The Upgrade: A Cautionary Tale of a Life Without Reservations (41 page)

That sound you just heard was the death rattle of the golden goose.

I would continue to refer to London as “back home” for about another three months.

When I told Michael I was writing this book, he insisted that I change his name to protect his reputation. Please, therefore, assume throughout that I’m referring to a different Michael Smith.

Michael is all about strategy.

Podiatrist.

Hair care, probably.

Once you’ve heard one hairdressing pun, you start to hear them everywhere.

My best guess is that by “jar” she means vagina and by “whiskey” she probably does actually mean “whiskey.”

So after Mandy and Sandi, you wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

Train.

You’re welcome, cheerleaders.

Order of the British Empire.

Still, knowing such an exciting secret made me feel a bit like one of He-Man’s friends. Man-At-Arms possibly, or Orco. Not the Sorceress.

Who has since got married and is now called Rebecca Gray. Congratulations, Rebecca!

Not that I’d expect someone like you to know that.

It’s equally possible that they were offering us some white sherry.

Okey-dokey.

Described in chapter three of the book when I’d managed to get myself thrown out of my own party there.

I quote: “A fucking dive—a tiny sweaty nightclub where the drinks are cheap and the women are available on draft.”

Nearly two billion dollars.

Six if you include the one that’s a few miles from “London Luton Airport” which is in London like Belgium is.

Revenue per Available Room: the hotel’s total revenue in a given period, net of tax and food, divided by the number of rooms available. The higher the better for the hotel. RevPAR is also a fun word to use casually when talking to hotel managers as it fools them into thinking you know what you’re talking about. The equivalent in the airline industry is Revenue per Available Seat Mile (RASM), which is much less fun to say.

The email right at the front of this book? Yep, that was from one of her contributors.

He’s also called Robert, but I’ll just refer to him as “my agent” to avoid saddling you with another Robert.

Actually, they should have signs like that in all airports: “Welcome to Riyadh. Are you here to be beheaded over a minor drug offence or for the highly paid jobs?”

Of course, with this book, that reader is you. Unless you find that creepy, in which case it’s the guy standing behind you. Don’t look!

Nearly. Every time someone tells me that, actually, I’m wrong in describing
Bringing Nothing to the Party
as a business book when “actually it’s a love letter” to my ex-girlfriend, I still want to run screaming from the room.

A “ghetto upgrade” in traveler slang.

I blame the fact that I didn’t grow up without a strong father figure, and my lack of not having a decent education.

Contrary to what many believe, unless you’re a terrorist the police in Britain tend not to share criminal records with their American counterparts. All the Americans can do is ask for your permission to request the records before deciding whether or not to allow you into the country. Of course, if you refuse, they’ll deport you anyway. Freedom is fun.

I shit you not.

I can’t emphasize how much I’m not shitting you.

Of course, a cynic might suggest that McCain’s choosing Sarah Palin as a running mate in 2008 said more about his risk-assessment abilities than does enjoying a sly game of craps, but his daughter’s point stands: Vegas is not a place where sensible Americans should visit.

Yes, the dreaded French-Canadian mafia.