I wrote a thing about the President’s Club fiasco

It was an odd sense of timing. Neither of us had seen the FT report on the President’s Club dinner but, this morning, a colleague and I were talking about odd or uncomfortable things we’d had to do to stay onside with bosses.

And she told me that about twenty years ago her boss had treated her, and several other women, to a visit to a lap dancing club. There were a few men taken as well. Thousands of pounds must have been spent (we worked it out). The women knew they had to go and everyone knew they couldn’t complain. My colleague had a coffee, got bored and waited to be able to leave.

Needless to say my own stories of nodding along to catastrophically stupid ways of thinking didn’t have quite the same level of pep.

The one thing we agreed on though was that pretty much any man who has been on a stag do, and quite a lot of men who haven’t, will have been to similar clubs. It’s not exactly a badge of honour. But should the urge take you to unwind in the company of women who will take your cash to show you their boobs and give you some friction burns then such places exist. For everyone else there’s the internet.

Now, maybe those things shouldn’t exist. But, for now, they do.

What nobody should do to get their rocks off or ‘relax’ after a hard day’s doing whatever it is that businessmen do to justify their wealth is go all gropy at a dinner and then claim it’s all okay because they’ve bunged Great Ormond Street a few quid.

I mean you fucking what?

I’m sure in the plot of some deeply satisfying porno you once watched on company expenses in a hotel bedroom the girl says yes when the middle aged man asks her to fuck but, y’know, I’m not sure it’s the look you want to be aiming for in real life. It’s Bullingdon Club morality to say I’ve paid for this so I can treat anyone and anything in my way however I please and my money will make it right. And it stinks.

It shouldn’t even need saying. Of course it stinks to get some young women on minimum wage to dress up in tight black dresses (with appropriate underwear) and high heels so you can get all nudge nudge in your gratuitously affluent men only room. And, yes, it would stink if there was an equivalent for women to dribble their unwanted lust onto toned male bodies whilst washing away the guilt with cash for causes. I’m just not aware that such things exist beyond the strutting fury of keyboard warriors yelling CHIPPENDALES. And, as for whether hen nights, of all things, justify the President’s Club then I refer the honourable reader to my comment about stag dos above.

So we now have the tedious sight of certain of the right getting all high and mighty, saying this is yet another example of the destruction of men or the supremacy of the wrong kind of women. As if treating people with dignity and respect, and giving to charity because you mean it, were somehow indicative of the failings of modern society. We really are assailed on all sides by morons.

Stopping events like this horrible, horrible evening will not mean that men are no longer allowed to find women attractive or chat up a girl in the right way. Dumping this shitshow in the bin will not mean that charities have no ways of raising money or that the ill children at Great Ormond Street will have their machines turned off. In the scheme of things it won’t make much difference at all.

Except this.

It will make a statement that you can go off and be an arsehole all you want, or you can go to places where the women dress (or undress) in ways that give you a semi, or whatever. It’s just, these days, you don’t do it on the company clock and you don’t get to justify it by throwing a tiny fraction of your massive wealth to a kids charity.

It’s 2018. None of this should need saying. Let’s hope this is the beginning of the end of having to.

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