Monthly Archives: May 2003

For some reason I had a variety of weird discussions at the lunch table this week. For example…
Table member: “I believe it’s true that MC Hammer had a distended rectum. And at some point it just gave out on him while he was on stage.”
Me: “Wow. So those trousers weren’t a fashion statement? They were a f*cking necessity!?”
And the following developed when I noticed that the hand of a friend had fully recovered from being badly blistered a couple of months back…
Me: “Your hands were really messed up beforehand.”
Table member: “Yes, that’s because I had to rescue a burning baby from a building!”
Table member #2: “…yes – and he had to throw the baby into a swimming pool full of petrol to put it out!”
That’s not really the kind of thing that makes lunch enjoyable. Memorable, but not enjoyable.

Maybe I should go back to my rule of going to the sandwich bar four times a week and eating at my desk? It’s not much cheaper, a lot less filling, and much less sociable, but it does kind of protect those with a fragile mind.

This story from The Register brought back a crazy lunch time conversation from a year and a half ago in a Belgo’s restraunt in Islington.

Myself, translator Jean, Mr Jess, Rickachu and Liam were discussing a dotcom start-up venture we could all participate in. Before too long we came up with EasyBrothel.com!

The idea was a cert – punters who visited the brothels of Europe could rate-a-brothel, or even rate the holiday firm that placed them in the vicinity of their chosen brothel. Like a pebble rolling down a hill we could quickly create an avalanche of information as users provided the content. We would then take bookings for holidays and even brothels, with stag parties (and male debouchery in general) being our willing source of custom.

All we had to do was sit back and watch the good times roll and the cash pile up. Sitting there, beligian beer in hand, it was easy to find the idea appealing… picturing brothels all over Europe with “Easybrothel Certified” displayed proudly by the door. True, we wouldn’t be able to tell our parents what we did for a living, but it was a whole lot more respectable than being a London estate agent, for example!

After lunch we walked back to our real jobs and found the office strangley empty. “Maybe they’re all in the board room?” was the suggestion – after all, in a company with only thirty or so employees, they could fit in there at a push. It turned out that they were in there… crowded round the television in silent awe.

I sat at my PC and spotted the messenger window blinking away on the screen – Fliss was trying to contact me. “What’s up?” I keyed… or words to that effect.

“Have you heard the news?” She asked. I hadn’t, so I let her continue. “A plane has crashed into the world trade centre!”

A few hours later and the economy, five thousand people and any notion of Easybrothel had died.