When the Fat Man Sings (on the 9.36 from Basingstoke)
You know how people speaking loudly on their mobile phone on public transport is deeply annoying, especially when they are heavily name-dropping about their international status as a businessman of immense proportions?
Well, this morning on the train I was happily writing my previous blog post, sitting as it happens, opposite the journalist Tom Bradby who was nose deep in The Guardian, when a chap of immense proportions trussed in a woollen suit and surgically attached to his mobile phone, made the error of broadcasting to a sweltering coach F of the 9.36 from Basingstoke to Waterloo how he had sacrificed his weekend to making important calls to seal the big deal with the Germans.
By the time we had reached Woking and us weary travellers had listened to him constantly barking orders to his underlings and ordering the champagne to be put in the fridge via at least half a dozen phone calls, it was clear that all was not well with the deal. One of the Germans was blocking. And our man was now sweating like a man on his last trip to the casino cashiers desk.
By the time we had reached the outskirts of London the deal was off and our man was slighty less loudly re-writing history, talking of breach of NDA’s and getting so and so to write and angry letter.
As Waterloo hove into view he was sitting with his red face hidden behind a copy of The Daily Mail. And though I wish no-one anything but success in their business ventures, it just goes to show, and crikey I know this one, the fat man should never sing about success until the contract is signed and when the unwilling audience is trying to enjoy their morning papers.
Better luck next time chap.
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