Cityboy: Beer and Loathing in the Square Mile by Anderson Geraint

Author:Anderson, Geraint [Anderson, Geraint]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2010-05-28T23:00:00+00:00

The Gulfstream 200 touched down in Ibiza at 11 a.m. on Saturday morning. The nine-seater plane had been modified and we sat in perfect luxury on spacious, comfy cream-leather seats surrounding a central table. The flight over involved the three Cs: champagne, cocaine and cards and had been a real eye-opener. I hadn’t realised that people like Richard’s friends actually existed other than in satirical parodies on Channel Four. I spent the best part of three hours in an aeroplane with some of the biggest (but richest) tossers this side of Kathmandu and by touchdown was seriously regretting my decision to come along. François, Brad and Dimitri made Richard look like Mother Teresa, such was their unbelievable arrogance and contempt for all human beings not part of their rarefied world. The pilot was barely acknowledged because he was just a flunky paid to do his duty and his occasional attempts at humour over the tannoy received outraged quizzical looks from my fellow passengers as if they could not believe that someone had dared interrupt their vitally important conversation. The banter itself was the usual self-aggrandising horseshit and only ever stopped long enough for a fat line of Charlie to be aggressively snorted. My weekend pals truly were oxygen thieves of the worst possible kind.

By the time we reached Ibiza I was totally wired and jittery as fuck - not helped by the fact that I’d lost £700 at poker. I had struggled to get my voice heard at the beginning of the journey but by the end I simply sat there, pretending to look out of the window and wondering if I would survive were I to open the emergency exit and jump into the welcoming sea. After about the fifth time I heard Brad bang on about his fucking Ferrari or François complain about his ‘four-million-euro apartment’ in Monaco being a ‘trop bijou’, I didn’t really care if I would or not.

The fact is that my fellow would-be ravers had got my number within approximately two seconds of meeting me at City airport. My relatively average wardrobe, my pedestrian Rolex and even the way I held myself made them realise that I was just an also-ran, a wannabe. These guys were high-rollers and everything from their Louis Vuitton luggage to their expensively coiffured hair styles screamed MONEY in big, fuck-off neon letters. I suspect that the fact that they were sharing an aeroplane with someone whose net worth was clearly under £10 million irritated the piss out of them.

You couldn’t make up the backgrounds of my fellow passengers. Dimitri was a good-looking, tanned, short version of Adonis and was the only team member younger than me. I never really did find out what he actually did for a living. All that mattered was that papa was a Greek shipping magnate who was worth almost a billion. His favourite things seemed to be smoking, fornicating, smoking . . . and fornicating. That man’s poor lungs creaked whenever he breathed and he was only twenty-five.

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