here it is:
''An Englishman’s time in the Big Apple''
It was time. I had won a seat on the work global trip and this time it was New York. Before I start explaining what is only to be described as disgusting, immoral and outright awful behaviour on my part as well as the co-joining parties involved, I should really explain who I am and what my reason for the trip was.
My name is Tom (and first names will only be what are given in this story. Unfortunately there were 3 Tom’s that attended this trip so the others will be known as Tom 2 and Tom 3 but I probably won’t even use those). Any way I work for a stock brokerage in the heart of London dealing with wealthy
individuals financial investments into this shoddy market place. Now many people are aware that any financial work industry but especially stock brokerages are very very stressful environments to work within which is why the company I work for are always jumping on the metaphorical bandwagon to offer an overpriced and luxurious incentives to keep their coke fuelled brokers loyal.
Before I worked there I had been informed by numerous colleagues that the boss had taken them to places such as Dubai, Monaco, Paris, Milan, Vegas… and the list goes on. This year as said previously was New York and I had to be on it. I had never been to the U.S of fucking A before and this was my
chance to arrive in style. The way the Incentives work is all the top performers for the year get put into a hat and then from that hat 10 names are pulled, those names are then the lucky bastards to get a seat in what is to be a trip of a lifetime . I was a lucky bastard. As no one really cares on the work I put in to get there ill go straight In to it. The boss (whose first name I won’t even use) had booked us upper class Virgin flights. This meant everyone rendezvous-ing at the office on Friday 5A.M so that we really could make the most out of this soon to be barbaric weekend. Due to my long travel distance for work anyway meant that I actually arrived a little earlier
which resulted in me myself and I sitting in the lobby bored like 1o’clock half stuck. As the half cut
already ‘stimulant induced’ employees rocked up at the office gates everyone had a grin ear-to- ear and rightly so, we knew shit was going to hit some fan somewhere. We are all waiting outside for our blacked out Hummer limo to turn up and take us to Heathrow airport, or was it Gatwick? Fuck knows I was under some sort of mind altering chemical from the get go. The last to arrive was the
boss who came hurling down the office driveway in his brand new Jaguar F Type which then proceeded to doughnut around the car park. After deciding he had found the right spot to park
which I may add was across 3 spaces and mounted on the pavement, he then proceeded to join us in
the limo.The ride to the airport was as golden as any other except we had to added benefit of luxury surroundings, Dom Perignon and 100% Bolivian marching powder (well give or take a few %). Myself and the others dive straight in like it was the last supper, except for the average crack head.
Everyone is trying to get as fucked up as quickly as possible because we all know we can’t be doing lines on the plane now can we? We arrived at the airport in glamorous style, the driver opened the door for us and we stepped out feeling like celebrities. I say felt like because we obviously weren’t, we were over paid salesman acting like we were the dogs bollocks and felt like we owned the world
as we brushed the shoulders of our £2000 suits and proceeded to strut into the terminal. Now for people that have never flown upper class before, the best way to explain it is like saying that it’s a holiday within its self. We had our own waiting room which I remember was called the cinema room. It had its own handpicked waitresses, bar staff and 70 inch TV to watch while we waited for our flight. Being that the booze was free and that we were degenerates, we ensure we soaked up every
last drop of Grey Goose and Bollinger they could throw at us. A few hours passed this way until a man in formal attire greets us and informs us that our flight is ready to be boarded and proceeds to direct us the correct way (because obviously we needed it). Back in the office I was known to take full advantage of a staff du and end up with, or somewhere strange, so for something this big my heart was set as being the worst behaved. Or as the boss would see it, the best behaved. As I’m walking, sorry crawling to the entry gate I was instructed that I “needed to sober the fuck up” or id
be denied boarding. I did what most teenagers would do if they had been out drinking and had to
walk through the front door of the parent’s house. The sober 45 seconds, where one tries to be as normal as you can and avoid eye contact like the fucking plague. If anything this makes the whole situation a lot worse and you really are better off just being drunk, yet at the time whenever drugs or alcohol enter a blood stream you think everyone is a member of authority and you do this tactic regardless.
Anyway, whatever I did I pulled off and there I am in my neon lit, pod slash bed thing with a great view of the bar. You did read that right a fucking pod not a chair. Now anyone who actually knows or knows of me they would soon understand that aeroplane seating has always been a rather large issue due to the fact that I stand 6 foot 6 and it is a well known fact that cattle class chairs seem to only cater for the average midget with no legs. Be it what you will I was in heaven, there was no single serve drinks being served by a wilder beast with a single serve attitude. It was an actual granite looking bar with a pleasing looking bar maid that served you drinks in actual glass wear.
Despite being in utter luxury I’m not overly keen on flying, if you ask me it seems like so many things could go wrong leading to a plummet from 35,000 feet. My responses to this? Take 4 pills of Tramadol Hydrochloride (supplied by a very good guy) and pass the fuck out. My colleague had the courtesy to wake my zoned out arse up and inform me that we are landing at
JFK, I was tired and so was everyone else. We get through customs get our bags and get into the very cliché yellow taxi to which we get driven to our hotel. The Sheraton Hotel on Times Square. I’m
greeted by dark marble floors, rich mahogany and the pleasing accent of passersby. Upon checking in I received Intel that the PA to my boss had somehow forgotten to book myself and a colleague of mine a room, did I care? Did I fuck, I wanted to hit to town, get boozy and do some stupid shit and I
proceeded to do just that, but we will get to that shortly. Now, all the others are complaining about how tired they are and how they want to go to bed because of their Jetlag, Jetlag! It’s a 4 hour fucking flight and you have just landed in one of the greatest cities in the world but you’re telling me you want to go to bed! Fuck them, I get geared up and present a salesman speech as to why everyone should come out drinking with me, oh it worked.
We don’t get into fresh clothes and we don’t wash, we drop our bags off and we fuck off out the door and find the nearest establishment that serves alcohol, as it happens its quite easy to find a pub when your living in times square for the weekend. Me being me had forgotten one very important bit of information for this trip. The drink age is 21 and I am 19. Now this really didn’t prove to be much of a problem as it was made up to be, firstly because I’m border line giant, secondly because I my dear boy am an Englishman and thirdly I heard that the only form of ID accepted by America for foreigners is a passport. Now if you think I am taking that very valuable bit of documentation on a piss up around a city that I am unfamiliar with, you’re very much mistaken.
Moving on, we find this little bar which looks like it will suit our needs just right. I walk in, immediately open a tab and get to work disinfecting internal injuries with straight alcohol. Everyone’s having a laugh, the atmosphere is great and the bouncers let me in because I said “please” in the most prince Charles accent one could do. Its only when I notice the beer pong table in the corner did things take a turn for the worst. Myself being a cocky broker earning more than I should, do I decide to start an international beer pong war with the local Americans playing it. These Americans happen to be of the female gender. So me thinking I’m Sean Connery gather the troops
and begin to play what turns out to be a very competitive ‘sport’. We lose, and not by a hair, we lost by a long shot. So now I have lost my dignity as well as my sobriety for the evening yet life is good. These girls are obviously on a bit of a pub crawl and the hot one, well hotter one asked for my
number, which I gladly handed over. There was a brief disagreement as she thought my number was fake. She had never seen a British 07 number before. Anyway they buggered off so my friends and I decided to continue our drinking and brush up on our what appeared to be appalling beer pong
skills. An hour passed this way until I looked at my phone to which I saw had 4 missed calls and a text from an unknown U.S number. I rang back and was invited out to another bar where this girl and
her friends were, of course I accepted. Now by this point half my colleagues have passed out at the bar, a couple on the floor and some went home. The remaining standing candidates were I, the boss and one other guy; we were ready but not sure what for. We as a Trio settled the tab of $572 and stumbled out to which we were presented with the choice of taxi or tuk tuk, yeah you know what one we chose and if you don’t then you obviously haven’t realised what kind of idiots we are! We
give the tuk tuk driver the mission co-ordinates. “3 monkeys”. That’s all we gave him, not because we were being arrogant knobs but because that also all we knew and to try and say more would have resulted in some vomiting and crying from all 3 parties. En route to the bar my boss sees that there appears to be a wedding shindig after party going down right next to us. We huddle and try to
come up with the best plan we can infiltrate said party before reaching our final stop. What do we do? We pull up our ties, brush off our suits and try to just walk in like we were invited. Yet I must confess this very shoddy yet clean method of approach dint work. We were met with an arm that I
can only describe as belonging to the B F fucking G across the door frame. I had nothing to answer with, nothing witty, nothing clever just the shocked look on my face as I sized this animal up, meanwhile my boss comes up with “look here chaps, I’m kind of a big deal so let us in” to which there was a short and crisp reply of “fuck off”.
Eventually we find 3 monkey’s, well actually we were so drunk that we saw the sign yet accidently tried entering the bar next door. Now this bar that we attempted was actually the only place during my whole stay where I was denied entry because of age. Now after my last shambles of a retort to the door staff at the wedding I felt I had to make up lost ground on these guys, needless to say I went too far, but I think the reason behind this was not because back then I was genuinely a cunt
but because they were so very rude. After being told to shut the fuck up and leave I went down the route of “who the fuck are you to speak to me like that”, “you obviously don’t know who I am”, “hey look what I found on my wrist, your annual salary” (that one sparked rage) as I was sporting my brand new solid gold rolex submariner and damn it looked good. Finally my last comment on my departure was “ it’s okay Susan (he was male) don’t be upset that I can be in your country for 45
minutes and still shove my dick in whoever I chose”.
Now, I was about to text the girl on how I think my chances of getting access were probably compromised until I realised it was in fact the wrong door. I walked in feeling ‘baller’ yet subconsciously thinking about my last statement regarding intercourse and how I kind of had to fuck
something or I’d think myself as a twat. I was greeted by a kiss from this girl whose name to this day I’m still unaware of. We kissed all night in this bar, doing shots of each other and licking lime juice off necks.. I knew I was gunna fuck this girl. I discretely suggest my penthouse suite I had but then I remember I didn’t actually have one due to a fantastic personal assistant back in the office, but
while this is running through my mind she suggested I came back to hers, so it all ended well on that front. Now I wish I could tell you about some eventful journey back to hers but I genuinely can’t remember it for the life of me. I remember crawling up her stair case while we undressed each other
as we went. The great thing about fucking someone while under the influence of high ABV spirits is that you can pretty much go for as long as you want. Most guys are thinking about not blowing a load too fast so they think of wrong things such as the method used the empty a colostomy bag, or
who is going to win the FA cup, whereas I was just thinking how unfit I am and what position I should throw her in to next. A couple of hours went by like this; I rolled on my back and passed out like an
O.A.P at a brothel. I woke up later, god knows if it was hours later or minutes later but I found a
naked American next to me which I woke up and then fucked again. Later that day around 5:00 I
decided it was time to go so we said our farewells, I gathered my belongings from around the house
and I left. I had no idea where I was or actual street names of my desired destination but I fell into
the nearest taxi which really isn’t that hard in NYC and told him I’m staying at the Sheraton hotel in
Times Square. He had this shocked look on his face and I was actually nervous to ask but I did anyway to which I was answered with another question “do you have any idea where you are pal?” No, no I fucking didn’t but I bloody well hoped this fucker did. He was so kind to inform me I was in Queens.. Yes fucking Queens. How on god’s green earth did I get there? For those who are unsure
on the place Queens, it’s where Eminem spent a long time and where 50 Cent was shot 9 times. Who cares, just get me home. $80 and 2 bridges later I was at the steps of my hotel. The sun was coming up, I was cold, hung over and my pinstripe suite smelt like Jaeger Meister and pussy. Walking through the spinning front doors I was told that my boss has sorted me a room but he was the only one holding a key card. I eventually found my way to his room and stood outside the door building
up the courage to actually knock his door at 6:00. It took a lot of knocking but he eventually
answered wearing only a pair of tight Calvin Klein’s. He welcomed me in with a bottle of Belvedere vodka and my key card. I swigged the bottle, took my card and said good night.
The next morning we all met up in the lobby and arranged our day. We had some free time to go to some shopping in 5th avenue, meet up for lunch at hooters, dinner and a nightclub. There really isn’t a whole load of point me explaining my shopping apart from to say its amazing. I went to Louis Vuitton, Dolce and Gabbana.. everywhere. Lunch was great, I had never been to a Hooters before and damn it was a good experience, but the problem we encountered is that if you give a herd of
young money crazed guys half naked waitresses and beer, you soon find that all they try to do is get the girls drunk and throw chicken at each other. Which is exactly what we did and we did it well!
Now the more civilized few wanted to go and see ground zero and some other sites but it was a grey day and the view would have been wasted so myself and 2 others stayed in hooters getting drunk(er) and chatting up girls with our accent. It never got old, yet time flies when you are having fun and we had to get back to get ready for our fancy dinner out. Once again we chose tuk tuk over taxi and by god were we bad passengers.
One of us got out mid traffic and tried riding shotgun in a
stranger’s Prius while I commandeered the closest UPS truck, I should really say tried because I was soon shoved off to step down rail and told to fuck off. Looking back on it now it really is a miracle none of were shot.A few pictures later and a police encounter we arrived home and were ready to start drinking again. Everyone was in a rush to get ready. Dusting off the tux and doing shots of vodka in a mad race to
make our reservation. One by one tuxedoes came flying down the stairs and hurling into our limo for the night. What’s funny is people always complain about NY traffic but it really isn’t all that bad when you’re travelling in the back of a stretch having Louis Roederer poured down your gullet. Just
over 10 formal attired gents fall out of this party on wheels where we walk into the restaurant which
was absolutely beautiful, a Thai/asainy place, darkly lit and over priced food. It was perfect. There
really isn’t that much to say about dinner and to be honest who wants to read about my sushi. Even we didn’t care, we were just excited to go to the nightclub which was called PHD lounge; one of the most expensive an famous nightclubs in the city. This place was the only reason we were dressed the way we were. The front door was an elevator in itself made from glass and marble which took us the very top floor of the skyscraper where the club was. It was an open top nightclub with VIP booths
around the edge which of course we had. As a group together we had our own waitress who poured our drinks and waited by the velvet rope if we needed anything. Being that a bottle of vodka cost $800 and the entry fee was $2000 a head we decided to only have 1 bottle of every spirit they had.
Having an end of night bill that came to around $56,000. This is one of those clubs that just wouldn’t be in England for health and safety reasons and quite right, it would only take one fall to plummet to your death from 70 stories high. It felt so good to be brushing shoulders with celebrities and not think about it because for that night we were on their level. Somehow we must of thought we were never allowed to party again so we made sure that we partied for as long as we could until my
colleague accidentally pinged his cigarette, but the wrong way and burns what I could imagine being a
10 grand dress of some trophy wife. The partner of the woman did not take kindly to this
unfortunate event and started pushing our friend around… now we didn’t like that did we? After throwing our drinks over him as well as the bucket that held our bottles, we were put in arm locks and escorted out the club. To be honest it felt cool being dragged out by your neck in front of the likes of Jay Z and Rihanna. My other friend was so disgruntled by the whole matter he decided to take his anger out on the nearest car which happened to be the new 911 turbo. He was shortly
arrested after that but hey ho, go big or go home.I didn’t want to get the limo home that night I wanted to walk, digest the city and so did the rest of the flock, so walked we did, which actually in the end turned out to be a very bad idea as it was further than expected. 2 blocks left to go and I was approached by an African American fellow
(damn that was very politically correct of me). He uttered 2 words to me which were “coke, weed”?
Does a bear shit in the woods? Does the pope fuck kids? I’ll take a gram of your finest cocaine squire I said. He walked me down to the subway entrance (I thought I was fucked) and got out a bag of coke. Now apparently this shite was a $100 a gram, but who was I to argue with someone that looks like he lives where I woke up the previous night. He weighed out my gram, by eye may I add and
wrapped it in a $1 bill. I was so happy I had scored some coke after the night we just had. I frantically ran up stairs, kicked open my door and tipped this wrap out over my granite desk in my room. My friend and I looked at it in awe like we had just discovered fire. He did one line and went to bed, which was strange because I can never do that. While he slept in the low lit room I just sat there with
my back to him and my head over the desk doing line after line of this utter crap. I mean it was
actual bollocks, it had some cocaine in it because I felt my heart rate beating fast and faster, but it didn’t taste of coke nor did it have that petroleum smell to it either. Fuck it, I did the lot anyway. Hour later I decide to crawl in to bed, heart rate of about 250 and a blocked nose. I couldn’t sleep a wink and I was coming down like a mother fucker.
I managed to get through the heavy depression from the lack of stimulants in my blood stream and decided to get showered for the final day in New York. Already I was confronted with a problem, Already. I couldn’t get the shower to work, I mean I tried everything, I even debated crying. Anyway I
did what any adult would do and I called reception with a sound of embarrassment in my voice asking for help. Now to be honest I was expecting some well dressed somebody to attend my
problem. No. They sent a guy I can only picture being called Pedro who said not one word and wore a grey overalls. He walked into the bathroom and turned my shower on. He didn’t show me how he just turned it on and fucked off. It’s probably because of the drug paraphernalia left around my
room. Fuck him anyway, I showered, packed my bag, woke my mate up and headed down to lobby. I
was way too early so I sat down there by myself trying to convince the staff to open the bar for me. It was 9 AM and I knew I was fighting a losing battle but did I try? Fuck yeah! Did I fail? Fuck yeah!
Eventually I saw familiar faces holding luggage, so I ran over and shared this tale that I’m writing now but only a hell of a lot shorter. As mentioned before it was our last day and we had a baseball game planned and then our flight home. I don’t really follow baseball but it sure was a fun environment. Don’t ask me who was playing because I would be lying if I gave you team names. For all I know it was the Miami Dolphin’s again Manchester United Football Club.
Not that we were actually watching it, we were all in a state. 10 of us just sitting there with sunglasses to cover our irregular pupil size and one of us making regular stops to the loo to throw up his guts. I mean it got to the stage where he was just throwing up the lining of his stomach and there I am on the end debating sawing off my own nose with a spork. I was dying and I was just being cooked alive from the sun. I wish I had the energy to go put the accent on local women to test but all I could focus on was staying alive.
We didn’t stay for the whole game as our flight time was nearing and to be honest no one put up a fight, I just wanted to die on a plane and sleep it off. I’m not a fan of airports and the waiting involved and needless to say there was a very long wait indeed. I could smell the dodgy coke and expensive booze seeping through my pores, it wasn’t pleasant. So I reached into my suitcase to grab
a huge bottle of Ralph Lauren Green Polo after shave that I bought when I went shopping on 5th Ave. It was my favourite scent and as I took the cap off I fucking dropped it. I tried catching it with my foot but it was too late, it had smashed everywhere, all over me and the side of the road. I was heartbroken. So I picked up the smashed glass and poured it all over me, I thought I might as well
not waste any, every drop I could get on me I made sure did. Although I was a $100 bottle of aftershave down, the silver lining was I no longer smelt like a meth head but now Hugh Heffner’s ball sack.
I get to customs and I begin to panic, because I don’t remember being swabbed on the way in so
why now, oh god. Turns out the swab was for luggage and detects bomb making materials. Worrying times none the less. The plane was empty and I mean empty. It was amazing, we were actually the only people on the plane and we took full advantage of this, by laying where we wanted, how we wanted. The novelty soon wore off so I headed to the bar with my friends and we all shared our stories of the weekend and looked through pictures that were taken in people's worst moments. The
journey home really wasn’t as interesting as the way there, so this is where I leave it. But it was now officially known that I Tom ******** cannot be taken abroad with work.
Late addendum..
this is "Tom's" latest; in his collection of watches.. I asked him to take if off so I could snap it.. it only comes with a new Bentley (thats a Motor Car) His Dad's Friend just gave him, I'm not sure..
Yes they are my Nicotine stained fingers like a Tarantula about to devour this masterpiece of Master craftsmenship in timekeeping.. value a mere £14-22k.. AHEM.. cough cough, choke.. that's no fucking Joke!.. yep I know some ''High Strangeness'' (heard the new Buzz-phrase? all the coolest people are repeating) people as well as Aliens, I can count as "Pal's"..
If I get a deal with Film4 for this long outline "Above and above"... it's mine!! he's got a dozen watches worth almost a Mere quarter Million... this is at the cheaper end!;
if; you think; I'm kidding;!.. wait for my Novel... you ''cannot will not; believe the truth''.. because it's so far beyond your ken... you little folk with or without money.. will crap your guts out your butt.. when you connect all the dots...
Because "Tom" is the Antichrist.. and what a rock n roll Geezer he is, when he's not nickin yer drugs.. and shagging your Daughter.. he likes young Pussy, but; then again who doesn't ?
laugh you boring bastards !!..
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