Ok, straight to the point, get it out there, make it known, I’ve had a small ‘gig’ as the PR Advisor to the above restaurant on account of I know the owner and my greed is a matter of public record. I mean, lets be clear, Moroccan is one of those foods you can eat a lot of with a spoon which increases the ratio of calorie intake to effort: no bad thing you might agree. Anyway, enough of that, because that is straying off the subject which is a ‘No no’, or possibly even a ‘ No no no’ in the PR world, which I am now inhabiting.
So I say to Rory Haverstock, whose love of Moroccan cuisine originated from a series of post drinking Kebab festivals that I’d come up with a couple of pretty economical yet effective PR stunts. I might tell you that I am not being paid cash money for this task, but am allowed one free meal and a glass of wine per week, and that is not all bad is it?
Anyway, I says to Rory. “Come on lad, lets get you in the papers” and with that I produce a decent sized custard pie from my briefcase. “See that policeman on the corner”, “Yes” says Rory, “Walk up to him and squish this pie in his face, then say as many times as you can before you are arrested, “Moroccan Grub, opening on Wednesday, grab your post booze feast ere”
“I don’t want to be arrested” said Rory, revealing a level of spinelessness not often seen among budding entrepreneurs. Duty calls, and I can feel the burden of responsibility shifting to my shoulders. “What don’t I do for you” says I and I walk off towards the copper. As he stands there keeping his eye on the traffic I ask him, casual like, what his opinion of kebabs is. “Move along sir” he replies, which is not useful, so to help matters I shout out. “Get your Moroccan Grub from Moroccan Grub” and squish the pie neatly between his eyes.
You know that phrase which comes to the lips of our successful generals when headquarters is threatened, “Leggit”. That’s what I said to myself as I started off in a sprint of unrecorded speed shouting “Moroccan Grub at Moroccan Grub. Get it on Wednesday.” until I ran out of breath about five yards from the startled policeman. As I stopped to regain my composure, our policeman friend whose sense of humour seemed to be on a diet, even if he wasn’t, grabbed me and suggested in terms which are unrepeatable here, that I might like to go with him to the police station, where, I happen to know from past experiences, the catering is somewhere short of excellent.
Desperate situations call for desperate measure’s and I say to the fellow, “Let this slip and there’s a free meal for you once a week at Rory’s. “I’m a vegetarian teetotaller” he replies. My heart sinks. “Don’t you hate a man without vices.”