Читать книгу The World According to Vice - Vice Magazine - Страница 25

My face was still sore from the shave. Sure, I’d taken the piss a bit with my productivity on Monday, but today I was determined to work at the computer for a few hours. My duties consisted of cruising various social-networking sites before an early lunch.

Canary Wharf is the towering hub of British and European finance. Feeling important, I headed over to have an overpriced club sandwich (£9) al fresco, right at the foot of One Canada Square, the epicentre of this glorious monument to success.

The gorgeous stench of billions of pounds wafted around me as I sat picking bacon fat from my teeth and smoking Montecristo Number Four cigars. A fellow capitalist grimaced at me for blowing fine Cuban tobacco smoke onto his eggs Benedict. I thought I was doing him a favour.

To satisfy the hunger for culture that comes with being a master of the universe, I booked a ticket to the Royal Opera House to see Wagner’s Lohengrin. I sipped on a few brandies at a nearby pub before puffing another cigar on the steps of the opera house.

My ticket came with a glass of champagne that I slurped down in the foyer. As I looked for my seat, I realised that I had booked a standing-room ticket to a production that lasted nearly five hours. This was clearly a touch of idiocy left over from my poorer days. After fidgeting for three torturous hours and being frowned at by the elderly couple in front of me, I left on the verge of tears. Pretending to be filthy rich was beginning to wear on me.