March 2013 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on March 30, 2013 by volpeadrian

March Newsletter 2013

Let’s get the weather out of the way first. It has been very, very cold and very, very grey and I know we are all fed up with it. Those of you who have managed to get away will mean once again I am deluged with “Out of Office” replies.

However have you thought that the minute the sun bursts forth, the too tight t-shirt, Birkenstocks, shorts and hairy leg brigade will be out in force? Not in such a hurry for the first shafts of sunlight now methinks.

OK, so I’m getting this one out a little early, but I’m off to Ibiza, and given the state I might be in, it might make even less sense than normal. Is that an incredible Burt Wonderstone mushroom I see before me? Quick call the police. On second thoughts no, the first two albums were OK, but then Stu started chucking drumsticks. Good shot! I will never play their music in the shop again. Well apart from Peanuts, but I have my reasons.

For those of you who read and remember my newsletters, my ‘D’ list celebrity friend is now a street artist on the island. There is a little patch of concrete by the marina where he plies his trade. He will be painted aubergine it’s this summer’s hot colour! He just lies there prone like a strange shaped vegetable, either that or he fell asleep and people started dropping coins onto his pile of clothes. He was trying to fashion one of those ‘fakir’ poses whereby he looked suspended in mid-air, but then the stick broke! Gone are the days of Panto, glitter and glamour.

Remember, I have no ‘A’ or ‘B’ list celebrity friends or customers, but we did have someone wear one our suits in “Skyfall”. It was only confirmed recently so I didn’t want to tempt fate.

To some it may seem I am a little too loose tongued in my newsletters, but I choose my topics carefully. I have a huge ego, so it’s all about me as you know too well, and now I have started a book about my colourful life. I shall not be inviting Wazzer Rooney to ghost write it.

Ibiza you ask. Well, I gave in, I was going to leave this trip until the end of May, but given the weather here, I couldn’t delay it any longer. It is for work! We are tattooing leather for a couple of clients, so I’m going to drop some off and pick some up, and do a fitting for a suit. Neil is carving skulls, plus clouds, some lotus flowers, perhaps even a butterfly into the shoes of the good and the great.

Charlie will be so pleased to get his shoes back, that’s such an Ibiza name isn’t it? Photos will be available on the blog, and on Facebook, for those of you who are allowed accounts.

I may add to my collection, but the customer always comes first. In my case it will not be shoes, it will be tattoos of the flesh. Neil thinks my latest design is a little effeminate, not the word he used, but I think this way is a little more polite. I’ll run it past Eugene he’s driven down from Copenhagen to spend a few days. There is a bar in the marina where a drink is named after him, and after my last visit when we were all together in September, I have absolutely no idea what it was called, or maybe I just can’t remember! If I call you at 5am to wake you, just ignore me.

One thing I can guarantee is that we won’t be sleeping a lot, but will I don the mankini? I think it will be Pacha, Amnesia, Pacha, Amnesia, Pacha, Amnesia. Sorry where was I? Then I won’t be able to pass up a foam party, and head off delirious to DC10 where I shall jump up and down trying to grab the undercarriage of incoming planes. You know I’m high on life.

Stop press…. Mateo can’t make it he will be spending Easter with the lovely Cristina, so the mankini will be mine! But, Martin from Argentina will be there, now the wheels will certainly come off. I have photos of him snorkelling in the snow in Verbier, wearing nothing more than a smile. At least that’s what it seemed like, but it was hard to tell it was so cold and he was face down. As a very good friend of mine would say “Bere”, it’s a great shame that on this occasion she won’t be joining us, hopefully next time.

I’ll be back Tuesday night, with Ryanair!!!!!! I know, never say never. It was the only way I could get back to meet some friends who are coming from Italy for a month to learn English, but I will not be teaching them, I shall leave that to a professional.

With regard to last month, some of you were a little confused about the 24 not 22 comment, and one or two of you gave some quite surprising suggestions. Let me lay rumours to rest. The 24 bus takes me from home to Vash and back again, and the 22 goes past The Wolseley, I use the 24 not the 22. Thank you for the flattering remarks.

I supply the newsletter in printed form, in a plain brown envelope to one particular lady (she views me as her toy boy, she is after all hmmmm years old), because she says, and I quote “she finds them a little racy”. Once read they are shredded so hubby doesn’t see them. Well hush my mouth I didn’t think I was being that particular shade of grey. Let’s just hope she can cope with the book I’ve just given her as a present.

And finally and this is not a joke. We are now offering a new service we are hand washing and finishing your knitwear, so you can store all your cashmere and merino wool for the summer months, when they finally arrive. There will be a small charge, but I know that many of you are a little worried by the prospect of looking after your cashmere, so I thought this might help you.

To err is human to forgive is? Well sometimes forgiveness is deserved, sometimes earned, but should be given with an open heart. Gandhi said that the weak can never forgive; forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.

Photographs of the trip will follow upon my return!

March 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on March 31, 2011 by volpeadrian

As you know I like to draw out the suspense with this newsletter vis a vis the end of the month.

However, I’ve been even busier than normal, what with it being my wife Gillian’s birthday on the last day of the month. So it’s only natural that I’ve been distracted by planning a lavish celebration with lots of gorgeous presents. (Gillian – I put this bit in anticipation of lots of gorgeous presents. There will be an update you on the state of our marriage next newsletter.)

Today I’ve cast aside the iPad. I’m rather hung over, and I was unable to focus on the keys. We spent an evening with the man “who is a suit short of a week” and his husband. At least with these two we’re never a glass short of a drink. However he is 6ft 6ins and the expression “hollow legs” was created with him in mind.

I am back travelling again. I had a couple of days in Rome and a bit of spring weather and a meeting with dear Silvio. Just to pick up a few tips mind you. Well you know old dogs, new tricks, and all that.

I spent the time with one of my best friends and his family, the ever youthful Pietroluccis. I’ve known Max 20 years and before you all say it, yes, I really am that old.

He, his brother Mau and father Sergio have not aged one bit. Max ‘Five Vests’ Pietrolucci is a bit of a Godfather name but he needed to keep warm while lodging in Wembley, studying English in London and working with me in Piccadilly in January.

Better than doing national service somewhere crappy in Italy. These days he keeps his temperature up with his voracious appetite for cheese. Vash at the Cork and Bottle has never known anyone eat so much cheese at one sitting!

Max reminded me about the egg box of a kit car I used to drive in those days. Small boys would point and stare in awe at it until dragged away by their mothers. Their dads would stand slack-jawed until dragged away too. Don’t say it; I know you were thinking it!

You could drive it under an articulated lorry to do a short cut on the Hogarth roundabout. I had the hood off in all weathers; well it would be after being driven under a lorry, but it did have a heater.

It was probably the fastest car to 50 mph I have ever driven, but then it would either breakdown or hit a metaphorical brick wall of acceleration, at which point everything I’d overtaken would get me back. But I’ve learnt to cope with the humiliation. I mean it wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.

There have been a large number of new subscribers to the newsletter, and hopefully some of you might do something worthy of writing about. I mean it’s not as if you all have gone into hibernation. Pulses seem to have slowed to a rate where it is hard to tell whether you are alive or not, but in some cases this seems the norm anyway.

The first rays of spring sun, and thoughts turn to, well you can keep those thoughts to yourself.

Anyway David is back in the shorts and driving shoes – green suede, very nice. Andre is sporting his Birkenstocks and not much else it seems, or so he likes to tell me. He’s just arrived back from Miami, no doubt after abusing some poor soul in first class. Perhaps they didn’t want a French wine.

Richard with his sylph-like physique stretches to a jean with a 26 inch waist. He can apparently buy these in Selfridges, either from Dior (so Richard), and Dsquared (so not Richard).

Their assistant was apparently just hangin’ in the department. I am unable to recount Richard’s story of trying on the Dsquared jeans as well as him. These were probably designed by MC Hammer, which once on, he was unable to get off over his feet, trying to stand up and holding on to a rotating rail, which apparently kept throwing him to the floor.

After an hour of struggle he removed the jeans he finally wandered off to Dior to purchase his bling.

Anyway back to the rays of sun. I bet you’ve all been keeping up with Wonders of the Universe on the BBC iPlayer, and Prof Brian Cox, a man who considers himself even more gorgeous than me. (As if that were possible).

No, I hear you say, but yes; bestriding the universe with his floppy hair and moist lips. Traversing mountain tops, deserts and glaciers. Gazing at sunrises and sunsets. Experiencing weightlessness, flying at the speed of sound, and feeling the force of g (yes, I did have to think carefully how I worded that).

Vanity, thy name is Brian. You’re not the Messiah. Just a very naughty boy with a spectacularly good publishing deal, and great hair.

Sent from my iPad 4

February 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on February 28, 2011 by volpeadrian

Well February has nearly been and gone, and I haven’t been anywhere. It’s a short month and I’m bang up against it to get this out. Blink and you’ve missed it, I could have done with a couple of extra days and perhaps another speech or two from Colonel Gaddafi, but I can unequivocally say I have never knowingly supplied him with items of clothing. Damn. Trapper hats all round next winter.

Finally the mornings are turning a little lighter, the evenings too, and if Dave has his way, those of us in London will have a binge culture of 24 hour daylight, drunk on everlasting sunshine, suddenly we’ll all feel better on the happiness index, or whatever he’s going to call it. No doubt it will make my insomnia worse, I may never sleep again, and everyone living north of Watford will suffer from rickets. The Scots will be more depressed about their football, they will blame us for stealing what light they get, and every game will need to be played under floodlights. The only players they will be able to attract will be moles, or three blind mice. So a step up on a few they have there now, we all know what you think of the refs north of the border.

Now, if only Dave could turn the thermostat up a few degrees, bring us the Aurora Borealis, we’d all be ‘staycationing’, waving glosticks and recreating foam parties. Oh well, looks like I’ll be holidaying abroad again this year.

And before the pedants amongst you tell me, that this not how daylight-saving works, I’ll remind you that it’s my newsletter and I’ll write it how I want.

Some of you have commented on my healthy glow, I suppose it’s politer than the Mr Orange remarks, and I am still many a shade of mahogany paler than Dave or David Dickenson. But after the long winter nights I have been known on occasion to visit the Costa Lampada, if only to get some heat into these tired old bones. If the therapeutic effects involve a ruddier complexion, so be it. Vanity, thy name is Adrian.

On a related note and in order not to make this a political issue, like every government I have found my way round the expenses problem. I paid myself double, dropped my bonus scheme and set up a complex system of offshore accounts on Sark. Whilst somehow finding a way to re-employ my coterie of advisors, pluckers and waxers, dressers and cross dressers, even Raoul has returned.

A friend’s spouse is on the Space Shuttle winging its way to the International Space Station. Going out to the shed to be on your own is understandable, but this is a little extreme. This makes the actions of a Japanese friend pale by comparison; when barred from the house by his wife, sleeps it off in his local church, such are the results of cheap white wine and the understanding nature of the local clergy towards a Buddhist.

My D-list celebrity friend is now headed for LA dressed in a gold costume. Apparently he will be on Hollywood Boulevard miming as Oscar. I fear he may get a little more than he bargains for. Obviously it’ll be all over bar the partying when you read this. If it were my party, top of my guest list would be Charlie Sheen, now more enfant terrible than hellraiser.

He’d be certain to create some sort of incident which I could write about, as many of my party animal friends have been so very quiet this month. I suppose after January’s abstinence I’d hoped that you’d all return to hard partying, but I have been disappointed unless it has been a month long event I am still to become aware of. Alternatively, it may be that they know I am watching, stubby little fingers poised over the screen of my Ipad, just waiting for the merest whiff of scandal and impropriety. As if!

James who was here last month from Geneva, has gone home to clear his head in the fresh mountain air, it appears that they have had a recent delivery of powder and he’s gone off piste. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again very soon. He’ll fix me with the gaze of someone who can’t quite place me, before staggering off in search of his next adrenaline fix. Somehow I think even stumbling onto the Cresta Run and sliding the whole course without a sled would fail to quench his need for speed, and now we’ve had the last Space Shuttle so few challenges remain.

Neil will be here from Ibiza next month, pigeons of Trafalgar Square beware, and I know the break in the weather will have you all reaching for shorts and Birkenstocks, no matter how 2 years ago they were.

Remember one swallow doesn’t make a summer.

September 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on September 29, 2010 by volpeadrian

How quickly the summer passes. No sooner were you slipping on the shorts and Birkenstocks than you were forced to put your shirt back on.

All right, those amongst you who support Newcastle United from the Gallowgate end never wear a shirt to matches as a badge of pride preferring to daub yourselves in black and white stripes of body paint, the name of your favourite player mis-spelt across your shoulders. My friend Alan with his black and white cashmere scarf will be labelled a sissy. What japes!

But, I may never go onto a beach again. Note the use of the word may, because, as you know I worship the sun. But though I laugh in the face of skin cancer there are some things that scare even me.

A recent survey had Princess Beatrice tied with Jennifer Aniston for the fourth best beach body in the world. The bit about being tied to Jennifer I can understand, but how on earth can Bea, out of Her Fergieness and stablemate of Huge Knees, have ranked so highly or indeed anywhere unless it was bringing up the rear in the 2.30pm at Chepstow?

Who makes this stuff up? And for once it’s not the wife.

Once again sciatica has raised its ugly head in the tattooing brotherhood. This time it is not Neil, who appears to be making a recovery (update below) but his now less able assistant Pink, not that big, shouty girl but a compact bloke and the least Italian Italian I’ve ever met.

The injury struck following a night of drinking Ricard and hierbas involving Neil, Scratch, Gillian and me.

I feel the tipping point was when Pink’s landlady Charlene, who doubles as the waitress serving said alcohol, popped up in the small hours to extract the payment of rent in kind. Pink is now wearing Neil’s corset, Charlene still being busy with hers.

It’s a flattering garment if you have the personality to carry it off and I will be stocking a few for autumn.

September has brought relief to Neil. An operation in Paris seems to have done the trick and restored some colour to his pallid complexion. He really was the palest man in Ibiza. “I don’t do beaches, man,” he has often told me.

Neil and I will continue our discussions about Adidas, and that fact that I wear the wrong type. It is a style statement for him and I wear it for exercise and never the twain shall meet. So I will not be out “sniping”, sorry – cheating – him out of that vintage Ivan Lendl jacket on eBay.

I think it is time to introduce a new celebrity. My D-list friend is still stuck with his vuvuzelas but has a panto gig for Christmas. I wish him well, it’ll give me a chance to torture him with Macbeth, while he rehearses as an Ugly Sister. He is already complaining that the make up artist, J’son, feels he may only need a little touching up and is unsure exactly how to take that remark.

This new celebrity considers himself A list. What sauce! He currently crosses the street to avoid me and shuns me in my favourite breakfast haunt, The Wolseley.

The shunning is made easier by the fact that I always get a better table. This is not the only location we cross swords over table rights and he always loses. Big up, all at The Wolseley, Jayne, Claudia, Jason and welcome back Shirley, keep up the good work, I know it really gets under his skin. No, it’s not Michael Winner, who was charming if a little sqwarky the only time I sat next to him – like being next to a tanned parakeet.

Recently Gillian and I went back to an old favourite restaurant. T’was an interesting evening. It prides itself on service and the quality of its food. Note, I say quality, not quantity. The service was slow and haphazard as if to mimic the lazy french driving style of a post lunch 2CV, desperately clinging to the road when a strong gust of wind would puff you into a ditch, if not the heady mixture of bordeaux and calvados. My rack of lamb was a lonely lamb chop, a single rib, artfully arranged to look bigger than it was. OK, those of you know me well will know this is a technique I have often used myself. Perhaps someone swiped the rest from my plate on the way from the kitchen; some hungry soul who may have still been waiting for his main course since lunch.

And finally a plug; we now have a stock of new winter merchandise. Well you didn’t think I was doing this for my health, or just promoting other peoples businesses.

August 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on August 20, 2010 by volpeadrian

Well dear Rob has left us to set up his guest house in Fez (Morocco, for those of you who didn’t pass geography). Apparently he always read the newsletters, and by all accounts enjoyed them. Are there no levels to which people will not stoop for a mention? I wish him very good luck, he deserves you all to go and visit him, and once he is set up I will pass on the details. His place has been taken at The Wolseley by Jayne, who admitted to me she was a little worried she wouldn’t receive the newsletter. Because although Rob had been enjoying them, I feel it had been a solitary pleasure. But Jayne have no fear, you even get a mention.

The footie season is upon us again, and for those of you who play fantasy football I’m yet to work out where the fantasy ends and reality begins. Don’t do as Jake has done and pick the entire Wolves team, pleased as punch to get it in under budget and then likely to sink without trace. David, on the other hand, can’t understand that there is a cap on the value of the team, but then he is a Chelsea supporter and hence no sense of value for money. Fashion note: he’s still wearing his shorts but teamed with a fetching pair of Volpe driving shoes, now sadly beyond repair.

Mark Williams is a good friend (and since we are plugging, owns a courier business). He has expressed his joy at receiving the news letter, but what makes him different to you whingers out there, is that he reads them on his Blackberry with no problem. So the rest of you can grow up.

I am of course lying on a sun-lounger on a beach in Ibiza, flunkies running hither and thither, seeing to my every need. The newsletter is being dictated (Mark H, it’s not what you think) to my less enthusiastic PA. She hangs on my every word, with a look that suggests it may be my last. The more observant of you may have noticed that the chairs in the shop are only for customers; staff are expected to stand and make themselves look busy.

I do it myself but I’m on holiday and I’m giving my gout a rest. But she can stand, and I don’t care if the sand is burning her feet. She should have thought better than to bring Birkenstocks which I confiscated immediately for being dreadful.

Really, the staff should know their place, and if not should expect a damn good thrashing. When I get back the first thing I’m going to do is call little Nick Clegg who has been given the special task of taking calls from the public about laws that particularly bother them. In my first job being singled out for that kind of attention was more a subtle form of punishment than honour.

I’m taking to this new coalition and its sharp-elbowed middle-classness.

I, of course am not Staycationing in Cornwall, you know one rule for me, and a different one for everybody else. But if you were to, I know you can feel a plug coming on, you could do worse than to visit Sennen Cove where my friend Pat Dowling has a restaurant and surf shop right on the beach.

Live update:

This is going to be a long news letter.

At this moment (could be any time of day or night because we’re 24 hour party people) I’m sitting in a square in Ibiza with Neil who is giving me grief over the following; not appearing in the last newsletter, a particular shape of glass that a green cocktail has arrived in which signifies everything that’s wrong with the world, and more importantly backing out of having my tattoo on my last visit.

“Pussy whipped” is the expression he used, whilst demonstrating his own manliness by giving me Ray Mears-style survival advice involving finding north by closely examining lichen and how to tell how many hours of daylight are left without a watch. Why anyone wouldn’t have a watch is beyond me. He is of course, artistic but tells the time by use of a mobile.

Later……the conversation turns to ebay. Now Neil and I both use it from time to time, but when I explained I used a sniping tool, Neil nearly fell off his chair with rage. All those hours he has spent waiting and waiting, staying up into the small hours with the help of some Pro-Plus only to be outbid in the dying seconds by someone who’s tucked up in bed using technology to do the dirty work.

I tried to explain that this was progress like penicillin and the wheel, but to Neil, it was CHEATING.

I resolve in future to take a lot of drugs and stay awake……like those of you at the back.

Neil is a peaceful man interested in Buddhism and Tibet. But we have seen a darker side in his battle with the pigeons, who want to share his apartment breaking glasses and crashing into the ceiling fan like the kind of lively guests we all get from time to time.

He has bought an air rifle and is exacting terrible revenge. I suggested a balaclava to complete the look but in orange to protect his Karma.

More to follow…..

February 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on February 9, 2010 by volpeadrian

Thank you all for the kind responses to the January Newsletter. For those of you who scoffed about it being a one-off, and you know who you are, here is the weather forecast for February down Pimlico way.

For me, January meant VAT and the year-end accounts. Oh joy. One of the benefits is to work out exactly what I have wasted my money on, apart from taxes, of course.

For those of you have asked, and the rest of you who couldn’t care less, my trip to Bologna went well. Emanuele, of restaurant Drogheria della Rosa, excelled in many ways, but the dish to end all was after I had explained that five courses twice a day every day was starting to get to me. The menu has not changed in all the time I have known him, five pasta dishes, five mains and four desserts, plus antipasti, nuts, tangerines and a rose for the ladies.

The first time you eat there it’s a little disconcerting because food and alcohol arrive in abundance without you ordering a thing. Not to fear, Emanuele will arrive to take your order, prosecco in hand, and he will at this point introduce to the odd special, which takes me back to the eggs fried in garlic and butter and covered in shaved white truffle. The diet starts soon.

He and dear Issy from About Thyme in Pimlico are such similar creatures and follow the same philosophy (is that all right Issy? Got to help push the locals).

With January over, gym memberships have swollen once more and you can hear the boasts of how muscle memory has kicked in and they’ll be ready for skiing/ beach/marathon, insert as applicable in no time. It does however appear that in most cases the muscles have developed Alzheimer’s.

February takes us on a collision course with cupid and St Valentine’s Day, so those of you who are posting cards to themselves again this year, put a bit of effort in and think of something original, and for God’s sake spend some money, chocolates, flowers, a tattoo or a romantic piercing. I’m thinking of you, Albert, your Highness.

To whoever sent the card I recently received; er, don’t bother again. The police are looking into it; with tongs.

But winter is still with us and it is always colder somewhere else, Krasnoyarsk in Central Russia has recently been as low as -43C, but I can’t imagine the grass will be any greener.

For those of you lucky enough to be skiing and also those thespians amongst you: break a leg.

I’m only bitter because any of you who have been following my travails with gout will know that it has made me a better person in so few ways, but thank you for your kind wishes and imaginative remedies. I now have it on the run after six months, but I will not be ready to return to my ‘80s dream of a mono ski and a fag bag until next winter.

The quip about the celebrity in last month’s newsletter struck a raw nerve with one individual and it probably serves me right for forwarding it to him. I’d love to quote the reply, but sadly once I have taken out the expletives, including several new ones I had to look up, it rendered the rest of his response rather worthless, which is what he is. Let’s see what that elicits! It’s an XKRed19 technique.

By the end of the month we will have received the initial deliveries of our new season merchandise, preparing us finally for Spring and Summer. The collection is based on a simple premise of the Emperor’s wardrobe of nothing for something, and less being more, if you like, a Ponzi scheme for clothes.

Soon we will see the first hairy feet of the season displayed in whatever Birkenstocks will passing off as footwear this year. However the barometer will be my friend, David, who will be back in his A&F shorts given the first pale shaft of sunlight to hit his even paler legs.

A “friend” said to me recently that on his next visit to London he would ask me to make him a new suit, because, and I quote: “he was one suit short of a week”. I had to explain that I’d known this for a while, but hadn’t felt I knew him well enough to comment on his general state of mind.

However confrontation isn’t always a bad thing, as anybody attempting to haggle has found out. Cheese the postman (no I’m not making it up), still hasn’t learnt that the price on the ticket is the price you are expected to pay. He explains that it is culture, I obviously need to explain that it is not mine in the politest fashion, after all it is my decision, and my decision is final. But my favourite is still the guy who whilst attempting to haggle with Jake about £10 found that his car had been ticketed.

This month I will be travelling to Milan, a city I have not visited for many years, and with good reason. The last time I was there I was involved in an incident in a bar, with two hookers and the hotel General Manager, Giovanni. Apparently my mistake was to go to bed too early…… I’ll leave you to work that one out.

Finally, attached below is a sign for a friend’s window. He is a butcher and I’m not sure if he is brave enough to display it! But hell, in for a penny, in for a pound of pork sausages.

Fit as a butcher’s dog

1: Support your local butcher; otherwise you’ll be left with Jamie Oliver’s under hung meat!

2: It isn’t going to be cheaper by the pound, kilo, inch or yard, and I’m not talking about Jamie.

3: Don’t be scared to ask for advice, it’s free, but it’s the only thing that is, so don’t ask.

4: Don’t smirk when you ask for a pound of sausage, it’s not clever, and don’t you think we might have heard that one before.

5: F U M n X? The answer is S, V F M n X. For goodness sake we’re a butcher’s.

6: Yes, of course it’s cold in here, are you being serious? Come and stand in the fridge for a while. After an hour or two we might be able to pass you off as edible……

7: Free range, means free range, and organic, means organic. It means it runs around and eats properly, do you? Can we make it any clearer?

8: If it’s tough as old boots you haven’t cooked it for long enough.

9: Check the eggs before you leave the shop, just to make sure the chicken isn’t still attached.

10: Do we pluck, draw and hang birds? Only if you really, really upset us.

11: Does that make us pheasant pluckers, I suppose so……..

12: Four legs or two, vegetarians are welcome.

13: Only because 12 doesn’t make a dozen……… But then you should know this by now.