When the streets were paved with gold
Back in the heady days of hitting sales targets and spending the client’s money on glorious long lunches or wildly extravagant dinners, I had a run in with a maitre d of the Bluebird, on the Kings Road London.
We were a bunch of advertising kids that had vastly beaten our year’s income targets and were the praise of the agency. The way we had done this was by marking up our work by 200% and the client obliviously paying. Well it was British Gas and British Gas was doing the same to the British home owner. So whilst we were spending their money we were paying high prices for our gas and electricity. That was over our heads though, as all we wanted to do in those days were drink, party and discuss who was the best looking in the agency.
So here we found ourselves doing precisely that in the private dining room at the Bluebird. The evening was long, four coursed, fine wined and lots of high jinks with the work crew. The bill was £3000 of which £1000 was spent on cigars – no one was a smoker at the table. We smoked the stoggies because we could afford them on our expenses. It was applauded, it was our reward for the long days and nights building a career and making money for the Americans. We loved it.
I was on high form when at 1.30am we left the glass box of the private dining room and made our way through the restaurant attempting to find the exit. The restaurant was thinning out with only stranglers left sipping cognacs.
As I swayed through the restaurant I spied the grand piano standing for my attention by the bar. I shimmed over, sat down lifting the hood with glee as my mellowed colleagues gathered round for the impromptu recital.
As I struck the first cord, in what was to be a bashed version of something I had long forgotten, the Maitre‘d was by my elbow sternly.
“Please madam, do not play the piano.” he asked
“Oh but I must”, I replied, cheered on by the swaying work crew. They wanted the show. A few had now broken away and we at the bar kissing. We will all remember that in the morning.
I slammed the keys again.
“No madam, please I must insist that you not play” the poor chap requested.
“Oh but I insist that I do play, we have spent a vast fortune in your private dining room tonight and I want to play the piano” my little foot tapping on the floor and all puffed up by my own importance helped very nicely with Château neuf du Papa, ‘64.
I leered forward and as I was once again about to thrash the ivory this time accompanied loudly by my tone deaf singing, the dear Maitre d’ pleaded;
“Madam please I beg you not to play the piano, I don’t think Sir Elton John; sitting in the corner over there will appreciate it”.
There was Elton John in the corner of the Bluebird enjoying a simple evening with a friend.
We left quietly without bestowing him the privilege of to my version of Good Bye Norma Jean.
We were a bunch of advertising kids that had vastly beaten our year’s income targets and were the praise of the agency. The way we had done this was by marking up our work by 200% and the client obliviously paying. Well it was British Gas and British Gas was doing the same to the British home owner. So whilst we were spending their money we were paying high prices for our gas and electricity. That was over our heads though, as all we wanted to do in those days were drink, party and discuss who was the best looking in the agency.
So here we found ourselves doing precisely that in the private dining room at the Bluebird. The evening was long, four coursed, fine wined and lots of high jinks with the work crew. The bill was £3000 of which £1000 was spent on cigars – no one was a smoker at the table. We smoked the stoggies because we could afford them on our expenses. It was applauded, it was our reward for the long days and nights building a career and making money for the Americans. We loved it.
I was on high form when at 1.30am we left the glass box of the private dining room and made our way through the restaurant attempting to find the exit. The restaurant was thinning out with only stranglers left sipping cognacs.
As I swayed through the restaurant I spied the grand piano standing for my attention by the bar. I shimmed over, sat down lifting the hood with glee as my mellowed colleagues gathered round for the impromptu recital.
As I struck the first cord, in what was to be a bashed version of something I had long forgotten, the Maitre‘d was by my elbow sternly.
“Please madam, do not play the piano.” he asked
“Oh but I must”, I replied, cheered on by the swaying work crew. They wanted the show. A few had now broken away and we at the bar kissing. We will all remember that in the morning.
I slammed the keys again.
“No madam, please I must insist that you not play” the poor chap requested.
“Oh but I insist that I do play, we have spent a vast fortune in your private dining room tonight and I want to play the piano” my little foot tapping on the floor and all puffed up by my own importance helped very nicely with Château neuf du Papa, ‘64.
I leered forward and as I was once again about to thrash the ivory this time accompanied loudly by my tone deaf singing, the dear Maitre d’ pleaded;
“Madam please I beg you not to play the piano, I don’t think Sir Elton John; sitting in the corner over there will appreciate it”.
There was Elton John in the corner of the Bluebird enjoying a simple evening with a friend.
We left quietly without bestowing him the privilege of to my version of Good Bye Norma Jean.
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