The Dariuster's first 'New York Personal Development Journal'

I was in New York, I was working and studying I was supposed to write a 'Personal Development Journal' of my initial impressions of New York. I wrote the following, those in power were not so happy:

Personal Development Journal

I flew into JFK on Sunday. Due to a delay at Heathrow thanks to a women being unable to travel I arrived later than expected. It’s really a bit inconsiderate of the public to be sick on a plane, almost die, and make me late. I wrote a suitable complaint letter to Virgin Atlantic. I expect at the very least a round trip first class ticket to anywhere in the world although I am really holding out for an all expenses trip to Richard Branson’s private Necker Island.
Unlike many of my peers I flew into JFK which was a result of having to buy my ticket at the last minute due to be being placed with Citibank, (or Citigroup or Citi or Citilight or I can’t believe it’s not Citibank-whichever you prefer) at a pretty late stage. On my delayed flight out to New York I was a little worried that I had forgotten my DS209 form which I would need to enter the United States of America. Apparently the visa in my passport was not good enough. Anyway these fears were unwarranted as surprisingly I had actually managed to make in to New York one alive and two with all relevant and valid paperwork. Oh happy day. As I queued for an age at immigration I thought to myself ‘I hope the yanks have to spend this long in immigration at Heathrow’ and then I thought ‘they like the ‘old stars and stripes a lot’ as I counted 67 flags from my walk from the airplane to the queue at immigration.
The first American I met in New York was the immigration official Ana Maria Fernandez[1] as I was whizzed quickly threw the immigration I was slightly resentful that Ana never offered me a courtesy strip search. I picked up my bags and laughed manically, I walked out the departure lounge. There was no real reason to laugh manically I just thought that it would make me look kind of evil and cool if I was in a Hollywood film. Then remembering that I wasn’t I decided to stop laughing as I thought I may have looked slightly insane.[2] A helpful lady explained to me that I needed to take the ‘airtrain’ into Jamaica and then catch the subway from there to downtown. Realising that not for the first time I had completely ignored Mountbatten’s advice and arrived without any dollar bills (y’all, holler!) I went to the airport Bureau de Change and almost wet myself laughing at the joke which was the exchange rates I was being offered. This genius in recognising a bad exchange rate would help me in my future job with Citi where I would deal with FX(foreign exchange transfers). Luckily further genius on my part in opening a Nationwide ‘flex account’ meant that I can withdraw cash from any ATM(cash point in English) and not have to pay money to access my precious swandoolies, except for the stealth tax that is added by all New York ATM’s which varies from $1 to as much as $3. I withdrew $100 and felt rich when I had a wad of ‘greenbacks’ in my hand.
I jumped on the train to Jamaica and found that New Yorkers share at least one thing in common-they don’t like people reading the newspaper over their shoulders.
Eventually I arrived at Penn Station and the grime and the bustle, was not too welcoming. I made what I would later realise to be an elementary mistake by deciding to walk with my bag to the Theo Walcott hotel.
Rising hard and proud, swollen fat at the base and piercing the sky with its long metal shaft I was very excited to see the Empire State Building. Nothing says welcome to New York more then when you see the Empire State Building illuminated at night. The Empire State Building seemed to invigorate me and put an awkward spring in my step as I made my way dragging my bags to the hotel. Due to a strange twist of fate I arrived exactly at the same time as the other interns who had caught the bus from Newark and no doubt had a much more pleasant journey.
In addition to their more enjoyable journey they had also had the opportunity to form some embryonic friendships with their fellow peers. Due to my now extreme tiredness and my not feeling in a very sociable mood, I decided that I did not want to play at being a ‘fake me’ and being nice to everyone. I dropped my bags off and went out for some food.
I reacquainted myself once again with Time Square; I had previously been in Time Square about three years previously. Except for the adverts nothing had changed. The neon lights turned night into day and I walked around re-familiarising myself. I ate some pizza, walked past a game shop, noted that they sold the Playstation 3 and went back to the hotel to sleep.
The first week was spent between orientation classes where I learnt that I should check in all corners of a lift/elevator to ensure that no one was hiding waiting to kill me. (Funnily enough this was not news to me as I had the summer before made a lucky escape from; who the Daily Mail tried to term ‘London’s Lift Loner person who kills people by hiding in the corners of the lift’.) I also learnt about the power triangle, this is Michael Billet’s guide to sartorial excellence; basically don’t wear a stripy tie with a stripy shirt. Apparently the girls were scandalously advised not to dress like whores-thus denying them any chance of a promotion. I was pleased to note that most girls chose to ignore this advice anyway.
As I was saying before I got side tracked on power triangles and lift murderers, I spent the first week between orientation classes and going out. Before I came to New York I was told that in New York A) women outnumber men ten to one and two) if you have an English accent you are guaranteed to get some.[3] With my male genitalia and English accent in check I hit the New York night clubs with a gusto, however for some reason I seemed to attract about as many women as the character Sloth™ from the Goonies™©®. It occurred to me that maybe I am not the complete babe magnet that I had thought I was, I quickly quashed this thought and came to the conclusion that all New York women are suffering from the debilitating eye condition known as glycoma. I also came into contact with the New York tradition of tipping-which goes directly against my principles of being stingy and being English. As an Englishman when it comes to tipping we work on the premise that you start on zero and work your way down-in most cases I will find that by the end of the meal or taxi journey or whatever thing it that the New Yorker is trying to fleece me on they will actually owe me money. This can often create tension when it comes to paying bills as the waiter will be waiting (no pun intended) to be paid and I will be waiting to also be paid.
The clubs and bars which I have noted have the highest concentration of females suffering from glycoma include Culture Club an 80’s themed nightclub which according to Mountbatten rumours is owned by Boy George- I could probably verify this by going on google but I am usually far too busy researching important topics such Spiderman’s alien symbiot enemy Venom-and Venom’s off shoot Carnage. I have also been to 40/40 the club/lounge bar owned by rap impresario Jay Z-him of Big Pimpin’ fame. 40/40 is filled with what New Yorkers call ‘ballers’ I at first thought that this meant basketball players but it in fact refers to what we English call big spenders. ‘Ballers’ are also known as ‘pimps, pimp daddies and hustlers.’ In context one might say ‘the M to the Izzay, Micky B, Micheal Billet is a baller, yo! He’s a pimp daddy, hustler with his power triangle. Holler!’
Anyway due to the fact that I earn $900 a month the ladies were not too impressed when I offered to buy them drinks, they asked for a bottle of crystal (at $450 a bottle almost half a month’s wages) and I gave them free tap water. I presumed since they were suffering from glycoma they wouldn’t notice, then I told them that they were actually drinking crystal champagne but since they were so drunk it just tasted like water. I went home alone. Which was actually good, because I think they would have been somewhat disappointed to find out that my New York City pied-a-terre was not in actual fact an apartment on the Upper East Side overlooking central park, but rather a room which I share with two other guys in New Jersey.
I also sometimes work for Citibank on Lexington Avenue. It is fun.

[1] Name changed to protect identity.
[2] I would later find out that laughing and talking to yourself is completely normal and accepted behaviour in New York City and so I should have not really been that bothered.
[3] Disclaimer: I have a girlfriend and would never really try it on with any other girls. Honest. I just like the thrill of the chase. It’s a bit of an ego trip really having women chasing after you, but not ugly ones.