Ah! Corporate Hospitality – as fine an example of an oxymoron as one may find in all the loose-stooled sewer that is marketing speak! The pretense that, given the option, both parties would CHOOSE to be where they are, laughing at each other’s terrible jokes and re-telling stories so ancient that they have grown a rind on them.
Saturday saw me deep within the grip of such an activity – but with the, not entirely unexpected twist, that after a certain amount of Pimm’s, an aura of Corporate Hostility crept into the proceedings. Well-oiled partners decided that this, this, was the opportunity to inform their partner (a Client) that he was an unsatisfactory shag, that a big cock was all she was really after, and that he was lying and pretentious. Now, I can’t remember whether Miss Mitford deals with this in her tome “Noblesse Oblige” – I am certain that it isn’t covered in the volume that my splendidly Edwardian grandfather gave to me before I was ten years old: “Etiquette for Gentlemen” – so I dealt with it as best I could, and was rewarded with said lady’s hand inside my shirt APPARENTLY in search of a nipple: so that wasn’t ideal.
The only upside was that her husband was, by this stage, as pissed as she was. I knew this because he was earnestly enquiring of Fearless Leader (who has the sort of mien that could freeze vodka at ten paces) whether she had ever been fucked on the bonnet of a car… She handled it with the sort of froideur and composure that spoke of a father used to quelling native uprisings and a mother who was going to have none of that sort of nonsense, which was a joy to behold.
Anyway, as Wife pointed out when I returned home (somewhat Pimmsed, but still walking in a straight line and able to make it down stairs unaided), they obviously all had a pretty good time, and that was the point of the exercise – so it must be counted a success.
