The Grand Old Duke of York

You do remember Spud U Like? Apparently, the jacket had been making a comeback!

The grand, old Duke of York… he had 10,000 men? Heavens, poor Bunty!

Look carefully at the photo above.

Then, there’s something I had suspected all along, but was clearly being kept from us.

Apparently, Phillip Schofield has been doing his own make-up! But for how long? Why were we not told this earlier? Hadn’t it been obvious all this time? Did it take social distancing for this little nugget to shine in public? So many questions, so little reason to answer.

Perhaps it’s time for pantomime. There is nothing like a dame!

By the way, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I had no idea…

Apologies for any innuendo!

Consequentially, as the shop is closed, my glass is over half full with creative juices… and perhaps a drop or two of Mescal. I have a tried Absinthe, which although vigorously stimulating the cortex, any slight over-indulgence induces a trance-like state from which my memory is wiped and there is no Recycle Bin to restore them from!

Perseus, is wfh… in South Pacific. He is lounging on a marble bench surrounded by elfen creatures, supplicating to his every wish, whilst he is overdosing on carbs, apparently, he calls it carb-loading… In my world anything you over administer intravenously ends in an overdose!

He is not taken with the temptations of luxury chocolate, a slab of Diary Milk, or Fruit and Nut will suffice. But there have been Whispers amongst his flock that the Easter Egg Saga has reached his ears.

To Perseus, this is a Drama, not a crisis… However, if required he will invoke the wrath of his father Zeus, should the overzealous nature of officialdom continue.

Corner shops have been allowed to open as essential businesses to sell essential items. According to one or two oversensitive sorts, Easter Eggs are not essential items, and these premises have been threatened with closure if they do not remove the said items from sale… Could you imagine it? The Supermarket chains are allowed to control the Easter Egg market, futures, commodities, frozen orange juice, the Duke’s are trying to corner the market! Heavens to Murgatroyd!

The ‘Mainstream Media’, and ‘The Mail Online’ (Perseus is an avid fan!) have started to blame social media for spreading fear, over-exaggeration, untruths and ‘Fake News’. Where do I begin with that one? The chicken, the egg, the pot, the kettle? Let me cross the road!

Somewhere lies the truth, meanwhile for my daily exercise I have either been walking or running, sometimes I get close to the edge of the Earth, and as yet vertigo has not got the better of me. Mike and I sit there dangling our legs off the edge above the abyss, discussing the veracity of Donald’s Tweets.

I am flatly denying that the Earth is anything but round.

Anyway, back to the Easter Eggs… I am looking forwards to Christmas and a variation of Turkey Twizzlers… As a turkey, would you vote for Christmas? See the photo below… Sugar Babes – Push the button!

And don’t forget the new stock, it is selling out, as one or two of you are beginning to find out!

Copyright © 2020 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved

June Newsletter 2016

Once again I am asked how I come up with these phantasmagorical tales.

Well let me tell you.

You leave a couple of politicians in charge of the magical lantern and suddenly they are projecting all sorts of frightening images onto the wall, playing with our imagination, fuelling our fears, creating a farrago, until in their frenzy to outdo each other, they knock the magic lantern over and then scarper, blaming each other for burning the theatre down.

I think we drew the short straw.

The Italians have opera, which is their theatre drawn from real life, the Japanese; Kabuki with their exotic make-up, masks and songs, the Mexicans have their wrestling with its exotic make-up, masks and songs, just ask Donald; and the Welsh have Gareth Bale.

We have on the other hand have got the “The Good Old Days” back, with Leonard Sachs and all the pathos of a smug pug singing the “Marseillaise”. Apparently we have our country back?

Long, lazy days of doing sweet FA, not unlike our premiership superstars. Drinking cider in the parks, fighting like the Inter City Firm, no grudge too small, no boots too big, all in the days before love and ecstasy. How bizarre to see a smile on everyone’s face.

I owned an Austin Allegro with its oddly shaped, square steering wheel and it didn’t matter if it was made on a Friday, it was a dreadful car on whichever of the 3 days a week it was made. I think it ran on coal, and the suspension was made out of elastic bands.

Now admittedly if I was dragged back to “The Darling Buds of May” and Catherine Zeta-Jones was my Cherie Amour I might view it as a lovely summer day, but 1976 was a long time ago, and there is only so much rolling around in the hay one can do. Quiet, anybody who thinks they know better!

How the nostalgia seeps up through cracks in the pavement, and it will, but we have moved on.

With the French in charge of EDF, the Germans owning nPower and Eon UK, the Spanish, Scottish Power, to paraphrase ‘The Sun’; “If common sense does not prevail, will the last person to leave Britain please blow the candle out!”

I am fascinated to see how nasty politics has become. Perhaps they have been trapped in the underworld for a very long time with Perseus, drinking absinthe and caustic soda, watching endless repeats of Eastenders.

Hades raised an eyebrow. When he sat forward in his throne, shadowy faces appeared in the folds of his black robes, faces of torment, as if the garment was stitched of trapped souls from the Fields of Punishment, trying to get out.

If only I could get him to give Boris’s bike puncture!

Now, is not the time for politicians to enter into philosophical discussion, it is time to run. The masses now have pitchforks and the politicians are looking a lot like Wicker Men.

Anyway I shall head back to Ibiza, and Hedonism not Hades, I know where my priorities lie.

I will not be staying in the new rural hotel bocadilloed between the club DC10 and the airport. It is called ‘In Flagrante’. So if you are spied in ‘delicto’ it will be by drugged up clubbers from 500ft landing at 3am. I supposed you might say. “Only in Ibiza”.

Since May’s newsletter I have visited the island a couple of times. The first trip involved Neil, Tony and myself spending the night in the DJ booth at Pacha with a young, up and coming DJ called David Morales. The best set I have ever witnessed, below are a couple of photos.

Can you call me back, I'm working

Can you call me back, I’m working

Needin' U

Needin’ U

It finished very late! As it did every night, and I will admit to falling asleep for 20 minutes at the bar, Itaxa at 6.30am, where they serenaded me into slumber with a Spanish guitar. The eighty year old lady, who owns it, gave me a tea towel for a pillow! Tony’s eyes were open, but don’t sharks sleep that way?

We visited a bar called Exis owned by Birgit a German friend and she has a wall covered in photos of clients over the years. It was a poignant reminder of losing my dear friend Richard, 5 years ago, and how many of the faces that stare out from these photos are still with us?

The photo speaks for itself.

The Wall

The Wall

We enjoyed the usual birthday celebrations on Formentera, and after 6 litres of vodka, this spider saw a fly and the hypnotic spray from the wake of the boat sped us from one paradise to another.





June is easily the best month in Ibiza, the sea not too crowded, nor the restaurants or bars, people are still calm. Neil is still drinking green tea, before the triple espresso, high octane ‘cafe caleta’ season starts.

As in the past I have used trips to Ibiza to avoid going to Pitti Uomo in Florence. This may be the final straw, and why I may never go again. I also re-iterate, this is not me. It is so wrong on so many levels and in what world does this person think this looks acceptable. There are moments in fashion where you realise that the vogue has reached a tipping point and those teetering on the brink will tumble into the sea to be dashed against the rocks, dresses made out of newspaper, anything with a medusa’s head, shoes that make you walk like Dick Emery and braces that look like a ‘Mankini’ for a dandy!

Brace yourself

Brace yourself

Lastly a sunset, because we have been bereft of suns a setting, lords a leaping, seven swans a swimming, I have been lucky with the ladies dancing, but one makes ones own luck? Unless you are sharing a table in a restaurant; some will know this story, the rest can only guess at how I might have been transformed!


And a Jakeism to end – Christmas is now closer than the last New Year. Joy, thy name is Time!

Copyright © 2016 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.