June 2017 – A Newsletter of Sorts

Let’s begin with a little bit of business.

We are fast approaching Ferragosto where the whole of Italy disappears off like our politicians.

This means that our workrooms are also partly closed. Times are a changing and it is not as bad as years gone by, we can still make garments, it just takes a week or two longer. Somehow it has dawned on them that not everyone wants to take their holiday in August.

Newsletter:

Phew! What a scorcher.

Coffee consumption has doubled since 1980, I know mine has. I know, I know, I don’t look old enough. It’ll be all the coffee!

But the world of coffee is in turmoil, it is the third year in a row that consumption has exceeded production and the amount of land suitable for growing coffee is falling. Apparently this will reduce the quality of the coffee and the amount available. Should we blame gorgeous George for making coffee too ‘sexy’?

The numerous large coffee chains may reduce the number of beans in a cup to half a bean, and we will be grateful for it.

Luckily Theresa in her youth didn’t run through fields of Arabica, decimating the crop still further, she restricted her abandon for fields of wheat, creating crap circles and gluten intolerance.

At least we now know the answer to one of the world’s great mysteries, if only we could solve Fermat’s last theorem! What do you mean, we have! Damn that only leaves the riddle of the Pyramids…

You know when you’ve been warned not to do something, but you plough ahead relentlessly, Theresa had a 50/50 chance; and in her mind’s eye she would have changed her mind, but she went ahead and stuck with her original choice anyway.

Statistically you are likely to be more successful, having changed your mind, to follow that through rather than stick. Pay heed Theresa you were warned!

Boris is round the back of the bike sheds at school, puffing happily on a cigar called Titus Andronicus. He, Govesie, Huntie and Double D, are donning wet suits, rolling balls of tissue, and barrelling out their straws. PMQ’s look as if they going to return to the ribald times of the Bullingdon Club.

Clad in their figure hugging, neoprene suits, they will snipe from the safety of deep water, like fourskin divers, sniggering at their endeavours.

The Opposition bench will be no better. JC will be living the ‘Thug Life’, his chest puffed out like a Great Tit, John McDonell toying with the balls of his abacus and a logarithmic ruler, trying to formulate the budget.

Hammers across the way uses a more modern method, the latest Sinclair Scientific calculator, pocket sized and great for those tricky little Brexit deals, it works off the ancient witchcraft known as ‘Reverse Polish Notation’.

Politics has returned to the Westminster village. But, what do I hear you screech in unison? They’re off on a Parliamentary recess.

The Government called a game of Russian Roulette, shot their little toe off and dallied around spending £130 million going to the country. Once again monumentally messing up an election/referendum they decide to slink off for the summer. So from the 20th July, the ‘Dream Team’ will be in charge.

I have given up re-writing parts of this! After the sixth draft, and the removal of references to Trotsky, Stalin, Mao, Thatcher, and at one point 46 expletives, I will build a pontoon bridge and move on!

At least we are without The Donald. He exists in the Fifth Dimension, the Twitter-sphere, in the Twilight Zone where the edge of the Flat Earth meets the sky. The Oval Office is his Pangea, his family gazelles and antelopes. He is the hyena, the jackal in the pack. No, I don’t where I’m going with this either; suffice to say I’m jet lagged, after spending weeks circumnavigating the earth. High on a mixture of sleeping tablets, Melatonin, Rhodiola Rosea and champagne, my thumbs are a blur.

Clearly I haven’t insulted Donald enough, as he let me in all so briefly, under the radar so to speak. I even travelled on Raoul’s passport by mistake! Not that I pass for a transgender, bald Brazilian (isn’t that the point?) with suspect facial hair…. Think Azis!

The regularity of these tomes has been a cause of mild concern in one or two of you. However, even by my standards I have been travelling a great deal, and unlikely to stop in the near future, and before anyone asks, not a single trip has been to Ibiza!

I sought to have my future explained to me in a reading of my tea leaves in Hong Kong.

“A panda walks into a restaurant, sits down and orders a sandwich. After he finishes eating the sandwich, the panda pulls out a gun and shoots the waiter, and then stands up to go. “Hey!” shouts the manager. “Where are you going? You just shot my waiter and you didn’t pay for your sandwich!”

The panda yells back at the manager, “Hey man, I am a PANDA! Look it up!”

The manager opens his dictionary and sees the following definition for panda: “A tree-dwelling marsupial of Asian origin, characterised by distinct black and white colouring. Eats shoots and leaves.”

I will blame Darren!

Currently, I am writing this on an inflatable flamingo in the middle of the Bristol Channel, basking in Mediterranean heat and floating gently towards Hinkley Point. The umbrella in my cocktail is acting as my dongle, the water around me is about the same colour as my drink, which is worrying no matter which way round you look at it! I had decided to spend a few days in the presence of my mother.

She is on tip-top form and we once again enjoyed a lovely meal at Reeves in Dunster.

https://www.reevesrestaurantdunster.co.uk/

I shall leave with a couple of photos, one a photo of the largest wedding cake I have ever seen. We made the groom his suit in an unlined wool and mohair blend to cope with the Florentine heat, the bride is the daughter of a great friend, my very best wishes to the happy couple, Riccardo and Carlotta, my apologies for not being there.

And a panorama, because everyone loves a panorama. These are the Red Rocks on Hvar.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 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.

FLy

Fly

Spray

Spray

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!

Sunset

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.