Sunday, January 22, 2012

Things Rich People Roughly My Age Like To Do

There are a few certain inevitable truths that I have come to terms with in my short time as an adult, and one of them is this: I will never make very much money. I'm not trying to identify myself as some sort of intensely spiritual St. Francis of Assisi type - I would very much like to make a lot of money, I just don't see it as being a probable reality. Here's why:


1. I have one basic skill.

2. Unless I can use that skill to invent the next Harry Potter, Edward Cullen or Lisbeth Salander, I'm pretty much screwed. This in itself is highly unlikely, because the only character I'm able to write about is myself, and in case you hadn't noticed, I am neither a wizard, a vampire or a computer hacking vigilante. Oh, phooey.

3. I have never been romantically involved with someone who has, or has any real interest in earning, any money. This is an illness much maligned by my mother, who has named the case Stray Dog Syndrome, whereby instead of adopting the enterprising, go-getting Golden Retriever on a trip to the proverbial dating pound, a girl will instead take home the charming mongrel who is going to be put down tomorrow. This isn't necessarily a bad choice, it just means you want this:

Girl's best friend
When your family feel like you should want this:

Total bell-end

Ridiculous dog metaphors aside, I think we can safely assume that 'marrying into' money is not going to be an option for me. (I'm not ruling it out either though. If a certain single Windsor brother were to stumble upon this I would be happy to get a few cans with him sometime.)

Anyway. So concludes my list of reasons that I will never be a particularly rich woman. The thing is, I'm actually ok with this. I'm pretty good at poverty, judging by the amount of cardigans I own that were nicked from a lost and found. That doesn't stop me from glowering jealously at those who have managed to make money. Now that I work in a pub on London's infamous Fleet Street, I come into contact with people who are roughly the same age as me that literally make more money in a week then I do in three months. But am I bitter? No, of course not. I have artistic integrity. Plus access to the lost and found.


"Jagerbombs? Guys, Jagerbombs? Karly, you want a Jagerbomb? Karly? Jagerbomb. JAGERbomb. Ask Simon if he wants a Jagerbomb."

I don't know why this is, but a Jagerbomb (a shot of Jagermeister dropped into a glass of red bull) seems to be the only drink that requires eighteen people half-wanting one before anyone's allowed to order it. A Jagerbomb isn't a drink, it's an organised event. Once it's been confirmed that eighteen people do indeed kinda-sorta want a Jagerbomb, it is imperative that every single one of them drink it at the EXACT SAME TIME. Otherwise, Miles from HR will have a panic attack.

Find the darkest corner of the bar and hoard themselves in that one area.

Because what's sexier then the dark, right? Darkness is EXCLUSIVE. And maybe if we all stand their together, people will think we're talking about some seriously exclusive shit.

Be strangely resentful when you take away their empty glasses.

Maybe this is all in my head, but whenever I'm sent on a glass collecting run, I notice that a RPRMA will narrow their eyes disapprovingly when I gather the empty glasses from their table. Maybe it's because I'm interrupting their serious and exclusive conversation, but my current theory is that I am taking away signifiers of their wealth and opulence.

Imagine with me for a second. You work in an office from Monday to Friday. During that time, the only opportunity you're granted to flaunt your economic superiority to the outside world is your daily visit to Pr√©t a Manger. Here, the best you can do is buy something that includes expensive sounding foodstuffs, like Brie and Prosciutto. Topped off with some ridiculous crisps, that look like this:

But when you go to a bar, there is no better signifier of wealth - and your ability to be a mad bastard - then a crowd of empty glasses screaming "This guy bought a round of drinks for his team and doesn't want anybody forgetting about it!"

Have one guy suggest going to a strip club. Over and over and over again. 

Having never been in attendance to one of these nights out, I am unsure as to whether anyone ever gets to the strip club, but I do know that the idea is bandied about. A lot. There's generally one guy driving this cause, and hes probably the guy who ordered the Jagerbombs. In response to this, half of the male RPRMAs will try to look mildly-interested-but-generally-unbothered, in an attempt to mask their obvious excitement at the prospect. The other half of the male RPRMAs will be trying to bed the female RPRMAs, and will be shrugging and confessing that they "do not see the appeal". Of course you see the appeal. Even I see the appeal.

No comments:

Post a Comment