Monday
I’m a member of the Presidents Club. Which isn’t anything to do with the actual president. Although I’m glad it’s not Hillary Clinton. But I did like her husband.
Anyway, last week we had our big annual bash. Bloody good night. Only now my wife keeps asking about it.
“Yes, but what did you actually do?” she says.
“Oh you know,” I say, airily. “Just chap stuff.”
“And there really weren’t any women?” she says.
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“Good lord, no,” I say. “I mean, except for the staff.”
My wife says it all sounds terribly odd. Particularly as Toby left that message on our answerphone afterwards, about holding hands and grabbing bottoms.
“Banter,” I say.
“It’s just a wife can’t help but wonder,” she says.
“What?” I say, quickly.
“Are you gay?” she says.
Tuesday
In the office. City firm. Man stuff. And this morning, the CEO wants Toby, Quentin and Rachel with the tits to meet him in the boardroom.
“Listen,” he says. “We’ve had a few calls from the press. About that Presidents bash last week.”
Splendid, I say. Good cause. Proud to stand up and be counted.
“Ah,” he says. “No. I’m afraid it’s about the women who were there.”
“But there weren’t any,” says Quentin.
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“Unless you mean . . .” says Toby.
“The totty?” I say.
“Show some respect,” says Rachel with the tits.
“Look, love,” I say. “Get us some coffee while we talk about this, yeah?”
“But I’m your lawyer,” says Rachel with the tits.
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“Two sugars,” I say, patting her on the bum.
Wednesday
I’m on my laptop in the kitchen, but I close it quickly when my wife walks in.
“Oh darling,” she says. “It’s bad enough you’re always leaving the Sky box on Babestation. But do you really have to do that at breakfast?”
I’m actually reading the Financial Times but I haven’t the time to correct her. Instead I have to rush into work, for a meeting with Rachel with the tits.
“You’ve got to stop calling me that,” she says.
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“Yes, dear,” I say.
Rachel says I’m likely to be named, so we have to get my story straight.
“Stop attacking me!” I shriek.
Rachel doesn’t say anything.
“I was on the list but didn’t go!” I shout. “I was aware of nothing inappropriate! And anyway the girls were all well up for it!”
“But that’s three completely contradictory things,” she says.
“You’re getting hysterical,” I tell her.
Thursday
It’s a witch-hunt. How dare people suggest I’m a sexist just because I goosed some tart on a Thursday night in the Dorchester?
“As you see,” says Rachel with the tits, “I’ve requested that Debbie from HR be present for this meeting.”
We all ignore her. Toby and Quentin say the charity is shutting down. Toby is particularly upset because he won the “spice up your wife” plastic surgery package, and now he won’t get it. “But you haven’t got a wife,” I say. “She left you.”
Toby says that’s the whole point, because this package would have allowed him to make a new one, exactly the same.
“It just seems so excessive,” says Quentin. “Maybe we can just rebrand? Find a new name which makes it clear we’re a club for ageing men who exploit their power to grope hot younger women?”
“How about,” says Rachel with the tits, “Presidents Club?”
Friday
Frankly, I’m depressed. What is wrong with chaps flirtatiously embracing charming young women in skimpy clothing who are paid to be there? How else are normal men supposed to procreate, marry, and keep the human race alive?
“What are you on about?” says my wife. “We met at the Hendon Rotary Club. Over bridge.”
It’s the first thing she’s said to me in days.
“Anyway,” she says, “I’ve been speaking to some of your friends’ wives and we’ve decided to hold our own event. To make back all the money. We’ll sell tickets. And the dress code for the hosts will be bras, corset belts and skimpy miniskirts.”
“But that’s the same as ours!” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “But this time the hosts will be you.”
*according to Hugo Rifkind