Friday, 16 February 2007

Business isn’t all about work, work, work.

We like to have a laugh.
In fact, I insist on it.
And if you’re going to any of the Christmas parties this year you better watch out for our boys.
Our own bash has a reputation for being creative as well as risqué.
Which means we sometimes get lap dancers to serve drinks.
Hilarious, eh? On our last team night out we all rocked up at Panacea for the last leg of a bonding session – tame in comparison to Mark Boler’s stag do, but then you can’t let rip on home turf in the same way, can you? I tell you what, there’s more silicone in there than the server farm at Net Services (what was he doing floating on AIM?).
I digress. “Wine for my men,” I roared at the waitress. “We ride at dawn!” By which time it had all kicked off.
Wayne Rooney had just slapped some other player for mithering his Doris – can’t blame him, frankly – then some bloke got his ear bitten off in a brawl, the like of which I’d not seen since Paul Beck and Brian Kennedy had a swedge outside Sale Sharks. Dangerous place this, which is a shame as the lads at Gresham had sorted us with memberships and everything.
Good lads, by the way, looks like they stole that one.
A few of the boys asked me to join them in buying my local – The Braz in Alderley Edge – don’t believe a word that Plumber tells you, he wasn’t one of our mob, not after so many of the lads lost their dosh in his Galileo float.
We don’t forget.
Looking back at our best night of the year, that special place in my liver goes to the Freddie Flintoff benefit dinner in London, where we joined my favourite racing tipster Paul Beck, otherwise known as Freddie’s Best Mate (TM). “Would you like a bottle of anything from our wine list?” asked the waiter. “No, but four Smirnoff will do nicely,” I said.
These charity auctions are a laugh.
Seeing if you can get some tool who takes himself too seriously to keep bidding when he really can’t afford it.
Just because he promised his kids he’d get them a signed England shirt.
Sorry son, but if you want to mess with the big boys you’ve got to learn to piss in the tall grass.
You can knock a lad for stuff like that but at the end of the day it’s all about doing it for sick kiddies.
The boot of my Bentley’s now got more signed Phil Neville shirts and Freddie Flintoff bats than you can shake an autographed hockey stick at. There wasn’t much room for Ian “Beefy” Botham when we bundled him into the back after the Old Trafford test.But that’s another story. Be lucky, and see you for a sherbet or two this Christmas

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