Midweek Drinks

Lunch with Pete goes swimmingly. He is enjoying his champagne and I successfully managed to stop him refilling my glass following my third helping, after a lot of pleading and saying his name over and over again, “Pete, come on, Pete, I’ve told you, please Pete you know what I have this afternoon Pete, do me a favour today Pete” and so on. Three drinks were three more than I planned but a pretty good outcome when you’re drinking with Mr Dunstan; the man provides the blueprint on excess living. He owns cars he cannot even fit his belly into.

He and I have negotiated his input into the fund. Another of my Rules of the Race is that if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Pete offered to contribute $250,000 to the fund. I asked for $500,000, and got it. If there was any doubt in Brian’s mind that I am the man for the manager role then this will defeat that. I ponder what Jono is up to as I work out the details of receiving the funds from Pete. He’s probably doing what he normally does at lunchtime, eating a Big Mac with a side helping of cigarettes.

You need to ask in order to get in most circumstances. Too many rat racers sit around waiting for things to happen. The best example of this is a pay rise. If you want a pay rise, ask for one, you’ll normally get one and if not, this may be the cue for you to start looking for a new job. I apply this rule to most aspects of both my city and daily life. Pete didn’t make asking to stay off the booze very easy, but it worked eventually.

Today is a Tuesday and normally that would have little or no effect on my decision to indulge in a tipple at lunchtime or after work, but with today’s meeting I have a very good reason to stay on the wagon. There are some issues with midweek drinking, some to consider before, after and during indulging, but mostly these are completely ignored by city dwellers.

Being a rat racer, I’m often approached by friends or colleagues (usually the single ones) who want to engage in a little midweek drinking to talk business or pleasure. Knowing this to be the case, I conduct my necessary and enjoyable gym workouts mostly when I have time for a lunch break. Meeting a friend or colleague for a drink at 5 or 6pm means you can quite easily have 4 or 5 drinks by 8pm. 8pm is reasonably early to head home, so you keep going till 9pm, and by 9pm you have had 7 or 8 drinks and so you’re happy to have a couple more. By 10pm you’re moderately drunk…and it’s a Tuesday.

When having midweek drinks, you often have midweek drink diner options, consisting of poor quality and overpriced steak, or numerous bags of chips and maybe a post pub Hungry Jacks thrown in for good measure. Midweek drinks always seem like a good idea at the time. The bars are reasonably quiet; you get served quickly and are able to hold a conversation with our accomplice or two at volume that means you don’t feel like you’re talking to your grandmother. The only real problem with midweek drinking is that you usually wake up on a Wednesday or Thursday morning feeling like you ate your cat’s dinner, decided to drink sea water and jogged up the Centre Point Tower’s staircase two or three times before getting into bed…which you consequentially will be back out of in about 5 hours.

I look at my Omega, it’s 2.40pm and I need to get going, not least because my Blackberry is buzzing like a bee in my pocket. Two things to do now; get Pete to unshackle me then ask the maitre d' for her phone number.

An introduction to women

I let Pete order his champagne, which we quickly follow with our lunch choices. I order the slow braised milk fed Suffolk lamb; he has the poached Riverina milk fed veal. ‘N Sync got the hint and begin to leave. Good.

The auburn maitre d' comes back to our table. “I’m very sorry about that gentlemen, let me know if there is anything further I can do for you today.” She is keenly looking me in the eyes as she says this. Perhaps I will ask her for her phone number, she is attractive and seems nice, and there could be some fantastic benefits to being cosy with a beautiful maitre d' at Quay. I have befriended people in jobs like hers all over the country. It’s a huge asset to be able to call somebody like her, work the charm and get a table when they have the fully booked sign out to everyone else. I’ve convinced myself. I softly place my hand on her lower right arm. “I think we’re fine at the moment, thank-you. You’ve been fantastic. Can you join us for a glass of champagne?” I know the answer is no, she is of course working, but I also know, given the looks I’ve been receiving, that she will be flattered and it will raise a smile. “I’d love to but unfortunately I don’t finish my shift for hours. Perhaps another time.” “I hope so.” We leave it there; I’ll carry on that conversation later.

I’m no womaniser. I love females and they respond positively to me. My interest in the fairer sex tends to wane frequently though, due to my fixation with my ex-girlfriend, Juliet. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen and person I give it all up for in an instant and move away to a mountain shack with. Juliet and I were an item once, and I think every day about us being one again. When my head gets into Juliet mode I need to act fast to divert my attention and change my thought process. “What do you think of her Pete?” “Lovely young man, very lovely.”

Women in the city are a tricky bunch. Some are easy to figure out, 1 + 1 = 2; done. Others are more like a rubik’s cube; often these women are the most intriguing, unless they are too hard to figure out, then you let Mrs Rubik go on her merry coulourful way. Beauty and brains are an all important combination; but unfortunately too many of the women I meet only have the former. I’m extremely picky and often only see women I date once. Each and every one has the get over the ‘Juliet bar’ in my mind before I will see them again. Very few have managed this and I’m a frequent user of the tried and tested ‘I’m not looking for anything serious’ line, so much so that I’m considering having it stitched into the inside of my cuff, so that when I role my sleeves up they are fully aware of where I stand. I already know that if I date the maitre d', it will be purely casual and infrequent. I’m sure she’s a great girl, but the fact that she’s a maitre d' means she I could not see anything serious happening with her.

Pete and I finally get down to talking business as we wait for our lunches. I explain to Pete that we are looking to expand the pool of equity in our new fund and I would be delighted if he were to contribute to this. I explain the risk and possible return of our proposed investments. I do not need to sweet talk Pete, he knows all about me and Invest Co. and would be insulted if he thought I was trying to convince him of something that I didn’t believe in. Pete’s chins wobble as he nods continuously. I may be onto a wobbly winner here.

Complaining

Pete is topping up my glass of champagne. “Pete, sorry but like I said, not today. Big meeting this afternoon.” He ignores my request. “Young man, you simply need a second glass to loosen up, you’re too tense, I won’t pour another I promise.” He’s right, I am too tense today. With the potential promotion, Jono’s antics in the meeting and Brian’s odd behaviour, my mind is racing like Makybe Diva after a few cans of Red Bull.

A racing mind is both my blessing and my curse. I become fixated on things I need to do, or correct, to bring my world back to where I want it to be. An active and racing mind has allowed me to achieve, I get what I want by making it happen. If I want something, I’ll figure out quickly how I can get it and put that plan into action. The problem is, if that thing I want is unavailable or unachievable then I deconstruct the situation in my head and can dwell upon it. Fortunately, I have had very few failures in my life, so the latter is not a frequent problem.

“You’re right; I need to forget the outside world for a bit.” The ‘N Sync look-alikes are still making lots of noise and I’m wondering if I should complain about them. This is, after all, the country’s top restaurant, and should be respected as such, not treated like a Contiki Tour bus. “Are those guys bothering you Pete?” “Are who bothering me?” Pete hasn’t even noticed them. “Never mind.”

I hear a smashing of a glass at their table and decide to call the maitre d' over, a beautiful young auburn woman. I very rarely complain in restaurants. It can be a difficult task involving several elements, but today I’m a little tense so feel the urge. When complaining, you must be discreet so as not to alert your aggressor, to avoid any potential scene, which I’ve witnessed numerous times. You must also be polite as you can muster to the staff you’re complaining to but stress that you’re not happy and you require a resolution promptly (it is usually worth suggesting the resolution you require). Smile like a mouth model, but make it a disappointed smile. Put these things together and any good restaurant will take care of the problem. I do all these things expertly today, and throw in a healthy dose of charm; because I’m pretty sure I caught the maitre d' looking at me earlier. “I understand completely sir, the noise issue will be addressed, I’m very sorry to disturb your dining experience.” She says, while touching my shoulder. She then goes over to ‘N Sync and, presumably, asks them to turn down the volume, or take their after show party elsewhere. It seems to work, at least for now.

“Right Pete, now that I can hear myself think, why don’t we order our lunch and get down to some business for a bit?” I’m starving, and Pete is always hungry, most importantly though I need to get control of this lunch before Pete has his way and it gets out of control. “You read my mind young man, but first, another bottle of champagne I think. Waiter?”

Urinal spitting

“Afternoon Pete” I say as he stands up to shake my hand, like all true gentlemen do. You can assume a lot about somebody who doesn’t stand up to shake your hand if you are already standing. “Good afternoon young man” he says as we sit. He pours me a glass of champagne without even asking if I want one. Pete never fails to remind me of Wayne Swan. He has the same grey hair, glasses and permanent side parting, except about four more chins. “Pete, before anything else, this is the only glass I’ll be having today. I have a big meeting this afternoon with Brian about my possible promotion and I cannot walk in smelling like Mel Gibson.” I’m hoping this will not offend Pete, not that much offends him anyway. “Ah I see, well my words of wisdom are to let it be.” Not exactly the response I was looking for, mainly because I’m not sure what he’s implying, but I do enjoy the Beatles reference. Pete and I are mutual fans of the Fab Four and we endeavour to drop a song reference into the conversation each time we meet. “Well done. Look, I’m serious today, sorry. I’ll make it up to you I promise. I’ll buy you a ticket to ride on a yellow submarine.” Two in one sentence there, although it wasn’t subtle so I’m actually a little disappointed with myself. Pete laughs for a little too long.

We begin making the obligatory small talk. During this, I’m frequently distracted by some rat racers that look like an ‘N Sync cover band in suits enjoying their lunch a little too loudly. Somehow between shouting incoherent words at each other they are finding time to pour an awful lot of vino down their necks. I’m all for having a good time and drinking at client lunches, in fact it’s the point of them, but not at volume where others trying to enjoy their company sponsored drinkathons want you to drown in your split pea soup. I need a bathroom break. “Sorry Pete, excuse me for a second please.”

As I walk into the toilets, the Justin Timberlake of the group crashes in behind me. We stand at adjacent urinals. While struggling with his zipper, he launches a big wad of red spit into the pan; how poetic. Rat racing men who feel they need to spit at urinals constantly trouble me. I’m sure they don’t spit at any other point in their lives; not when they use the bathroom at home, not when they’re walking down the street, not when they are sucking on a gobstopper or even eating a week old prawn sandwich, but present them with a urinal after a couple Pure Blondes and their mouth becomes a place when their saliva is no longer welcome, and is thrown out like a black chip in a packet of Kettle. Spitting in the urinal can become contagious, akin to yawning. The rat racer next to the spitter often feels the need to compliment his efforts by dropping their own contribution into the trough, and then the next one follows, like a game of rabid dominos. I never engage in this sport. I have no need to spit when I visit a urinal. There is no sign asking me to do so, nobody whispering in my ear suggesting it’s a good idea, no mythical urinal power that encompasses my body and commands me to spit to keep the gods happy. It’s pointless, and I challenge anyone to convince me as to why it is a good idea to potentially lessen the shine on my Armani loafers.

I leave Timberlake to his spitting and swaying and return to Pete.

Favours

Before heading off to meet Pete, I make a quick trip via my bottom desk draw to comb my hair and refresh my aftershave, which I struggle to find at first among the many other items, such as protein bars and a copy of The Intelligent Investor by Benjamin Graham. You never know who you might meet in a place like Quay, so you want to be looking and feeling fresh.

I decide to walk to the restaurant. It’s a crisp yet beautifully sunny day, so I put my Ray Bans on, that I always keep in my pocket. Walking also gives me the opportunity to make a phone call; or at least try to make one. After one ring Tony answers. I am truly shocked, he never answers his phone, and I expected again that it be 48 hours before he believes he has the time to call back. “Tony speaking.” “Tones, so glad you picked up, look I need to pick your brain about something.” “You’re going to have to make it quick mate, I’m brainstorming here and have got to focus on the end result from a results perspective.” That sentence didn’t make much sense at all, but I choose to ignore it. “Sure, I know exactly what you mean, but I’d really like you to be frank with me about something. What is going on with Brian? He just did something very out of character and it was enough to set the alarm bells ringing as loud as Big Ben.” Tony does not share inside information lightly, we are friends but I still need to let him know that I am appreciative.

Giving and repaying favours is another of my Rules of the Race. I’m not referring to anything untoward, and I’m not suggesting you should only give to receive. I take pride and satisfaction in being able to help somebody who I respect. If someone does me a favour, I’ll do one back someday. If I do one for them, I may ask for one someday from them. The Don Corleone system, without the murdering and horses heads. In Tony’s case, he has been giving me the forward word on a number of Invest Co’s inner workings for a while, and as a token of my appreciation I’m paying for him to go and hear the high pitched ‘vvvvvvrooooooomm’ of Webber and the gang’s marvellous machines at the Formula 1 Grand Prix, in Malaysia. Well, I say pay but I’ll easily be able to obtain free tickets for the race and we should be able to do a little business while we’re over in Malaysia, meaning flights and accommodation will be handled by the company. Still, Tones can’t make this happen on his own so it still counts as my treat.

Tony then tells me something is happening without actually telling me something is happening. “You’ll have to talk to Brian about that, and you are talking to Brian later anyway aren’t you so you won’t have to wait long.” No business buzzwords in that sentence, maybe something is happening with Tony too. I thank Tones and continue my short walk to Quay with a lot on my mind but determined to stay off the booze. Pete is already inside. I’m always early, so he is extra early. I hate being late, and more so I hate others being late. It’s the height of rudeness and shows disrespect. Pete and I respect each other, hence our mutual earliness. I walk in and immediately see Pete is enjoying a bottle of Dom Pérignon. God, it would be easier to convince Neil Armstrong to admit the moon landing was a lie than it will be to convince Pete to let me stay dry this lunchtime.

Jono’s act and the 'art' of bull

Jono, being Jono, is never a shy public speaker and will do what he can to woo his spectators. Even at a business meeting, I wouldn’t put balancing a canoe on his nose while riding a miniature bicycle beyond him if he felt it would impress his audience. Seeing his earlier squirms, I am certain that today he has no choice but to face the music on his poor week. “Whoops!” he says as he, with clear intent, theatrically drops his notes on the floor. “That’s a shame gang, but proves, my friends, that little annoying things can happen to the best of us.” He then produces a smile Tom Cruise would be offended by. Oh dear, I see exactly where he’s going here, he’s going to gloss over the bad week he had by making a few funnies and performing party tricks. “You see team, unfortunately I haven’t had as great a week as my handsome mate sitting opposite me; and he is handsome isn’t he?” He gestures in my direction and gets a little laugh from the studio audience; if he hadn’t used such a sarcastic tone I might actually be complimented. I remain straight faced as he carries on with his ‘Jono made a booboo, sorry’ charade, before he sits down and basks in the glory of the chuckling crowd forgiving him for his misdemeanours. He may as well have made and passed around balloon animals, anything to distract from the truth. His job is to raise money for the fund; he’s not doing that, if fact he’s losing clients, so surely at least Brian is outraged?

I turn to Brain, who doesn’t look pleased, but more importantly, doesn’t look irritated either. He is using his aggravating neutral face, the one where you don’t know what’s coming next. Bizarrely, he moves on to the next agenda item, which is some nonsense about labelling your food items in the fridge. Unbelievable. How did Brian, or anyone else, let him get away with that, it was daylight robbery! My achievements have been completely ignored because of a circus act, who earlier committed a murder, but could juggle well so who cares. This is un-Brian like and I’m gob-smacked because Brian, like myself, has a pet hate for bull.

The ‘art’ of bull is not something I hold in high regard. Misdirection from the truth, lying, or feigning knowledge of a subject will always get exposed in the rat race, eventually. Brian and I have a nose for bull. We’ve been in meetings where so much bull has surrounded us that we felt like the clean-up crew in Pamplona after the cattle had a big curry night. In said meetings, you either decide to put up with it and then take your business elsewhere in future, or expose the bull artist for what they are. My preference is the latter, and so is Brian’s.

Even Jono is bright enough to be aware of Brian’s intolerance to bull, but for some reason the boss has let this one slide. I stop myself from objecting to this nonsense because I wonder if Jono knows something I don’t? My outrage has now been temporarily replaced by the need to get to the bottom of all this…time to become Columbo again. But damn, my Omega tells me that, unfortunately, my detective work will have to wait until after lunch. It’s time to go feed and water Pete Dunstan.

Brian & Jono

I finish my speech and am greeted by warranted raised eyebrows and nods of approval by my colleagues, including Brian. Expectedly, Brian then states, “Well I feel it’s appropriate that Jono, as joint capital raiser for the new fund, also update us on his progress over the last week.” Jono is now squirming in his seat like a fish out of water with inflamed haemorrhoids. It’s a fair question from Brian; he is a man that is so busy he has little time for frequent progress reports, meaning the team meeting provides a forum for him to receive updates on matters such as these. Because Brian is so busy he, understandably, does not take fools lightly. If you come to him and even think about stuttering, you may as well go away and cry in the corner while thinking about what a naughty boy you’ve been. Come to him with incomplete information or not exactly what he’s asked for and you will receive a look like he’s using invisible laser vision to burn a hole in the back of your eyeballs. He will make jokes and will take time to give credit where it’s due, but on his terms and when he has the time to do so. Sarah, who has worked near his desk for months, asked him last week what he did at the weekend, he simply replied “What, who are you? White with three sugars please.” I’m not at all fearful of Brian, I know how to treat a man like him, my colleagues and I are just aware that he commands respect, and has worked too hard to get his directorship to talk about stuffed animals and candy floss. Get him down the pub though and you’re in a different world. He’ll drink scotch and coke (coincidentally, my favourite tipple too), smoke and swear like he’s just walked off an oilrig for homeless alcoholics.

Jono reluctantly stands up. See, it’s not that I dislike Jono, I just don’t like him very much. I admit that his style of business can bring results. He plays the mate card and has brought in some clients because of that. He is, as the English say, a geezer. I’m no geezer. Jono like drinking cans of VB, I prefer a bottle of merlot. He’ll wear David Beckham aftershave his Auntie bought him, I prefer Armani. He’ll drive a green car, whereas I prefer charcoal or black. I’ll use phrases like “excuse me?” and “girl”, where he’ll use “you what mate?” and “tits on a stick”.

He begins, “G’day people.”