A mate of mine works for a print company that has just quoted £7,000 to produce a small set of invitation cards for Gareth Barry's 30th birthday party. Apparently they only need 250 but the cost is so high because the card uses special heat sensitive ink which changes colour when picked up.
Just imagine how much lard arse will be spending on the actual party!
PS - They apparently thought that the price was reasonable!!
The maître d’ stops by to say hello to Adebayor, then notices we don’t have our complimentary Bellinis, and runs off before any of us can stop him. I’m not sure how Adebayor knows Alain so well—maybe Cecelia?—and it slightly pisses me off but I decide to even up the score a little bit by showing everyone my new business card. I pull it out of my gazelleskin wallet (Barney’s, $850) and slap it on the table, waiting for reactions.
“What’s that, a gram?” De Jong says, not apathetically.
“New card.” I try to act casual about it but I’m smiling proudly. “What do you think?”
“Whoa,” Adebayor says, lifting it up, fingering the card, genuinely impressed. “Very nice. Take a look.” He hands it to Kompany.
“Picked them up from the printer’s yesterday,” I mention.
“Cool coloring,” Kompany says, studying the card closely.
“That’s bone,” I point out. “And the lettering is something called Silian Rail.”
“Silian Rail?” Adebayor asks.
“Yeah. Not bad, huh?”
“It
is very cool, Barry,” Kompany says guardedly, the jealous bastard, “but that’s nothing….” He pulls out his wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. “Look at this.”
We all lean over and inspect Vincent’s card and De Jong quietly says, “That’s
really nice.” A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Kompany says, smugly, “Eggshell with Romalian type…” He turns to me. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” I croak, but manage to nod, as the busboy brings four fresh Bellinis.
“Jesus,” De Jong says, holding the card up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. “This is really super. How’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?”
I’m looking at Kompany’s card and then at mine and cannot believe that De Jong actually likes Kompany’s better.
Dizzy, I sip my drink then take a deep breath.
“But wait,” De Jong says. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet…” He pulls his out of an inside coat pocket and slowly, dramatically turns it over for our inspection and says, “
Mine.”
Even I have to admit it’s magnificent.
Suddenly the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless hum, compared to this card, and we all hear De Jong’s words: “Raised lettering, pale nimbus white…”
“Holy shit,” Kompany exclaims. “I’ve never seen…”
“Nice, very nice,” I have to admit. “But wait. Let’s see Balotelli’s.”
De Jong pulls it out and though he’s acting nonchalant, I don’t see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this.
“Pizza. Let’s order a pizza,” Adebayor says. “Doesn’t anyone want to split a pizza? Red snapper? Mmmmm. Barry wants
that,” he says, rubbing his hands eagerly together.
I pick up Balotelli’s card and actually finger it, for the sensation the card gives off to the pads of my fingers.
“Nice, huh?” De Jong’s tone suggests he realizes I’m jealous.
“Yeah,” I say offhandedly, giving De Jong the card like I don’t give a shit, but I’m finding it hard to swallow.
