The Compressor – Confessions of a Studio Owner – Part 18

The Compressor and quite possibly the most expensive lunch bill ever…..or The Compressor gets one up the clacker from his mate!

Many of you have been kind enough to write to me recently saying how much you enjoyed a recent piece I wrote about my wine story in Tokyo (The Compressor 15…..The Yakuza…The Mistress….The Wine….The advance.) For those who missed it, basically I raided a table of £5,000 worth of wine that had been left behind by an arguing couple!

Well, I have another story that I HAVE to share. As always, being the chosen one, I take very seriously the responsibility I carry on my shoulders…namely, the obligation to brighten up your day, coupled with an underlying moral message!

Being a studio owner has it’s moments. For whatever reason I have a few clients ask me for advice (how old must I look?) The one thing I have always stressed to artists, if they are signing up to management, signing a record deal, signing a publishing deal, or entering into any agreement is to make sure the read the SMALL print. Lurking innocuously on Page 14 will be the clause that will nail your dreams just when you start to make things happen. If you’re thick, or you can’t be arsed, then hire a lawyer who can do the reading for you.

I have a very, very worthwhile example of this. Like all my adventures, they are completely and utterly true, and I will swear on my children’s life that they have all taken place!

This story takes place in the desert state of Dubai…a fabled resort renowned for reconciling footballers marriages, incomplete fantasy buildings, chavs, hookers and…oh yes…Mossad assassins!

We had gone on holiday with our best friends, and it was my mates wife’s 40^th. My mate was adamant that we were having lunch at the Burj al Arab (a 7 star hotel that doesn’t look like a sail) and that he would be picking up the tab. My half-hearted protestations were thankfully rebuffed and having sorted out the kids, we were ushered, via limo towards the shrine of bling! The foyer of the hotel took gauche to a new level. False jugs wrestled with fake handbags amidst a sea of wealthy looking Arab types. We were whisked up to the top floor bar, the highest hotel bar in the world, where the view was simply breathtaking…if you like building sites. The windows lean outwards, so if you’re afraid of heights…

Lunch was 40 floors down to the basement in a seafood restaurant where a 30 foot wall is a fish tank with sharks! An amazing spectacle. If any of you have eaten up-market, you will know that it is custom for the host to be the only one handed a menu with prices (in this case United Arab Emirate Dirhams.) Our menus were priceless….boom, boom. The wives got gassing and me and my mate started drinking.

My mate began to order the wine…Laurent Perrier Rose followed by a Puligny Montrachet, and that was before the starters had arrived! I asked him if he was sure about his generous offer..and given that I knew a little more about wine than he did…would he like me to help him? He was again, adamant in his defence….’you always treat me…this time it’s my turn! Now please, Compressor….don’t interfere again!’

At which point he ordered a Hermitage La Chappelle, a Lafite, and a Margeaux. The Sommelier looked nervous and enquired if Monsieur was certain with his choice. My mate waved him away with an order for a Muscat with pud and finally, thank God a Port.

Seven hours later, and as drunk as a skunk the bill arrived. My mate stared at the bill….quietly turned to me…and whispered ‘It’s more than I thought it was going to be…it’s £650!’

‘Holy Shit…I exclaimed! That’s a lot of fucking money….show me the bill.’

Wives: ‘Is everything all right?’….

‘Yes, yes of course…all under control.’

As I stared at the bill….I actually felt Timothy Turtle Head start to shout ‘I’m coming!’ Mr Brown was in reception and needed to check out fast! I was about to shit myself.

The bill wasn’t £650. He had been ordering wine using the wrong exchange rate…He had been dividing the amount by 65 instead of 6.5…the official rate. The bill was in fact £6,500!

We were now completely and utterly fucked. We were in a country where they lock you up for anything. Forget blow-jobs on the beach…you get banged up here if you have a frickin Nurofen in your pocket.

‘What are we going to do?’ my mate asked.

‘WE…WE…what do you mean WE? I’ve been asking you all day to show me the wine list..but oh no…you knew better…you wanted to be the Man…the one who would take control…you didn’t want my help. Now you’ve completely fucked it up and suddenly it’s….WE. Fuck off you C**T before I stab you!!’

By now, not only had the wives stopped talking….so had the entire restaurant…and the Management were watching us very closely. My mate started to cry quietly and I knew it was time for the chosen one to lead the way. ‘Have you got a credit card and what’s the limit?’ I asked him. We conferred, split the bill and paid up. I used 4 credit cards and it took me a year to pay off the debt.

A lunch with friends had cost me £3250. Only recently have we started to laugh about it. In fact I’m having lunch with him this Sunday..at my house before you ask.

Do I need to repeat the moral? CHECK THE SMALL PRINT!!!!!

Remember, the Compressor is here to tell you about his mistakes, to save you making them….watch, read and learn Grasshopper and you too may achieve greatness. For those of you struggling in the dark….write to compressor123@hotmail.com and you will see the light.

TTFN

The Compressor

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Editors note:  The Compressor has gone to ground.  He may be one of the many stranded by the Icelandic Volcano or indeed be in the studio working with our in house rock star, Jimmi Volcano.  Whatever, we hope he sends more instalments soon.

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