Summary
I was sitting in the window of my London club early on Thursday evening, sipping a glass of champagne, when my companion suddenly announced, "I feel just like Beau Brummel." I looked at him closely and was about to observe that he certainly didn't bear any physical resemblance to that legendary paragon of elegance, when he continued: "I mean I've come over all 18th Century."
He gestured towards a grotesquely fat and luridly clad woman in the street outside, who was attempting to attract the attention of a taxi driver. Despite her considerable natural advantages, she had decided to increase her visibility still further by stepping well out into the fast-moving traffic. "If someone hits her," he said, "I fear I shall have to propose a bet on how many other cars will run over her before the traffic stops." I stared at him with a mixture of astonishment and disgust. Finally I managed to stutter: "Just cars, or vehicles of any sort?" Luckily at that point a cab drew up and bore her off. It was leaning crazily to one side as it did so, so we had a quick wager on whether we would hear the crash as it tipped over, attempting the sharp, left-hand turn by St James's Palace. It did not happen.See the full content of this document
Extract
Keith Hann Column
The tasteless bet is a fine English tradition, and many Oxbridge colleges and gentlemen's clubs contain betting books that m...
See the full content of this document
Sponsored links
