Not long after I took up a job in New York I was asked to wine and dine some potential clients and to generally impress them with a night out in the Big Apple. The wining and dining went fine. I was even feeling pretty pleased with myself – and hoping that the clients were pleased with me.
But things took a turn for the very worst when my guests – who were even newer to the metropolis than me – asked me to take them to a club. I knew of only one place – and I only knew of this because I’d been given a flier for it that morning when I was coming out of the subway.
I knew I’d made a mistake when we walked into the club (where there was no queue, which perhaps retrospectively, I should have taken as a bad sign) and there was a faint and very strange tang in the air. I couldn’t make much else out as the room was really dark, which in a sense I considered a blessing since that meant I didn’t have to make eye contact with anyone else.
I realised the true extent of my error when a shot light suddenly shone onto the stage in front of us and I saw a naked 16 stone man being lowered from the ceiling on hooks. There followed some horrible activity with a dwarf which it pains me to remember even now – and a prolonged and quite severe bout vomiting from a seriously unimpressed client. I haven’t been asked to ‘entertain’ since.
