Communicating with the client

Apologies for this very late posting. It’s been a hectic, elongated weekend which involved one small, work-related episode where I happened upon a client’s representative in a London pub.
This fellow, in all probability named Rupert, was being a bit of an arse. In circumstances too tedious to account here, I found myself the victim of a class attack.
I may have provoked him by disparaging the current Tory leader (an acquaintance of this chap).
The argument progressed to discourse over the value of natural intelligence versus a well-developed network of contacts. Rupert was proud to admit being mentally-challenged but, despite this, was a millionaire with posh women beating down his door; measures of success that he attributed to the place he went to school: Eton.
“I am Eton through and through,” he said. “My old school tie will gain me admission anywhere. I play for the Eton Old Boys rugger club and even have the name of the school tattooed on my cock.”
Gads, his crowd were an ugly mob of upper-class twits. They were murmuring contentedly at Rupert’s smug put-down of this chimpish bitter-drinking oik.
“That’s a coincidence,” I replied, looking at the horse-like faces of his rowdy retinue, “I have the name of my old school tattooed on my cock too.” In reply to his greasy, quizzical look I revealed: “Haberdashers’ Aske’s Hatcham Boys’ School. Including apostrophes.”
I was about to add that I had the phone number down there too, but it's not polite to brag.