Shoreditch House

The London Paper  –  23 July 2007

To date, life has shown me that there are three possible explanations as to why a lady would fail to fall for my charms: she’s either mad, blind or plays for the other team. However, after a visit to the recently opened and ever-so-trendy Shoreditch House I can add a fourth possible reason for rejection: she works in the media.

A fellow Cityboy had successfully applied to be a member of this media hang out and had invited me and a few of my colleagues to spend a lazy Friday afternoon there. He had explained that the owner’s main worry was that his fashionable drinking hole would become full of braying suited stockbrokers flashing their cash and talking loudly about shares, bonds and other such pointless horseshit. Hence, he gave us specific instructions to come ‘in disguise’.

Feeling excited about meeting some hot media blonds and knowing that there was a gym and a roof-top swimming pool I had a plan that was so delightfully superficial I thought it couldn’t fail but win over the hearts and behinds of some gorgeous TV presenter types. I decided that I would come a little earlier than my pals and do such a strenuous weights session that Arnie himself would think I’d taken things too far. Then I would head upstairs and have a swim in the afternoon sun looking like I’d just walked off Mount Olympus having eaten nothing but goat’s liver and cottage cheese for the last few decades.

On arriving at the pool I was immediately stopped by a security guard who, looking at my huge arms, quite correctly, demanded to see my firearm license. Fortunately, I was aware that unlicensed guns of this size had become illegal some time ago in this country and hence I had brought all the correct documentation and was allowed to pass.

Anyway, after the swim I changed into a Carhartt jacket, fitted Moschino shirt and APC jeans combo that was so cool it would have had John Galliano frothing at the mouth. I settled down on the roof with a vodka and tonic and awaited my pals, surveying the scene with a contrived nonchalance that it has taken years to perfect.

When I saw my so-called mates come up the stairs I immediately knew that the game was up. As usual these Cityboys thought that casual gear meant a polo shirt, chinos and a pair of loafers. The groundwork I had made with the delightful Fiona, Sarah and Jane was completely wasted and they quickly made their excuses and left realizing that we were Cityboys and hence dreadful human beings.

Of course, the night was a complete failure and I blame this entirely on my friends’ inability to hide their appalling career choice. Perhaps media types hate we Cityboys because they envy our cash or perhaps it’s because we’re generally obnoxious. Personally, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. All I know is that you have to adapt to survive in this hateful world and if that means pretending to be trendy and creative in order to get the ladies excited then I’m game – I just wish my mates realised that too.

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