The clocks have gone forward, the evenings have started to get longer, and Spring seems to have finally sprung. As the weather changes, so too does the wardrobe: I’m off to change mine; I may be some time…
THE RUSSIAN EDITION:
Like the little Matryoshka dolls we will peel back the layers one by one…
I have to get this out now, before I end up on the Steppes along with the lemmings… How I wish I was Roadrunner, rather than Wile E Coyote.
It may be my last newsletter before some Mata Hari steps out of the shadows to smother me in KY and baby oil again, I have survived several previous attempts without putting up too much of a fight, nervous gas, moi?
So Donald is taking a pounding in the press, he may end up sitting at the table on his own with no one around to respond to his ravings. Cries for impeach ring out, from a professional point of view, Donald will look terrible in the colour, it will clash horribly with his foundation, but hey, it can’t get much worse, or can it!
I have also taken cast iron measures to ensure Donald cannot come back as me, much as he may try! Yes, there is a carefully planned list for when I finally decide to pass on my mantle, and it will be restricted to a 4 year term.
It is rumoured that ‘Vlad the Lad’ gave Donald a set of Oblique Strategy cards for Christmas, except rather than being the work of Brian Eno, Vlad has put his own spooky, little spin on them. Something of a curve ball, apparently it’s a baseball term, nothing to worry about.
Hand delivered by the gorgeous Svetlana, how could Donald resist, this won’t end happily, and when he finally realised it wasn’t Trivial Pursuit, he tried the Monopoly board, then he confused Twister for Twitter; give a me a consonant please Ms Vorderman. Rumours are that Ivanka has never been the same since Donald cheated using his red tie as an extra limb!
Putin appears to be laughing all the way past go, picking up considerably more than £200.
The Russian ministries are looking at all sorts of diversionary tactics, one of them aims to turn football hooliganism into a sport, my dear friend Tony ably supported by Andreas and Mark will ensure it kicks off nicely, none of that passing it back sedately to one of your defenders, the boot will be definitely laid into the opponents midfield. We’ve already seen the Zoltan (sic.) and young Mings practising, Vinnie Jones and the ‘Crazy Gang’ would love it.
The Florentines have been playing a game like this for centuries called ‘Calcio Storico’. It’s not quite as violent as the Russians would like, but it has possibilities.
The Italians have been playing another game for decades, it has not yet descended into violence, not on my account, however I have been sorely tempted over the years. It is played on a train and involves the seating arrangement.
In Italy you are required to reserve a seat when buying a train ticket, and on the three train journeys I have taken there this week I have found someone sitting in my seat, much like daddy bear. Now, is it because they are rebels and don’t believe in rules, do they for some strange reason prefer my seat, or are they generously keeping it warm?
As one or two of you know I speak Italian, reasonably well; well enough to understand and be understood. So it required gently asking the first two of them to move, in fact as far as to the seat opposite, although one was slightly affronted by my requested, huffing as he moved his newspaper. On the third occasion an ‘Oi’, as my polite request fell on deaf ears, my ‘rudeness’ prompted a change of carriage for the miscreant.
It could have descended into worse, a lady friend of mine who is not backward in coming forwards would have commented, ‘Hold me earrings I’m goin’ in!’
I must admit I would miss it, if it didn’t happen!
Copyright © 2017 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.
A congratulatory note, of which many go to Orlando von Einsiedel and his proud father Andreas. Orlando won the Academy Award for Best Documentary Short for ‘The White Helmets’.
New Stock arriving, shipped today:
Stock as it currently stands:
Khaki: 1 x S, 2 x M, 2 x L, 1 XL
Navy: 1 x S, 2 x M, 4 x L, 3 x XL, 1 x XXL
Made in a two way stretch storm system fabric, lightweight with a hood or concealed hoods, waterproof zips, bonded seams and storm cuffs. The field jacket is £275 and the parka is £295.
Navy: 2 x XL, 1 x XXL
And sadly already SOLD OUT, and yes, I am trying to get some more!
In water repellent wool, with a removable down insert, a short raincoat at £670.
The lambs are out gambolling in the fields early this year, and our thoughts turn from snowdrops to daffodils, from panettone to creme eggs, it’s all fake news, Storm Doris and weather bombs, Brexit bites, a hard exit and Wayne is off for a Chinese takeaway and £850,000 a week. Sod the knighthood!
We have received the new seasonal swatches from Ariston, and those amongst you pondering a new outfit will not be disappointed. So whether you would like to look like Daniel Craig or Michael Portillo, or even me…
No, no, no of course not, you just want to come back as me.
Next post will be of something I made earlier…
These SOLD OUT last year; in fact so popular they didn’t even make it to the shop floor.
So this time I ordered a few more.
They are nylon or nylon and jersey, both style are filled with micro-down. Duckling or gosling feathers?
Either stud fastening or a double ended zip. Literally light as a feather.
Following a dry January, and by dry I mean no Newsletter.
You didn’t think for one moment that I would, or could have given up alcohol!
We are well into 2017, so what does the New Year have in store for us?
Light the blue touch paper.
Those resolutions cast at the side of the road like Neil’s banana skin, organic and biodegradable. They’ll be long gone by Easter.
One or two of you have found new addictions, like following The Donald on Twitter, unlike Sky with its predictable mantra, The Donald fires off missives and fires people on a whim.
A man holding up a sign in the European Parliament saying Nigel Farage is lying to us all, no guano Watson, where were you a year ago? Surely this is how we expect our politicians to behave, expanding to a packed audience, not a dry eye in the house.
Statistics were born of Beelzebub; you can make them say anything you want, support any argument, give credence to clear water, and hence we are in the mess we are in!
The poisoned chalice of Europe is filled to the brim with hemlock, and it appears that the mandarins wouldn’t want a sip for all the tea in China.
Talks of trade deals and behind the scenes machinations have the politicians in a tizzy.
Secret societies, ‘Deep State’, the Underwater World of Jacques Cousteau, Thunderbirds are Go, Joe 90, Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons…
By all accounts they were all playing at DC10 on New Year’s Day. By way of explanation, DC10 is a club in Ibiza (well of course it would be), it is 300 metres from the end of the runway and to the roars of the crowd planes come in to land only a couple of hundred feet above!
At New Year, I was wandering round the garden centres of Ibiza with Neil, not looking for psychotropic substances on this occasion, but an olive tree for his back patio at the new house.
We struck a strange trio, three more unlikely amigos you are likely to find. Neil gold toothed, beanie-hatted tattooist with all the bedside manner of Neil the tattooist, Eugene; Danish sex god, sporting a black python skin jacket and matching Cuban heeled boots, et moi your basic ‘eurotrash’, looking for the perfect plant.
We would stop from time to time and discuss pruning methods to create the perfect topiary and disc like platers that will adorn said tree.
Perhaps a glass of Mezcal, Tequilla or Hierbas con hielo would aid the decision making process, so we adjourn to a restaurant and while away the hours.
Ibiza does that to you, minutes become hours, which in turn become days, one minute you were sober and completely in control of your faculties, the next you wake up next to a cactus or a prickly pear. No metaphor intended!
I strolled along the golden sands of Las Salinas without a soul around shoes and socks off, lay on the sand, paddled in the sea; I could be forgiven for forgetting that it was January.
From Ibiza I headed for Pitti Uomo in Florence, by comparison it was grey and damp, and full of yet more men in ridiculous outfits, I do not include myself.
Pitti as it is known has become selfie heaven, Instagram Nirvana, the more OTT the outfit, the more people hope to be snapped for an obscure Japanese fashion magazine, which is printed on seaweed and available only from a small kiosk opposite the middle school in Fukaura.
I returned to London, my aura a little shaken by the look, but have no fear; none of it will be making its way onto our shelves, so rest easy.
There will new stock shortly, but meanwhile you will have to amuse yourselves with the rantings of a man with a very long red tie.
Copyright © 2017 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.