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.