Bust or Vegas!
by Paul Singer - MD, London Fine Dining Group
This blog is really a continuation of a blog posted earlier this month entitled "Vegas or Bust!".
The apparent transposition of the words Vegas and Bust, in this blog, is not an error but an attempt to place the ingredients of this blog in order of magnitude. Think of it, if you will, as a TV dinner with Chicken and Gravy. Have you ever noticed how it's called "Gravy with Chicken"? That's probably because it has more Gravy than Chicken in it! And so it is with part 2 of this blog. It might contain more Bust than Vegas - it might also contain nuts, and flash photography, for all I know, so it's best to get all that legal stuff out of the way at the start in case anyone of a faint disposition needs to leave the room. Feel free.
The bust stuff all started a about a year ago when I read about a new bra which comes off (deliberately) when you clap your hands. Perfect for nervous teenage boys out on their first date.
It was apparently the brainwave of an aptly named inventor called Randy Sarafan who allegedly became inspired by the idea of a bra coming off automatically when you clap, after he read about musical knickers in Syria, but let's not go there. Ever.
Since then, I have been secretly observing women in theatres everywhere to see if they clutched their chests as the applause began, but to date, sadly, I have observed no such thing.
I suspected that, whilst Randy loved the idea, Mrs Randy may not have been thrilled as presumably any loud noise would produce the same effect, including her musical knickers if they were turned up loud enough.
I was busting with excitement at the thought of seeing the clap-off bra in our shops in the UK, like Bravissimo, where, at around the same time, they introduced the largest bra ever made (Size L), as the concept of a "Clap-off Size L bra" would have been revolutionary as well as possibly dangerous.
then, we cut back to Vegas where I espied a lady in the street dressed as a
pirate accompanied by Capt. Jack Sparrow, who could quite possibly have been just
such a customer for the Size L bra, but please judge for yourself:
Many moons ago, another well proportioned lady by the name of Nell Gwynne roamed the streets of London before she popped her clogs in 1687 at the ripe old age of 37. She had led an interesting life. Following Charles II's legalisation of the acting profession for women in 1660 she worked as an actress and scantily clad "orange-girl", selling small, sweet "china" oranges to the audience inside theatres for sixpence each. Presumably, her future was neither bright nor Orange as she later became a lady of the night which was probably better paid than being either an actress or an orange-girl, before finally becoming the mistress to Charles II. But, you may say, what on earth has all this history nonsense got to do with this esteemed and suddenly educational blog? Well, I recently (literally) stumbled across the chalkboard below just off The Strand, advertising the USPs of the Nell Gwynne Tavern and fell in love with their brutal honesty:
An ideal place for an extra-marital affair and skiving off work ... or both!
(Or maybe even a beer?!)
And so, now, we head back to Las Vegas (I am getting quite jet-lagged) and the root of all evil, or so we are told.
certainly true that you can gamble, drink alcohol, and consort with loose women
- and probably all simultaneously if you are very skilled and ambidextrous - but
where else in the world would you find a dangerous snake entwined around a bunny
girl, posing for photographs with passers-by in the street for just $1 a squeeze?
Is it the year of the Rabbit or the Snake?