SPEND, SPEND, SPEND!
I listen to Radio 4 most mornings.
I know that to many of you, it might sound as useful as using The Guardian as a fly swat, but I live in my own little galaxy and I’ll protect it however I see fit.
In the last newsletter, I had promised to summarise the last year and make predictions for this, but much of last year was so spectacularly forgettable, I couldn’t remember it and I felt best not rake over the tea leaves; worse still, not to stare too deeply into the bottom of the cup for inspiration for this year, for I fear it doth not runneth over!
It is the best of times and the worst of times, as someone recently said to me about their sojourn in Washington, that it was the age of wisdom and the age of foolishness, and yet we do seem to make life considerably more complicated for ourselves than it really needs to be.
I am a simple soul and easily pleased, so much passing me by in life’s fast lane. Sensitive as well, a bit of an old softy, and as I walked along Regent’s Canal on Wednesday morning; I listened to ‘Soul Music’; a series on Radio 4 about the emotional impact on a group of people, of a particular piece of music.
Wednesday’s piece of music was Smile.
As I wandered along by the water and into Regent’s Park, a piece of music once again reduced me to tears. The story of how a melody written by Charlie Chaplin became a gloriously sentimental song, and how it was remembered by each member of the group.
I will dedicate this to my good friend Susan, who sadly lost her wonderful, long-time companion on the same Wednesday morning. As once with Marie; Susan joins me for breakfast at The Wolseley from time to time, and smiles sympathetically at my ridiculously, extravagant life.
We’ll have breakfast soon, and when what is past, is past, we’ll smile again.
A Saturday afternoon regular; Perseus, recently reduced the entire shop to apoplexy, as he complained about the ‘burn’ in his side-abs, after a particularly vigorous workout in the gym. Side-abs I enquired? Yes, side-abs he insisted, flexing his bulging biceps, looking even more like the shape of a Dorito, of whom he is a dear friend (Yes… I know ‘a friend of Dorito’, let’s not go there Toto!). He then pointed at his pectorals… They learn nothing at school these days…
Studying astronomy is not anatomy, or astrology… Oh Perseus, son of Zeus, hide thy heavenly body, the blood wolf moon is in the ascendancy, and the Gorgon Medusa must be slain…
Such treachery as befell Lady Sarah, when cousin Abigail drugged her. Sarah was dragged behind her charging steed only to survive to become a branded ambassador for Nike, such was the neatness of the scar, a product placement tour-de-force, like ‘An American Werewolf in London’ and Adidas!
The Sale continues for a little longer and there are still a few bargains to be had, but we now are starting to receive the new made to measure cloths and swatches for Spring and Summer, early bird and all that!
Copyright © 2019 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.
I have always been fascinated by the pedestrian crossings in Trafalgar Square, and in that spirit, let me begin by wishing each and every one a very merry and inclusive Christmas, and a wonderful New Year. Please enjoy responsibly!!!
I will of course be summing up the last year and making my predictions for next, in a newsletter next week, just as we Brexit 2018, and invade 2019.
I have tried to make the newsletter more manageable, as some of you were drifting off before you’d got to the best bits. So, sort of bite size, a little nibble, tapas to what would have been a pincho. I would say shorter, but then I start to suffer from Napoleon Complex… Down descends the red mist, and I become all Vodka and Red Bull!
Astro Alf, my astrologer said it was all in the stars, he’s like a pocket Nostradamus and now the resident horoscope king of a particular magazine… myrrh! (grrrrrr didn’t sound quite so Christmassy!)
His horoscopes have more of a fashion twist about them. If you are a Gemini avoid twin-sets, and don’t wear chaps when the moon and other planetary objects are in the ascendancy. Oooooh, that’ll be the Julian Clary in me!
I can see the pantomime has left a lasting impression.
Luckily I’m a Virgo! Well, Scorpio actually, but the joke didn’t work as well. Although as you all want to come back as me; best not be a Virgo then!
Jose didn’t walk, he was pushed.
The rules of Whamageddon are clear, and the fourth rule clearly states, that if you recognise the song you’re out…
At Anfield Jose couldn’t get his fingers in his ears quickly enough. If you are unclear what Whamageddon is, please be kind enough to look it up, and those of you still in the game, good luck remember last Christmas I gave you my heart…
Jose, Jose, Jose there is no point in fighting it. You recognised it, and burying your head in the ice bucket in the dugout didn’t cut it with senior management. The gentlemanly thing to do is walk.
Blessed are the glassmakers for they will become Glazers! Couldn’t resist it.
And absolutely no point in reminiscing on what you were doing ‘Last Christmas’, Jose; or crying over spilt milk crates, let’s concentrate on what you may be doing next Christmas, apart from the washing up as you need to pay off a rather large hotel bill.
All that remains, once again is wish you season’s greeting, have a wonderful time, enjoy it to the maximum, and I will avoid any clichés until it is all over. I am headed off to see my mother and all that entails.
She had suggested quail for Christmas lunch, perhaps as you get older your appetite shrinks, but this was a step too far. There was an option of quail’s eggs as a starter, so in that case we know what came first…
Copyright © 2018 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.
Aboard my Vespa, a pit stop, a little splash and dash… the perfect Martini.
Things are looking Grimm.
The irony is; tonight, just as the sun is setting…no, no, no.
Just as the result of the ‘No confidence’ vote on our bothered, bewitched and bewildered leader is announced I will be sat with the ‘Bird Man’ watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. We know how this looks, we just don’t care… we could have been watching the football, but it is less tribal…
I have checked the names of all the Dwarfs and, even including those that were left out from the original sixteen, there wasn’t one called, Spiteful, Two-Face or Trump!
In three days Snow White will be 81, older than me, younger than my mother, more like my stepsister… even Uncle Walt couldn’t have dreamt up such a saga. I am struggling to see who will emerge to usurp Paul O’Grady as the wicked stepmother, but it does seem as though they are lining up more like the ugly sisters of Cinderella, and even after a haircut they are still trying to squeeze their pudgy feet into a glass slip-on.
And my apologies to Julian, but as Mr Clary would say, “they are sure to feel a cold hand on their entrance”, and be snubbed underneath the mistletoe above the door of number 10, step forward widow Twankey, take one for the team!
And as she eats, shoots and leaves, she turns in her kitten heels:
You’re a bum
You’re a punk
You’re an old slut on junk… You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot…
I am of course innocent in all this; the ‘Genie of the Lamp’, ready to be rubbed up the wrong way, however I will grant, but few wishes.
The Sun King has had his, I didn’t realise he was going to spend half a millions euros on plates, €62,000 on hairdressing, usurping M .Hollande and €26,000 on makeup in 3 months. Why would he need it, even in Ultra HD, he is so young and fresh faced, perhaps he wants to venture out amongst his people incognito, sporting a yellow gilet!
The Donald has had his, the fact he doesn’t believe in Father Christmas was the final straw hair piece!
The Fairytale of New York? Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day!
On Saturday 8th December we will be closing at 16.00.
Black, black, black…
That’s about as much of a black Friday as anyone got out of me, and as for Cyberman Day, what happens if the Daleks find out that the Cybermen have their own special day.
Christmas is fast approaching, and that light at the end of the tunnel, is Santa on his sleigh wearing his brand new 20000 lumens head torch. The elves have fashioned out a reindeer stencil to warn any one who crosses their path, and Rudolph is sulking because it looks nothing like him…
Santa’s sack is shrinking. Gone are the heady days when it was full of chocolate goodies, now it is just Tobler One, Quality Close, and Terry’s Chocolate Tangerine.
When and where will it end? Will a Mars become a Mercury, will a Marathon (Snickers for you youngsters) become a Sprint, a Polo, just a hole; and a Topic, well you can thank the squirrel for that one.
Some people have expressed a desire to be part of the Newsletter, held up for posterity, it’s like pinning a tail on the Donkey; and yes there is an App, I have checked… So, Keith my thanks for your kindness and friendship, I wish you a speedy recovery with Nurse Camilla, beneath swaying palms and balmy skies.
Come March 29th next year, this will be nothing more than a hairdryer in the conservatory for some.
But I am troubled by thought that Brexit may be just a mirage, a tree that falls in the forest, the fridge light that never goes out, a road to nowhere, a bridge over troubled water. Cut off from the rest of the country, there will be just us fancy city folk, with our fancy Dan ways, foreign holidays and espresso machines, our own personal ‘barrista’ frothing at the mouth.
These heady days will be long gone, I’ll go back to making cities out of matchsticks and ships in bottles, a haven for flying ducks on my flock covered walls.
Our government will be a strange mix of Wombles, Clangers and Captain Pugwash. What do you mean it already is? Shocked emoji! Why hasn’t anyone said or done anything? Apathy, apathy, it’s not a party!
It is, and I will not let it distract me from my hedonism. I am in preparation for my twelve days of Christmas, when only a Baker’s Dozen will do.
I will update you, for those interested in joining in.
Please note the Christmas opening times and please, please, please, for my sake shop irresponsibly…