The Media Lunch : Toilet Humour (2)

Josh Thompson was one of the sales manager’s on my team. He was due to take a client out for lunch and kindly invited me to join. Knowing that there will always be some kind of amusing anecdote to be had from spending time with Thompson, I duly accepted. It was a Friday, and lunch on a Friday meant that you would not be coming back. I tweeted something along the lines of ‘Friday lunch; Thompson you’re an animal #winning #worksucks. My forty-six followers had nothing to add to this. In fact, the next time I checked I was down to forty- five. #Fail.

Now, Thompson is a good man but a compulsive liar. Worse, he’s an absolute bull -shitter. It’s not all his fault – there is indeed an undeniable charm about him, stemming from that girlish laughter which is at odds to that media funded beer belly of his. Yes, Thompson is not a looker and he’s a bit phony, but he means well and is simply making the most out of what was given to him. His perfectly smooth bald head and eager gaze have all the markings of a successful salesman, but something just isn’t right about old Thompson. It could very well be his dedication to social climbing or perhaps the ingratiating manner by which he clambers up that rotten pole. Ultimately, he’s a lovely guy with a good heart, but he’s just the most appalling liar. Why he’s good at selling but not great. Why I decided to join him on this lunch and see where it took me.

That turned out to be Calamare. A lovely family run Spanish restaurant off Charlotte Street, aka Mediaville. Now let me tell you: I bloody love Calamare. It’s quite possibly my favourite restaurant in London. You see, my folks now live in the Costa del Sol and its been home to me since I was about nine years old. I have even been known to pull a Thompson in my time and say I'm Spanish to impress women. This has rarely worked. My faux Spanish accent tends to give the game away immediately and my pasty skin tone lends a hapless hand to their disbelief.

Now Calamare is special to me because it is authentic. Vibrant red walls scream, 'I'm passionately Spanish!' whilst tired tiles and well worn tables say in typical Spanish melancholy, 'err, I'll be passionately Spanish tomorrow.' It’s always a case of 'manana, manana.' This is something not amiss with the waitresses either, where after a bottle of Rioja and a few olives they are still to take our full order and Thompson is already beginning to sway.

I feel I should take a moment before I continue to mention our client. Tom Morris is not exactly a media owner's ideal business partner. He is impossible to read - the most inexpressive man I have ever come across. Either this man knows way too much about media that he feels he doesn't have to say a word (ever) or simply he doesn't understand media at all so keeps quiet. A lunch like this you would think would give good reason for the man to open up, but hardly a single word has been uttered. It’s just weird and uncomfortable. Now, in case you haven't noticed I don't feel under any pressure to talk when entertaining clients myself. I came here for the tapas, not the company, so I am quite happy to see old Thompson wriggle his way through conversation. And wriggle away he does.

Fast forward one hour, another two bottles of Gran Familia and we're now onto Sherry. The padron peppers were such a hit we got two portions, the Pamplonan Oxtail and red wine stew was delightful and I'll worry about the effects of the cuttlefish in that rich squid ink sauce later. To our surprise, Tom did manage to ask whether we were producing a special supplement around Christmas, which being eight months away did seem a little strange. Again, either this was some seriously progressive media planning or the man just felt he needed to say something. Thompson responded in great jest, no doubt delighted for an opportunity to move the conversation away from his mother's piles, which he had been discussing at some length. It really was that difficult.

He was getting a bit excited. Clearly his roasted goat with white wine, rosemary, parsley and garlic hadn't slowed him down! I considered ordering some more Andalucian shrimp and spring onion fritters whilst Thompson rambled drunkenly on about how he would like to wear a moustache next winter similar to that of Clarke Gable or even Freddie Mercury. He said, “you wear a moustache, you don't just grow one and its best accompanied with a leather jacket." At this point, I was feeling a little restless and Tom appeared uninspired. Personally, I had a great meal. It felt like the right time for the bill and to call it a night. Tom was pissed. I was pissed. Hell, we were all pissed.

That's when Thompson was plotting his next move. With the bill, he ordered three shots of tequila and a cab from the waitress. It was only then that I realised the waitresses were in ridiculous attire. Their bright red trousers rose to their breasts in what could only have delivered the most unbearably uncomfortable wedgie. I giggled drunkenly at this thought and that set Thompson right off. His girlish laughter even triggered Tom off who produced a flurry of chipmunk-like squeaks in quick succession. Higher in pitch than Thompson's, the shock value alone was enough to start me off again and we continued to laugh in this cyclical manner until being coerced into the cab by an unhappy waitress.

We fell into the cab in our fits when the driver asked 'where to, lads?' Tom cried 'Strip Club!' which came to such a surprise to us that this was followed by an extremely awkward silence. This was only broken by a series of bodily malfunctions wherein my stomach gurgled, Tom covered a hiccup and Thompson farted. This charming ice-breaker did just the trick to bring back the full blooded camaraderie and Thompson proudly told the driver 'Springfellas, please.' With a wink to us he said, ' I know this place well, lads. It’s off the hook.'

When we arrived at Springfellas, I was a little bit confused. Tom seemed to be enjoying himself, allowing Thompson to buy a few drinks on his expenses. However, as it was only half past five in the afternoon the off beat nature of the day was not wholly lost on me. These scantily clad women - one of whom was already clothed round Thompson - weren't particularly the fairest I've seen. This didn't seem to bother Thompson, who informed me to 'get in another sambuca' and offered to buy me a dance whilst waving his company credit card around. Tom meanwhile was also drunk and now whispering sweet nothings in the ear of one of Springfellas dancers. I spied both of them being beckoned to the back room and felt this would be a good point to leave.

Two things however were holding me back but it wasn’t Tom or Thompson. The first thing was my stomach, which was now bubbling away furiously and at pains with the day's excessive indulgence. The other thing was a Stringfella girl, who was literally holding me back by my belt buckle. 'Why are you in such a hurry big boy?' she said deeply - a little too deeply I noticed. She then stroked my cheek, and through faked laughter, asked me if I wanted a dance. When I replied that I didn’t, she took some offence. In fact she took a great deal of offence even describing how many hours she spent in the gym to get her thighs so firm. I mentioned I had noticed how tremendously thick they appeared and congratulated her for this. This seemed to appease her and to avoid any further confrontation I mentioned meekly that it wasn’t her, that I thought she might be a truly wonderful dancer but that I was in dire need of the loo and if she could point me in the right direction I would be forever indebted. On reflection it seems weird to be indebted forever to a Stringfella's stripper but in my defence the squid ink and sambuca had not married well in my stomach and quite simply, I had to go. She directed me towards the back room. I was confused as I had already clearly stated I didn’t want a dance, but this was where she informed me the loo was. At this point I wasn’t going to challenge anyone. I was cramping so I stormed through the door and into the back room.

The room was alive with techno music, dancers and customers. There were six middle aged men all receiving dances but I found it extremely weird that they were all sat so close to each other - you see the room was completely open plan and there was nothing private about these dances. I saw Tom in one corner while on the other side of the room Thompson was with his girl and gave me a sheepish wink. There was also a drunk who had fallen asleep and a girl sat beside him checking her watch and her I-phone. The others hadn’t seemed to notice me at this point. This was soon to change.

I saw the WC sign illuminated like the Holy Grail. Again, it didn’t dawn on me at first how ridiculous and poorly designed this club was but there, in a corner of this open planned private dance hall was a loo. I entered. Half-expecting a hall which would lead me to the actual loo I found I was already in the loo I had been searching for. I sat down, and despite my fervent desire to relinquish my system of drink and tapas I found I couldn’t go. You see, I became suddenly sober at the thought that on the other side of this door was a strip club in which a colleague and a client were having a dance. The shocking design of the place angered me and I became furious with its architect - I mean seriously, how could you have planned to have a loo next to such a room?

I didn’t know how to play this exactly. I could either leave or find another loo in another building. Or I could do my business, but run the risk of ruining several people's evenings. Ultimately, and unfortunately for all the decision was made for me and I can only blame Calamare for that.

The loo flushed (overly loud if you ask me) I opened the door with eyes fully upon me. I gave a pathetic cough, mumbled 'excuse me' and headed swiftly out the room. Once out of the room, I made for the exit immediately.

Hailing a cab I thought it best not to tweet about my lunch with Thompson.