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» Lurid Work Stories
More knocking shop shenanigans
My friend Jim used to live in London, Westminster to be precise. He got to know a lot of the local people, including the proprieter of a "high-class" brothel that catered to a number of well-known names, including some serving MPs.
One day when I was visiting him, we got talking about the brothel. He said that as he was on such good terms with the madam, we would be able to go and visit to have a look around if we wanted. This would have been a good offer at any time, but six pints of cider down and it seemed like the best idea ever.
So he led me down a back street, and we knocked at an unmarked door. We were warmly greeted by Madam Charlotte. Jim evidently wasn't lying when he said he knew her as they spent a good ten minutes catching up and having a surreally normal conversation.
Sat in the office, Charlotte told us that we were welcome to go on a tour, but that we weren't to open any closed doors for obvious reasons. However, she told us with a knowing smile, there was a secret passage past some of the rooms, and due to the two-way mirrors we would be able to catch a glimpse of the goings-on therein.
Sworn to absolute silence, we tiptoed down the hidden corridor. The first room was empty, but I still took a minute to take in the decor: lots of red velvet, an expensive-looking chandelier and one wall made up entirely of a (normal) mirror.
At the next room we were greeted by a frankly disturbing sight - a very much larger lady sitting on the face of a man who, judging by the pin-striped suit littering the floor, was some sort of banker or other City high-flyer.
The next room was far more normal, a beautiful and well-presented young lady was pleasuring a gentleman using conventional methods, although she did seem to be very good at it.
The fourth room was quite a shock. There were two men in there, and on the bedside table there was a lot of white powder, some of it cut into lines. One man had black, curly hair but I couldn't see his face as he was fellating the other man, who looked somehow familiar. After a minute or so, I realised who the fellatee was. I had seen him being interviewed on Newsnight barely a week previously. I was witnessing a senior government minister being serviced by a man, in a whorehouse. I won't name him as he's still in office and I imagine that there would be quite a fuss if it came out, so to speak.
Anyway, the biggest shock was still to come. The kneeling man stood to walk over to the bedside table to powder his nose, and he also looked familiar. He turned round after beaking his line and there was no doubt, it was Velvet Undergroundist Lou Reed!
The cider was starting to sit uneasily in my stomach, so we decided to leave. As we were leaving, Jim said to me, "I told you you'd see some sights, didn't I?"
"Well yes," said I, "but I never would have guessed that Lou Reed works Tories".
(Fri 6th Sep 2013, 17:54, More)
More knocking shop shenanigans
My friend Jim used to live in London, Westminster to be precise. He got to know a lot of the local people, including the proprieter of a "high-class" brothel that catered to a number of well-known names, including some serving MPs.
One day when I was visiting him, we got talking about the brothel. He said that as he was on such good terms with the madam, we would be able to go and visit to have a look around if we wanted. This would have been a good offer at any time, but six pints of cider down and it seemed like the best idea ever.
So he led me down a back street, and we knocked at an unmarked door. We were warmly greeted by Madam Charlotte. Jim evidently wasn't lying when he said he knew her as they spent a good ten minutes catching up and having a surreally normal conversation.
Sat in the office, Charlotte told us that we were welcome to go on a tour, but that we weren't to open any closed doors for obvious reasons. However, she told us with a knowing smile, there was a secret passage past some of the rooms, and due to the two-way mirrors we would be able to catch a glimpse of the goings-on therein.
Sworn to absolute silence, we tiptoed down the hidden corridor. The first room was empty, but I still took a minute to take in the decor: lots of red velvet, an expensive-looking chandelier and one wall made up entirely of a (normal) mirror.
At the next room we were greeted by a frankly disturbing sight - a very much larger lady sitting on the face of a man who, judging by the pin-striped suit littering the floor, was some sort of banker or other City high-flyer.
The next room was far more normal, a beautiful and well-presented young lady was pleasuring a gentleman using conventional methods, although she did seem to be very good at it.
The fourth room was quite a shock. There were two men in there, and on the bedside table there was a lot of white powder, some of it cut into lines. One man had black, curly hair but I couldn't see his face as he was fellating the other man, who looked somehow familiar. After a minute or so, I realised who the fellatee was. I had seen him being interviewed on Newsnight barely a week previously. I was witnessing a senior government minister being serviced by a man, in a whorehouse. I won't name him as he's still in office and I imagine that there would be quite a fuss if it came out, so to speak.
Anyway, the biggest shock was still to come. The kneeling man stood to walk over to the bedside table to powder his nose, and he also looked familiar. He turned round after beaking his line and there was no doubt, it was Velvet Undergroundist Lou Reed!
The cider was starting to sit uneasily in my stomach, so we decided to leave. As we were leaving, Jim said to me, "I told you you'd see some sights, didn't I?"
"Well yes," said I, "but I never would have guessed that Lou Reed works Tories".
(Fri 6th Sep 2013, 17:54, More)
» Training courses, seminars and conferences
I was on "diversity training" as part of the preamble for a job with Arriva Trains
The bloke made it clear that he couldn't abide any sort of diversity-unfriendly behaviour. He explained that one of his children had some sort of mental deficiency (possibly a spaz or maybe a mong, I forget the details).
Anyway, we then had to come up with as many derogatory words for spackers as we could think of. Wanting to be seen to take part, I volunteered a couple of minor slurs, but held back somewhat.
I think it was the trainer who then told us about one term he'd heard, one that made him utterly incandescent with vicarious spaz-rage. It was, he told us whilst getting visibly irate, “window-licker”.
I'm not sure how I managed to keep a straight face.
(Thu 15th Mar 2012, 21:08, More)
I was on "diversity training" as part of the preamble for a job with Arriva Trains
The bloke made it clear that he couldn't abide any sort of diversity-unfriendly behaviour. He explained that one of his children had some sort of mental deficiency (possibly a spaz or maybe a mong, I forget the details).
Anyway, we then had to come up with as many derogatory words for spackers as we could think of. Wanting to be seen to take part, I volunteered a couple of minor slurs, but held back somewhat.
I think it was the trainer who then told us about one term he'd heard, one that made him utterly incandescent with vicarious spaz-rage. It was, he told us whilst getting visibly irate, “window-licker”.
I'm not sure how I managed to keep a straight face.
(Thu 15th Mar 2012, 21:08, More)
» Training courses, seminars and conferences
I once had to make a presentation
To a venture capital firm with intention of getting money to expand to new premises. At least that's what we told them, in reality we were well behind on the lease for our existing office and badly needed their money to avoid going bankrupt. Obviously we couldn't tell the truth so the boss and I had concocted a thoroughly-fictitious but (or so we thought) entirely convincing business plan for the new premises.
Half an hour into the meeting and one of the panel (think Duncan Bannatyne with a hangover) was really starting to pull our figures apart, and we could see that the whole panel was starting to get suspicious. We were getting increasingly worried and probably sweating quite visibly. The cash flow charts were being analysed in the minutest detail, and it got to the point that my boss made an excuse about needing to check some figures that he'd left in the car. So we managed to get out of the meeting and tried frantically to come up with some bullshit that would cover us. It soon became clear that we were in over our heads and that continuing the meeting would be catastrophic.
We were both in a blind panic out in the car park when I suggested that we fake a medical emergency. This would, we hoped, allow us to leave the meeting and buy us some time to rejig the figures. It was either that or my boss would lose his business and I would lose my job.
So we racked our brains for what medical problem we could fake, and my boss told me that once a family member had suffered a brain aneurysm that had caused blood and white brain matter to leak from the victim's ear. It was extreme, but we were desperate.
Obviously I would have to play the “victim”, as the boss being taken ill would have been commercial suicide. Unfortunately I have a phobia of blood so I wasn't about to cut myself. We decided that just white brain matter should be convincing enough.
So this is how I ended up in the toilets, frantically taking Captain Picard to warp speed in order to get some convincing white fluid as my boss went back into the meeting saying that I seemed unwell.
With the man-spaff applied and glooping down my face, I stumbled back into the meeting doing my best impression of a new-born horse.
And that was my semen ear and con-for-rents.
(Fri 16th Mar 2012, 9:17, More)
I once had to make a presentation
To a venture capital firm with intention of getting money to expand to new premises. At least that's what we told them, in reality we were well behind on the lease for our existing office and badly needed their money to avoid going bankrupt. Obviously we couldn't tell the truth so the boss and I had concocted a thoroughly-fictitious but (or so we thought) entirely convincing business plan for the new premises.
Half an hour into the meeting and one of the panel (think Duncan Bannatyne with a hangover) was really starting to pull our figures apart, and we could see that the whole panel was starting to get suspicious. We were getting increasingly worried and probably sweating quite visibly. The cash flow charts were being analysed in the minutest detail, and it got to the point that my boss made an excuse about needing to check some figures that he'd left in the car. So we managed to get out of the meeting and tried frantically to come up with some bullshit that would cover us. It soon became clear that we were in over our heads and that continuing the meeting would be catastrophic.
We were both in a blind panic out in the car park when I suggested that we fake a medical emergency. This would, we hoped, allow us to leave the meeting and buy us some time to rejig the figures. It was either that or my boss would lose his business and I would lose my job.
So we racked our brains for what medical problem we could fake, and my boss told me that once a family member had suffered a brain aneurysm that had caused blood and white brain matter to leak from the victim's ear. It was extreme, but we were desperate.
Obviously I would have to play the “victim”, as the boss being taken ill would have been commercial suicide. Unfortunately I have a phobia of blood so I wasn't about to cut myself. We decided that just white brain matter should be convincing enough.
So this is how I ended up in the toilets, frantically taking Captain Picard to warp speed in order to get some convincing white fluid as my boss went back into the meeting saying that I seemed unwell.
With the man-spaff applied and glooping down my face, I stumbled back into the meeting doing my best impression of a new-born horse.
And that was my semen ear and con-for-rents.
(Fri 16th Mar 2012, 9:17, More)
» Corporate Idiocy
Once upon a time
There was a corporate system known as "banking". This system at its core involved lending money to people and then charging them a percentage of the value.
Of course, "money" is simply an abstract concept used in lieu of bartering, so as there is a finite amount of any given resource there is also a finite amount of "money".
However, this "banking" system ignores this fact and pretends that money is a real thing in its own right.
Inevitably and hilariously the system began to collapse when there was more "money" owed than there were resources available in the world. Of course the "bankers" didn't care about this because as long as people continued to believe the lie that this "money" had some intrinsic value outside of the abstract, the bankers could spend this imaginary resource on real things like speedboats and cocaine.
Just like the Emperor and his new clothes, nobody wanted to come out and say that they could see the elephant in the room, and certainly nobody wanted to have to give back their speedboats and cocaine, so everybody carried on trying to prop up this worldwide Ponzi scheme to absurd degrees. Soon some countries owed eleventy basquillion dollars, but apart from alarmist headlines in newspapers, nothing really changed.
To be continued...
(Thu 23rd Feb 2012, 14:28, More)
Once upon a time
There was a corporate system known as "banking". This system at its core involved lending money to people and then charging them a percentage of the value.
Of course, "money" is simply an abstract concept used in lieu of bartering, so as there is a finite amount of any given resource there is also a finite amount of "money".
However, this "banking" system ignores this fact and pretends that money is a real thing in its own right.
Inevitably and hilariously the system began to collapse when there was more "money" owed than there were resources available in the world. Of course the "bankers" didn't care about this because as long as people continued to believe the lie that this "money" had some intrinsic value outside of the abstract, the bankers could spend this imaginary resource on real things like speedboats and cocaine.
Just like the Emperor and his new clothes, nobody wanted to come out and say that they could see the elephant in the room, and certainly nobody wanted to have to give back their speedboats and cocaine, so everybody carried on trying to prop up this worldwide Ponzi scheme to absurd degrees. Soon some countries owed eleventy basquillion dollars, but apart from alarmist headlines in newspapers, nothing really changed.
To be continued...
(Thu 23rd Feb 2012, 14:28, More)
» I should have been arrested
Wreckheads in minor misjudgement
Over the last two years I have delved in and out of a massive drugs problem (thankfully now done with). The drug in question was mephedrone which you may remember as being the subject of one of the biggest tabloid moral panics the UK has seen for quite some time. For those that don't know, the drug is somewhere between MDMA and crystal meth both in chemical structure and also in terms of the subjective effects.
As you might expect, there were many days where going to bed simply did not happen, and many occasions where good judgement went on an extended holiday, because after all, EVERYTHING is the BEST IDEA EVER.
After the drug was banned in the UK I continued using it quite prodigiously, and this story concerns a time well after it had become illegal.
I have a female friend (we'll call her R) who is somewhat eccentric, she's got dreadlocks in which she keeps interesting things she's found, such as pegs, springs, coloured bits of plastic etc. She likes finding absurdly tasteless '70s dresses and wearing them with enthusiasm, and she pretty much refuses to wear shoes.
One Saturday morning, after a Friday night on the mcat had bled through into the next day, it was decided that we should leave R's house and sit in the park in the sunshine. R decided that she would take an ornamental sword with her, because EVERYTHING is the BEST IDEA EVER. I was apprehensive enough to suggest it might not be wise, but not so apprehensive that I didn't pose like Conan the Barbarian next to a car I judged particularly manly.
So four of us wandered towards the park, R with no shoes, "individual" hair and multi-coloured clothes flapping in the breeze. My girlfriend and I took a detour to our flat, and met up with R and the other gentleman outside the Tesco convenience store. It should be noted that at this point R was sitting on the pavement with her legs stretched out halfway across the pavement, bare feet on display and the sword leant against a lamppost. Saturday morning shoppers milled around us as she explained rather too loudly how the other gentleman had successfully stolen some red wine from Tesco.
As we walked towards the park, she mentioned how the police never bother stopping her for drugs or anything because she looks so unusual that they assume she can't possibly be a miscreant.
Or so she thought.
So there we were, 10am in the middle of the park with stolen wine, some other booze, at least a gram or two of mcat on us each and a sword proudly sticking out of the ground.
Imagine my surprise when a policeman suddenly appeared, and made a lunge for the sword before grabbing it and throwing it well out of reach. Imagine my further surprise when I realised that he had several friends with him, three of whom were in full riot gear waving bloody sub-machine guns at us.
My natural response to coppers is to go into full cooperation mode, because I am fully aware that being a cocky twat results in unfavourable treatment. In this particular incident I'm also starting to brick it about the recently-illegal and very highly witch-hunted drugs in my pocket. However, this is not R's reaction. She initially started saying that we were going to do a photoshoot involving the sword, then she tried to say that it was harmless and they were wasting their time as it wasn't even sharp.
I did my best to make apologetic faces at the coppers and make a joke of it, but R kept on about her sword, despite the three MP5s pointing at her. Much to my exasperation and growing panic, she was trying to stop them taking her sword due to its sentimental value.
Eventually, and after I had said to her very loudly that there was plenty more extent of the law available if the police chose to use it, she agreed to let them take the sword in exchange for an agreement that she'd be able to pick it up later.
As I understand it you can potentially get five years for carrying a bladed weapon and fourteen years for intent to supply class B drugs (I had quite a collection at home).
So yeah, very fucking lucky that day. :-)
(Tue 31st Jan 2012, 20:14, More)
Wreckheads in minor misjudgement
Over the last two years I have delved in and out of a massive drugs problem (thankfully now done with). The drug in question was mephedrone which you may remember as being the subject of one of the biggest tabloid moral panics the UK has seen for quite some time. For those that don't know, the drug is somewhere between MDMA and crystal meth both in chemical structure and also in terms of the subjective effects.
As you might expect, there were many days where going to bed simply did not happen, and many occasions where good judgement went on an extended holiday, because after all, EVERYTHING is the BEST IDEA EVER.
After the drug was banned in the UK I continued using it quite prodigiously, and this story concerns a time well after it had become illegal.
I have a female friend (we'll call her R) who is somewhat eccentric, she's got dreadlocks in which she keeps interesting things she's found, such as pegs, springs, coloured bits of plastic etc. She likes finding absurdly tasteless '70s dresses and wearing them with enthusiasm, and she pretty much refuses to wear shoes.
One Saturday morning, after a Friday night on the mcat had bled through into the next day, it was decided that we should leave R's house and sit in the park in the sunshine. R decided that she would take an ornamental sword with her, because EVERYTHING is the BEST IDEA EVER. I was apprehensive enough to suggest it might not be wise, but not so apprehensive that I didn't pose like Conan the Barbarian next to a car I judged particularly manly.
So four of us wandered towards the park, R with no shoes, "individual" hair and multi-coloured clothes flapping in the breeze. My girlfriend and I took a detour to our flat, and met up with R and the other gentleman outside the Tesco convenience store. It should be noted that at this point R was sitting on the pavement with her legs stretched out halfway across the pavement, bare feet on display and the sword leant against a lamppost. Saturday morning shoppers milled around us as she explained rather too loudly how the other gentleman had successfully stolen some red wine from Tesco.
As we walked towards the park, she mentioned how the police never bother stopping her for drugs or anything because she looks so unusual that they assume she can't possibly be a miscreant.
Or so she thought.
So there we were, 10am in the middle of the park with stolen wine, some other booze, at least a gram or two of mcat on us each and a sword proudly sticking out of the ground.
Imagine my surprise when a policeman suddenly appeared, and made a lunge for the sword before grabbing it and throwing it well out of reach. Imagine my further surprise when I realised that he had several friends with him, three of whom were in full riot gear waving bloody sub-machine guns at us.
My natural response to coppers is to go into full cooperation mode, because I am fully aware that being a cocky twat results in unfavourable treatment. In this particular incident I'm also starting to brick it about the recently-illegal and very highly witch-hunted drugs in my pocket. However, this is not R's reaction. She initially started saying that we were going to do a photoshoot involving the sword, then she tried to say that it was harmless and they were wasting their time as it wasn't even sharp.
I did my best to make apologetic faces at the coppers and make a joke of it, but R kept on about her sword, despite the three MP5s pointing at her. Much to my exasperation and growing panic, she was trying to stop them taking her sword due to its sentimental value.
Eventually, and after I had said to her very loudly that there was plenty more extent of the law available if the police chose to use it, she agreed to let them take the sword in exchange for an agreement that she'd be able to pick it up later.
As I understand it you can potentially get five years for carrying a bladed weapon and fourteen years for intent to supply class B drugs (I had quite a collection at home).
So yeah, very fucking lucky that day. :-)
(Tue 31st Jan 2012, 20:14, More)