The Thursday Booze-Up

The London Paper  –  11 Sept 2006

Last Thursday night turned into a bit of big one. If I had a five grand for every time I’ve said that over the last 10 years I’d be almost as rich as I actually am. Thursday night tends to be when you go out with your ‘work mates’ in the City as you don’t tend to hang around them over the weekend since they’re generally pretty despicable people and, of course, you have an obligation to see ‘her indoors’ then anyway.

Last week’s session followed a tried and tested formula. My first mentor in the City told me back in ’97 that if you wanted to pull a doris all you needed to do was slap on the Armani, head down to the Corney and Barrow at Broadgate Circle on a Thursday night and order a few £100 bottles of champers. As a rule, before you can say ‘gold digger’, a few drunken Essex girls will be all over you like Doherty on Moss after she’s been dusted with an ounce of Bolivia’s finest.

When we went out last week (ending up at Abacus, then Reflex) I’m pleased to report that we fulfilled the three basic gags that me and the other ‘chaps’ had devised to provide us with a bit of a giggle. Firstly, we convinced John from IT, who with his mullet, lumberjack shirt and moustache combo looks like he stepped off the set of ‘Deliverance’, to try and pull some bird. The chances of this geezer ever pulling anything are somewhere between slim and none, and slim had left town a long time ago. Secondly, we persuaded thrice-married Peter to cut some shapes on the dance floor. This poor character should have left the City decades ago but two expensive ex-wives and the schooling of little Orlando, Tarquin and Camilla have ensured that he’s a lifer. I defy anyone to watch his moves on the dance floor and not think that they’ve died and gone to heaven (or the local loony bin). Finally, we enjoyed our usual trick of buying expensive champers and then watching the juniors squirm like ginger kids in an orphanage when it came to their round.

Drinking is central to what we do here and apparently there are now 22 AA meetings a week across the City and Canary Wharf. It should surprise no-one that when you get a bunch of young, over-paid testosterone-fuelled British men together they drink till they drop. The only concern that you should have is that when we get up the next day, it’s people like me who help decide where your pension or your ISA are invested.

PS the names in this article have been changed to protect the defenceless

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