So it was fortuitous that I suddenly received a commission to review the new Playboy Club in Mayfair. Now Mayfair is a shithole populated by those who want to buy second hand Lanboughini's (low milage) for £199,000 and ridiculous looking Range Rovers in white looking like they've been crossed with Gucci handbags (just walk up Park Lane).
And strangely, I was greeted on entrance to the new Playboy Club by not the singular buxom playmate of choice I had in mind, but by SIX OR SEVEN various representatives of architects and PR companies and Playboy International and all that. I realised I get everything wrong.
However, I did soon recognise an element of 'the mojo's return'. Context is everything. It's easy to loose you mojo in the east end, and even more in a university, but it's rather easy to find it again in expensive sanctuaries like the Playboy Club. That's probably why so many middle eastern Syrians, Yemenis etc plus other displaced billionaires need to hang out there with girls dressed as bunnies.
The architect was very nice; everything was very subtle. Nothing can be overt in this country, even girls dressed as bunny rabbits. It was as louche louche louche as you could get, the sort of place that had 'accents'. The man from Playboy was the sort of under thirty business hotshot only the Americans can still produce, it was like being transported back to Las Vegas. He was excellent, he EXUDED mojo, the essence of mojo, and you couldn't help but lap it up as bunnies in tights floated by offering you drinks. Selling the idea of sex, now that's a universal. I'm glad I got some treatment.