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Making Your First Million
"I'm sorry sir, the bar is closed."
"Nar giffsanardrink. Drinksararnd.
"Sir, my name is Michel. I am the maitre d'. Could I inquire your name?"
"George Parry. Wossit teryoo."
"I'm sorry to tell you Mr Parry, you and your friend are barred. Do not attempt to book
into this restaurant again."
So we left. The cabbie helped us out at Rydges Lakeside, and like likely lads about town
we sauntered into the bar. In less than a minute, certainly before we'd ordered our second
round, we were approached by a firm but polite bouncer advising us we could not drink
here without ties, and despite both of us removing our belts and buckling them round our
necks, he failed to see any humor in our approach and insisted we leave. His task of
ushering us out the door we'd just entered was made more cumbersome with Bernie
having to stop and hitch up his trousers and with us safely on the pavement, tucking our
shirts in I took the opportunity to yell some timely, if not exactly cuttingly humorous
abuse in the vein of "Oh yeah, so you think you're tough?" Something like that.
Whatever, it was enough to bring the bouncer back to where I could see the blackheads
on his nose and smell his breath: "What's your name?"
I couldn't think of anything witty, so I said the first thing that came into my head:
"George Parry."
"You're barred!"
We must have hailed a cab to the airport and continued drinking at the bar, as the next
thing I recall is being seriously accosted and shaken by a uniformed gentleman: "Are you
George Parry?"
"Yes" I was now clearly too drunk to do anything wittier than tell the truth.
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