be entertained on account, for the whole of the evening. Of course I charged it back to them, one way or another!
The place of choice was a sea of dark suits and ties: lawyers, accounts, bankers, fund managers and management consultants filled the place. It was like English public school dinners, but with music, booze and semi-naked young girls pushing their pooties in your face.
Thankfully the tax receipt was for ACME Restaurant or something. I am sure this was known to all London firms including the Tax Office, but no one seemed to bat an eye. This was because most men that ran London firms and the Tax Office could reliably be found there on Thursday nights.
I would regularly expense receipts for thousands of pounds that were labeled FOOD. It most certainly was nourishment of a sort. All good innocent fun really!
My worst misdemeanor was after an expense crackdown under a new totalitarian regime in the firm. I chartered a plane to the North of England and took 12 clients to the Open Golf tournament for a huge piss up. The claim was in the tens of thousands of pounds. Not a word was mentioned. It never is in my business. It’s not the way. But my card was marked!
To fiddle expenses is human, to forgive unheard of.
Beaverboosh
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