A newsletter to herald the beginning of Autumn – September 2017

Posted on September 1, 2017 by volpeadrian

Beelzebub asked me to step forward and take up a new role as an influencer, which means I get to test lots of free things and write about them. The upside is that you know this means all the ‘millennials’ are going to hell.

My dream job, but, hang on, hadn’t I being do that all these years, isn’t this why you all want to come back as me; has my work gone unappreciated by the ‘Dark Lord’?

‘Ungrateful’ is the only printable word I can come up with, a ten letter word in a nine letter game.

For years I have been successfully leading you all astray, with a collection of the Emperor’s finest new clothes, and now ‘He’ says he wants me to influence you. Pah. May he burn in the fires of hell, along with his six brothers!

You want a piece of me, exactly mate you, and whose family?

Step outside the gates of the dark web and we’ll see who is boss.

Anyway they’ve been way too busy, the seven princes have infested the Premier League, Costa, Sanchez, Aguero, Ozil, Coutinho, Mahrez and Vardy have spread unrest and dissent amongst the ranks of the faithful.

Several of them have got their fingers trapped in the transfer window as it closed, that’s got to hurt! They’ll now all be sulking around for the next 4 months blowing on them until the portal opens once more, meanwhile their harbingers are wandering round with begging bowls the size of the dish at the Arecibo Observatory, which just so happens to be the size of 30 football pitches.

Arsene Wenger has once more shown he is suffering from ‘Martyr Complex’, ‘the belief that as a martyr he has been singled out for persecution because of exceptional ability or integrity’! My good friend Tony describes football as theatre for the working class, he’s so existential.com.

Along with the new football season we have heralded in autumn, cooler nights, the harvest, SAD lamps, it won’t be good enough to set your smartphone screen to the highest setting, pumpkins, and Tressemay might be caught clod hopping through fields of wheat, searching for a five bar gate.

Behind her trying to resolve the revolving Brexit negotiations, the five have hopped over a stile and are off to Smuggler’s Top via Castaway Hill. Giggling and squabbling, DD, BJ, Foxy, Pretty P and Amber with her ruddy complexion have gone off in search of the drinks cabinet and lashings of ginger bear, or more likely pink gin.

Playa del Muro

Anyways, back to my role as an influencer. As you well know I have been going to Ibiza for an age, please don’t ask it’s not polite, but this year I have been sunning myself on Mallorca, momentarily waiting for someone to let some of the air out of Ibiza’s tyres, before it really does turn into the Las Vegas of Europe. I stayed in two beautiful family run small hotels, in both the service and food were impeccable and with fantastic pools:

http://www.canmoio.com/en/

Can Moio

and

http://hortdecasmisser.com/

Driverless cars – The future

Cata at Can Moio and Cristina at Hort de cas Misser were both wonderful hosts, and both places offer very different rural environments.

Nature Reserve at Playa del Muro

I am about to be controversial, but as an influenza I think those big ole bushy beards are about to catch a cold. I know; I know you’ll say I’ve had it in for them all along, but by next summer everyone will have chins more like Peter Perfect.

Have I turned into a news junkie, I can feel a rising panic, life on earth is to be threatened by a shower of comets and meteors caused by the beautiful Gisele 710. How could something with such a balletic name threaten our lovely planet, perhaps by an act of love she will free us from the grasp of this evil and Albrecht will defend us from the Wilis with his mighty sword… Sorry stopped to breathe into a paper bag for a moment… I was hyperspacing!

Phew, finally read the article to the end, it’s OK apparently it’s not going to happen for another 1.3 million years and by then I’ll be ready retire anyway, I’m sure skin treatments will have moved on and I won’t need to put my face on the ironing board.

There’s a good chance by then that Donald may have tripped over the end of his long red tie and stumbled onto the nuclear button, or Lil’ Kim may have nuked the bloke who cuts his hair, it’s a work of art according to my good friend Raoul, who well versed in these things. By all accounts the bowl they cut round to get this shape from can only be found deep in the Amazon and it is used to prepare hallucinogenic compounds, however it seems it is available for Prime delivery!!

A panorama what a surprise and the church I found there.

Looking over Pollenca

Church up there

May’s Newsletter – The Mugslinger – sic.

Posted on May 3, 2017 by volpeadrian

Silence is golden apparently, or it was.

Once you have waded through my latest dirge, you will be rewarded with photos of some new stock, but go on give my eminent tome a go!

I have returned, refreshed, reinvigorated, replicated and 3D printed. I also wanted a hologram, but was told I couldn’t be in two places at the same time.

What do they know, I’ve been doing it for years; my special powers are a cross between Captain Scarlet and the Scarlet Pimpernel! The walking through doors was just an appetiser.

Seafood

And although technically not in the same place at the same time I have been both in Champagne and Arcachon this month.

The visit to Champagne involved tours of Champagne Vadin-Plateau, Nicolas Maillart, the fabulous Henri Giraud and Ruinart.

Now for a bit of promotion! I spent a day in the company of Eric Martin from La Vigne ru Roy on a private tour. Great fun and hugely knowledgeable, and I can’t recommend Eric highly enough, a brilliant way to enjoy Champagne from inside and outside the glass!

http://www.lavigneduroy.com

Ruinart – Stairway to Heaven

Ruinart – Magnum Cellars

Henri Giraud – Champagne made in an Amphora

I have climbed and walked the Dune de Pylar in bracing conditions. I had hoped to feel like Lawrence of Arabia, but ended up feeling more Scott of the Antarctica!

PLUG – I was kept dry by my fabulous Field Jacket…only 7 left!

Dune du Pylar

So Tresamme has set the hair running.

She has her rollers in, this lady’s not for turning… She has curling tongs, rather than straighteners.

Will she add a blue rinse before the big Day? May becomes June, a rose by any other name would be as fragrant.

Politics these days is all about the hair, The Donald, Lil Kim and Boris Godunov are all making a topiary statement worthy of a place on the fourth plinth. It’s a thumb in a digital world.

Jeremy Corbin is akin to an angry garden gnome that has found a voice, apparently the Labour front bench are all wearing t-shirts with ‘I’m with Mr Grumpy’ printed on the front. Unfortunately I can’t make out what is printed on the back… OMG is that ‘I Puffi’, which just happens to be Italian for The Smurfs!

Did Herr Juncker employ a food taster at that fractious dinner or did he just skip the amuse bouche? Did their eyes meet in time honoured fashion over the toast? Theresa has well-hidden talents, first she’s guiding Donald by the hand down a slippery slope; next she is fixing her steely gaze on Juncker over the lip of a goblet. There is many a slip between cup and lip!

Tough Theresa is dealing with her split ends and the unruly mop that is that upstart Johnson; he’s hoping to be head boy after prefecting (sic.) his behaviour, but has admitted that he has more chance of being re-incarnated as an olive than coming back as me!

I love the idea of the tittle tattle, the jockeying for position, like being back in the classroom, telling tales to mistress hoping to be chastised; good cop, bad cop, another 10,000 of them.

Diane has spent that Corporation Tax windfall three times over. Do I hear a clamour for more maths teachers on the street, one on every corner!

But let’s get straight to the crux of the matter, the core of the Brexit issue, the one everyone refuses to confront, the elephant in the birdcage. Those of you not interested in football wander off and make a nettle tea, those who like my style and prose, hang on my every word like a canary in a coal mine.

No one has spoken of the effect of Brexit on the Premier League. Are the players and managers going to be given special dispensations so they can stay?

Bournemouth have fielded more English players for more minutes than any other team in the Premier League this season, which would mean the team from the English Riviera would turn the Premiership into a passeggiata.

Then all the ‘jolly foreigners’ (thank you Boris, please stop interjecting) would have to prove their worth, and just how many of these the primping prima donnas would make it on merit? Acting, histrionics and throwing themselves to the floor are more Royal Shakespeare than Leyton Orient. As my friend Tony would say ‘It is theatre for the working man!’

They could all be banished beyond the pines.

My own coterie of staff are starting to get a little edgy, Raoul my ‘Epilation Technician’ as he now wishes to be called is talking to himself more often than usual and removed most of my left eyebrow whilst taking a selfie for his new Irish passport.

So I am now left looking no more odd than usual!

Finally I shall finish by promoting an event which as many of possible of you should take part in. If you own an Italian bicycle, motorcycle of car it will be the place to be!

The Best of Italy Race takes place on 16^th September 2017

www.bestofitalyrace.com

Information: info@bestofitalyrace.com

Ferris Wheel’s Day Off

Arcachon by night

Newsletter – Cast Off – July 2016

Posted on July 22, 2016 by volpeadrian

Please read to the end there will be some news that some of you may have been waiting for!

I have moved the information up the Newsletter as one or two of you were complaining that you were nodding off before the end!

+STOP PRESS+

The VOLPE Sale will start with previews from Wednesday 27th July 2016.

Right, so on with the important stuff.

So as the dust settles, tumbleweed rolls past the door.

A hosepipe ban is only hours away, we are basking in only the 4^th day this year of over 25C, and according to Jake the year is nearly over.

They are frying eggs on the pavement… Easy-over there!

My mobile occasionally rings, I say occasionally.

When it isn’t a wrong number (stalkers from Italy), or a personal injury claim (of which I have several running at the moment, predominantly for my hurt feelings), it has been Theresa asking me to pop round and fix a cabinet, Jeremy to break up a fight in the school playground, Neptune to make him a new trident, or the FA ask for advice on how to dig a hole and then fill it in again, and again, and again.

Then there is the thud at the front door, do I dare to dream? Hollywood, a screenplay, a biopic, who would play me? I’d have to forget anyone who I ‘may’ have insulted through the magic that is this Newsletter, but as they are not named, they wouldn’t know.

The ‘D’ list definitely not, he’s done way too much Panto, and I don’t dress like Danny La Rue. Oh yes you do, Oh no I don’t. Stop!

Then there’s that other chap who got really hot and bothered by the photos of me in red Lycra. Given his physique, my vision of the romantic scenes would be of a wardrobe falling on someone, with the key still in, more cabinetmaker, than locksmith.

So it’s a case of who’s not working at the moment, and I must say it’s a bit of a struggle, as we have sadly lost a couple of candidates this year, we could have had me playing Prince, being me, but that’s just too weird even for me.

There are the usual suspects; Ryan Gosling, Ethan Hawke, Russell Crow or Jack Sparrow, even an avatar, but then I might get mistaken for a Pokemon. Go damn spot, go I say! Yet, who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him. I can hear Shakespeare a spinnin’, Macbeth versus Pokemon. “Lay on Macduff, and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold enough’!”

Ah! ‘Tempus Fugit’.

The maelstrom of political intrigue is threatening to engulf the holidays of our illustrious leaders and we are surrounded by those whose tousled locks are the stuff of legend.

Our Foreign Secretary who looks like he has been pulled through a hedge fund backwards following Brexit, The Donald whose hair is so swept over that there may be surfers trapped in there, and Uncle Bill whose split ends resulted in the most expensive haircut of all time, so spare thought as we are drawn towards le petit “Francois” who is clearly paying by instalments!

Will he be wearing a bathing cap to the beach this year, and what will be the repercussions for his coiffeur? After being paid €10,000 a month to deal with wee Franky’s helmet hair, how on earth will he banish those stray forehead tan lines and constant smell of rubber?

So whatever we feel about the gravy train, it will be followed by one carrying Hollandaise!

I’ve done a little more travelling. Aha! I hear you all exclaim at once, we were wondering how long it would take you to get there! I didn’t want to seem predictable and just rush in without a little foreplay.

I was back in Ibiza for an unveiling, well, less of an unveiling and more for a casting off. Neil had broken his wrist a month ago and finally the cast was removed. Finally God created man, and for those of you who thought I had yet more tattoos, this photo is of Neil’s hand!

Keep reading to the end!

And God created man

And the man’s genius is starting to head in a new direction.

Mosaic

Limited edition, hand engraved dials for a Milgauss.

We shared a long lunch under the umbrellas of the marina and on the wander back to town I spotted a Ferrari 458 hidden under a bleached cover, sheltering from the sun.

Undercover

On the way to the airport and Rome for a little work, I stopped at Salinas for this.

Salinas

I spent the evening in Rome with Max and his family, at the restaurant Il Moro with the owners Stefania and Simone.

Still one of my favourite places in the world to eat, and eat we did, to a standstill, until I could not eat another thing and just sit and watch the sun go down!

Big Bang

Bored Games

Posted on October 28, 2014 by volpeadrian

So I was bored on a flight, and this shows just how quickly I can come up with this drivel.

It’s an old favourite, much like me. However I think now is the time to resurrect it; unlike me, who should be left to fester.

A small reminder of the weird and wonderful world that exists inside my head.

For years I have entertained myself and friends on holiday with a game of “What shoes would they really wear?”

This is a game where we try to imagine the preferred footwear of the scantily dressed people around the pool whilst on holiday. It is inspired by Carl Lewis wearing a pair of red stilettos, and after a couple of drinks it can get very, very silly.

This game is however a far more sinister one, and inspired by recent events.

So here are 10 nightmare scenarios of people and the things they might say, stood at the end of your bed, hopefully not naked, and not saying they are ready for fun!

Not in order of preference.

1: Jeffrey Archer – “Now I remember what the brown envelope was for!”

2: Pete Burns – “Do you think my lips look big in this?”

3: Beyonce – “You should have put a ring on it.”

4: Boris Johnson – “Do you like our new contactless payment system?”

5: Two in one; Jocelyn Wildenstein wearing a Michael Jackson mask or Michael wearing a Jocelyn mask. – “Billy Jean is not my son.”

6: Vladimir Putin – “Have you noticed the remarkable likeness of this object to my natural head?”

But to be honest the mere fact that Vlad the impaler is stood at the end of your bed holding anything would be scary enough.

7: Gordon Ramsay: “Welcome to my new series of bedroom nightmares and tonight we’ll be sprinkling everything with chillies.”

The other game to play, is a sweepstake whilst watching a Gordon Ramsay programme and betting how long it is before he whips his shirt off.

8: Dave Cameron: “This is how we played a game of ‘hide and seek’ at Eton.”

9: Dolly the sheep, Dolly the sheep, Dolly the sheep, Dolly the sheep, Dolly the Sheep…… You get the idea – “behhhh!”

10: Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh: “X marks the spot.”

And one for luck.

11: Dear Silvio – Are you wearing my hairpiece?

Luckily for you, I have omitted those involving Carol Vorderman, Delia Smith, Luis Suarez, the Angry Birds, The TellyTubbies and Pepper Pig!

After 10 horror stories a couple of happy memories that will have more than likely have involved the demon drink.

And I have avoided the obvious, which would be waking on a boat in Ibiza, in the shadow of Es Vedra, surrounded by; well, Bowfinger knows!

1: Jeremy King who would clearly be impeccably dressed as always.

Adam and I would be asleep on separate banquets in The Wolseley. Having fallen asleep following an extremely long evening of excellent food and fine wine. The girls would have left us to our own devices and gone off clubbing.

The staff will have taken pity on us and as we slept off dinner, covered us with linen tablecloths and propped our heads up on empty champagne bottles. We would be woken by the smell of a Wolseley full English breakfast and a restorative glass of champagne.

2: The Green Parrot in Green Park – perched on my big toe. I am dressed in the Emperor’s new clothes, warmed by the rays of the sun and the morning dew on my back. Another victim of a night on the Absinthe, and the Emerald Fairy, I stroll across the park towards The Wolseley and a handmaiden feeds me what looks like a peeled grape and hands me a soft towelling robe to preserve my modesty and Marie’s blushes.

The Perfect Night Out – Boris, are 24 hour tubes what you really want?

Posted on October 18, 2014 by volpeadrian

It all began so well; such promise. London is a vibrant, energetic city and it was drawing its last warming breaths before the onset of winter on a glorious, balmy, late summer evening as I walked across St James Park.

I mean blimey; it is the middle of October, and before you ask I reiterate, I am not following the GoSober edict.

I wander up onto Piccadilly, and climb into the XK120, picture of Margaret (Thatcher) on the dashboard and I gun it towards Green Park, reaching 140mph before a gentleman in a high–visibility jacket steps into the middle of the highway to wave me over.

Autograph hunters are everywhere these days and now, I’m going to be late to get to BAFTA.

Not happy with a signature, I have to walk along an imaginary line in the yellow brick road, dissatisfied; he asks me to cross his palm with silver and then makes me blow into a bag. The last thing I want is for this sample to turn up on ebay. My genes are a rare and precious thing and I’ve been saving myself for Maggie, well I was; until that night with entire Kardashian family. Since then it has been a never ending spiral into debauchery; me the Third Duke of Wimbourn, alone at 3 am in the Victoria Secret shop on Bond Street, with my reputation for Lycra!

Clearly that was after Peter Bradshaw, after Alan Clarke.

Margaret Thatcher

Anyway I put that in to inject a little heroine, I mean humour into the piece.

I was going to BAFTA for dinner and a film. The evening was hosted by Rankin the fashion photographer. BAFTA has a large cinema tucked away at the back of Piccadilly. Rankin gave a very touching speech before the film, and we settled down to watch Cinema Paradiso. It is a lovely, sentimental film, a snapshot of life in Sicily, one of my favourites as it seemed to be for nearly everyone else there.

This was followed by an Italian themed dinner produced by Anton the marvellous BAFTA chef.

The tables were a free for all and by chance I sat next to a cycling dentist from Pimlico. No, he doesn’t tie a length of string to a loose tooth and cycle away. London is such a small city. We chatted for ages about bicycles; he also took part in the Prudential ride, and he too has eventually dried out.

Dinner ended with a Limoncello…….. Shouldn’t it always?

Clearly the night was young, so Dr T and I wandered to share a glass of wine with Vash. He really is such a great host. The wine flowed and then hen party in one of the alcoves started an impromptu karaoke……

I took this as a sign to leave and try to an order a taxi. Addison Lee, no joy; Uber, surge pricing; Black cabs, nowhere to be seen. The decision was made, could we make the last tube? We head for Leicester Square, it’s now 00.30, and the last train is imminent. Down the escalator to the platform, fingers crossed; the sign says Cockfosters 3 minutes.

Those of you who regularly use the tube late at night will know the dread of reading this. Will you, or will you not fall asleep and wake at Cockfosters. I remember a friend telling me that he had fallen asleep, drunk on the tube home one night only to be woken by someone rhythmically and violently kicking him in the shins.

He woke with a jolt to see, not Vinnie Jones, but his wife standing over him, berating him about the embarrassment of finding him in this state in front of a group of total strangers. I think a better revenge would have been to tie his shoelaces together and light the blue touch paper.

Sorry, this is turning into a bit of a shaggy dog story, and with our mayor looking as he does; he now enters stage right. Boris steps out from behind the curtain; dressed as Ulysees, Dave Cameron’s Ghost of Christmas Future and he’s in bed with Bob Crachit and the turkey!

BJ has muted the fact that the tube should run 24 hours, in order that we will no longer wake up in Cockfosters or Epping, Upminster or Uxbridge and not be able to catch the next tube home.

Last night we alighted at Caledonian Road, where there is a lift to take us to the surface.

About 15 of us formed an orderly queue, and we entered the lift with a member of TFL staff who was clearing the platform of stragglers, and so began the slow ascent to the summit.

After a few moments the vertical motion stopped in a way that made you think, that this is not a pause created by Harold ………..Pinter.

The poor chap from TFL, was this his worst nightmare? He knew the lift was going nowhere, and slowly one by one we turned and looked at him.

Armed with a walkie-talkie, he began to contact Houston. Well OK, not Houston, someone upstairs, no not that far upstairs, we hadn’t got violent; yet!

Houston replied that there was a problem with the power and engineers would need to be called.

Step by step, we all became aware that we were going to be here for a very long time.

It was now 00.45. There was no mobile signal unless you stood right next to the door, turned around three times, stood on tiptoe and held you phone as high as possible in the top left hand corner. See photo below.

The lift engineers were summoned, from who knows where? We had no ETA, and the temperature began to rise, thoughts of the movie ‘Devil’ started to enter everyone’s mind.

Fortunately we were a jolly bunch, no-one seemed to be suffering from claustrophobia, there was only one poor guy who had done too much whatever, and was sitting rocking gently in a corner.

We kept expecting Boris to make a famous Zip Line entrance, but as time progressed and we got to know each other, it became clear that everyone was quite normal, apart from me. There was a whip round to see what supplies we had between us. A bottle of beer, a bottle of wine, a couple of bottles of water, a large of slice of plum cake, e-cigarette and a jar of Nutella!

This was likely to only last about 10 minutes.

I was beginning to hallucinate that I was Steve Tyler, and we were headed for Love in an Elevator, “Good Morning Mr Tyler, going down?” and that was my kind of elevator music.

Now an hour in and the mood was good. Houston still couldn’t tell us when engineers from the International Space Station would arrive to assist in our teleportation from our predicament, and to this point nobody had mentioned football. The Nutella had done the rounds, but it was only a small jar.

One of the guys had managed to get a tweet out, and thankfully nothing worse than that. It was now really hot and the ventilation was failing.

Just as the topic of conversation turned to football, someone with a large handle started to crank the lift down. It took a while but we reached the bottom of the shaft, however we were not free yet. No sooner had we touched bottom than we slowly started to rise once again, as if on some slow motion bungee chord. Would there be enough spring on it to get us back to the top?

Slowly out of the window in the lift, I thought I could see earth, the continents, oceans, cloud systems, the door burst open and we were confronted by TFL staff, engineers, firemen and paramedics.

We had been trapped for 1hour 47 minutes; longer than some, not as long as others, psychologically unaffected by the experience.

So my word of warning to Boris is, sort the systems out.

This was an appallingly slow reaction to a situation, which although not an emergency and didn’t involve injury or a large degree of stress, was unpleasant and poorly handled.

24 hour tube service? Only if it works 24 hours.

The Lift Crew

On a lighter note, Jake will be Elfing himself this Christmas, will you? Get the App.

April 2012 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on April 30, 2012 by volpeadrian

So just when I thought I would put pen to paper in the old fashioned way, the heavens opened, washed away my notes, in the dog ate my homework way. Then they opened again, and again. Oh, I’m fed up with this. First chance I get I’m off abroad. You know me, any excuse. These tired old bones are fed up with the drought, goodness it has to be monsoon season somewhere. At least I could squirrel away my millions in an offshore haven, where the negative interest alone would fund a small country.

Many of you have asked how we have survived the downturn. My answer is always to throw caution to the winds and buy, buy, buy. Those of you who have been persuaded to purchase the pink cashmere overcoats will know they were the must have item for this season, do you not read the fashion supplements? It’s all colour, colour, colour here. Even when the outlook is Prada, Prada, Prada. Apologies, black, black, black, you know this season Adrian will be mainly wearing, I’ll leave you to guess, but it will include a tan, and as yet I haven’t taken the stripper heels off. Nick (Sarkozy) likes the way they make my legs look. Teamed with lycra and lurex, and a splash of silicone, nobody would know me.

Anyway, dear Silvio continues to keep us entertained; really, nuns taking their clothes off, cliché, cliché, cliché. I had hoped he would have shown a little more imagination, perhaps an imp tossing competition, no not what you think, but how far could we throw M Sarkozy and the diminutive chap from Naples? Obviously I can get away with this joke, as I too am of restricted height. Well they say the grass is always greener; now, if I could just only I could see over the fence!

Perhaps those heels of mine will help, or I know: “Oi, Silvio! Can I sit on your shoulders?” On second thoughts, that won’t make any difference, so much for standing on the shoulders of giants!

The mayoral election will soon be upon us. Boris has been swearing (plus ca change), Kkken has been crying and Brian; well wasn’t he a snail in the Magic Roundabout? They are all equally impressive; goodness it’s going to be a tough choice. I shall think long and hard before doing my duty. Who knows someone must be capable of ticking all the boxes. Then thoughts turn to me, me and me……Hmmm next time perhaps?

One amongst you has spent 60 hours flying in the last 6 days, and for a change it wasn’t Sam. Do I hear any increase on this? Sunil this doesn’t mean you, or you Andre, your chosen professions preclude you from this game! And no Mark, not you either, you are still banned, and freebees are not allowed. One Saturday after drinking half a bottle of me best Napoleon, Mark explained where I was going wrong in life, and of course he was right, but then there weren’t 5 of us in the bed at the time. Who said that in these difficult times, hedonism was dead? Of course it’s not, it was just having a siesta.

Now, I like to think I have skin like a rhino, and a gsoh, unlike a couple of people who had scant regard for last month’s newsletter. Shame on you, you really should know better, but then you won’t because you haven’t got this months. I should explain, they are known as “jokes” and “anecdotes”, much of which I direct at myself, and as you have not done anything remotely amusing, obviously these were not directed at you. So you are barred and just in case you are reading someone else’s copy, you are still barred, even if your future does involve something that people may laugh at on Youtube. No, don’t go searching for it you won’t find it, because I haven’t used your real name.

And, no, I haven’t taken it personally, whatever would make you think that?

Joke of the week, or as it shall be known. “It made Jake laugh”.

Archaeologists digging in a pyramid in Egypt, have found a mummy covered in chocolate and hazelnuts. Experts believe it could be Pharaoh Rocher.

There was another we both laughed at, but it definitely wouldn’t make it through the spam filters. However, if you want to look it up, it involves steroids and a female body builder. Once again, me, me and me.

February 2012 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on February 29, 2012 by volpeadrian

Some of you appear a little bemused by the newsletters. In conversations recently, one or two of you have expressed concern over my well-being, and the fact that you don’t have a clue what the heck I am going on about. Has it crossed your mind, that I may not have a clue either?

But let me explain. In the universe where I live, the sky is always blue, the sea is always warm, the grass is never greener, snow doesn’t go slushy, Boris Johnson is London Mayor, Nick Sarkozy is 6’2” and baby sweet corn is banned. Why? Well for some people it is clowns, for me it is baby sweet corn, cracks in the pavement, and hairs on the palms of my hand. The list doesn’t stop there, but I can see that one or two of you at the back are starting to drop off.

Why do I think like this? Well, on a Friday evening when the temperature was -5C and the wind chill made it feel like -15C, I met Duran (underwear model). He was wearing shorts and rollerblades! OK he had a t-shirt on, for a change. No wonder I am, what I am.

As for poor M. Sarkozy, he has been getting some stick for spending 10K a day on food. Somehow I don’t think he’ll be eating baby sweet corn. Anyway back to the 10K per day. When I sit down to supper with Nick and Carla, they generally stump a week’s worth of cash on the wine alone. She and I may play footsie under the table, whilst she feeds me oysters. Sorry, did I just think that? Or did I really put pen to paper? It couldn’t be Nick’s feet, but I don’t think his legs are long enough, and the invite always say “no heels”, so what am I to wear? I’d taken up pole dancing to keep fit and I thought the stripper heels would be just perfect.

Sam is still living the life. This visit was sans famille, just between Mumbai, Dubai and goodbye. Apparently he’s off to Mars next year, lucky fellow, there and back in a weekend on Airmiles by all accounts. Let’s just hope he takes the family, if they will let the kids out of school.

Neil is in Norway staring at the Aurora Borealis. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was lying on his back in his flat in Ibiza surrounded by mushroom stalks. But photos of him exist outside Noma in Copenhagen, and he did go inside and eat with Eugene.

Greg, the cougar magnate, has been disciplined for sleeping overnight in the office after a particularly heavy session. I should hope so too. If the gutter is good enough for me, then it should be for him. No good falling asleep with your head on the keyboard. You’ll probably find when you wake up you’ve cost your employers several billion dollars. Anyway, he wanted me to get a table at The Wolseley for Valentines, then he didn’t, then he did, then he didn’t. Oh come on, I’ve got a newsletter to write.

On the quiet, The Wolseley has become my dead letter drop. I have a great friend in Marie, who I often see at breakfast. She doesn’t have an email or do the internet, so I supply her regularly with envelopes stuffed with the newsletter, usually via Jason or Shirley. They can then discreetly pass on the mighty tome. I am awaiting her feedback, but as she clearly thinks I’m mad already, I don’t think anything I have written will change her mind.

Jason may be moving on to greater things. He has intimated that I may have to learn an entirely new set of social skills to communicate with his replacement. Suddenly I am racked with self-doubt I think I may be too old to change. Surgery can only alter so much it may take years of therapy to cope with this.

But, I suppose this is what you’ve really been waiting for. The back pages, and Don Fabio and the saga of the invisible man ‘aka’ ‘Arry. Now I don’t care what you might think, but I feel sorry for Don Fabio. At least he has been less colourful than some of his predecessors. Who can forget Mr Burns with Nancy, Ulrika et al, and Dutch my akshent ish schlipping. Perhaps Mourinho will throw his hat in the ring, buying a house in London. He’s never been known to play to the media, ever.

Don Fabio had a thankless task trying to marshal 11 hopeless narcissists into a team, with their ridiculous rivalries, quiffy hair and diamond jewellery. Suddenly I reminded of, me, me and me. I guess trying to manage eleven of me would prove too much for anyone. Fortunately no more than three of my personalities manifest themselves at any one time.

Stop Press: Big Mick has gone. I had told Jake to take the case off and leave it off, but no. Between games he’d put it back. It’s like England having a part time manager. In the end, I think it jinxed Mick. He’ll never forgive me for that one! But he has been on Twitter berating journalists about getting God the sack. However he is starting to accept the interim replacement. Thank goodness he keeps muttering, not Steve Bruce.