The sun is shining, I’ve got my skimpy outfits in the summer wardrobe, and I’m definitely “beach body ready”…God, life’s good. Last week’s troubles are, well, so last week. And, you know, at last, it’s easy being me.
Sadly for one male member of the DM community, life’s not quite so sweet. You see, our man who will remain nameless – OK we’ll call him Roger, for argument’s sake – is paying the price for a night out with his favourite client.
The story goes something like this: Ever the schmoozer, our man decided to enter a recent industry awards programme on behalf of his client, just to show what a great job his company was doing for them.
The awards night went swimmingly, and Rog duly went on to pick up a lovely shiney gong – one for him to put in the business’ reception; and one for the client to show off to all his chums. So far, so good.
Things started to get a little messy when, after the awards bar shut, said client exhorted our man to take him to an establishment where he could finish the evening with a bang. Never one to miss out on a chance to make his client even happier with his lot, Rog hailed a cab and within minutes they were surrounded by more gorgeous ladies than Rod Stewart could shake a shitty stick at.
“Here you go,” said our man, “how does this place grab ya?”. The client was quite literally cock-a-hoop. But, not wanting to impinge on his enjoyment, Rog despatched his fav employer to the dark recesses of the establishment in the company of a couple of, er, “staff”. while, Rog sashayed over to the bar to kick back and relax, sound in the knowledge that his client was having the time of his life. So far, so good, still.
As soon as he hit the bar, our man was surrounded by even more, er, ladies. Buy us a drink, they emplored. So, a round of flaming sambuccas was on the bar quicker than he could ask Olga, Anastasia, Marina and Nika whether their mums approved of their career choice.
“Cheers”, they all shouted with gusto. However, the next thing poor old Rog can remember was waking up in his hotel room, no wallet, no trousers, no shirt, no jacket. All he had was his mobile phone and his Y-fronts.
“Shit!” he cried. What the hell happened?” Luckily he still had that blower, which he put to immendiate use and dialled up the City of London Police. “Ah,” the desk sargeant said knowingly, “have you been to XXXX night club, by any chance?” Responding in the affirmative, poor old Rog then had to do the walk of shame to the station to have a drugs test, which revealed he had been splattered by the oldest trick in the Rohypnol/Ketamine book.
And it transpires he was the tenth person that week to fall to the same fate – although how many of them work in direct marketing is not known.
Prosecution sorted, XXXX night club is, of course, now under new management…but poor old Rog has been rogered like a good ‘un. Still, his client was so happy with his night that he has now extended the contract for another five years. So, it’s not all bad news…
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