September 2012 – Volpe Newsletter

What a busy month you have all had. It looks like things are back to normal.

My friend Mark had a birthday. The party, or should I say ensuing bender lasted for several days, and only ended when he remembered he should be working. However sleep deprivation has sharpened his reflexes, and on his way to work, he only fell out of the taxi rather than falling in. He is still not welcomed by British Airways.

Talking of birthdays, Sam had one and Jake is having his. If you are reading this on Sunday the 30th, then big up for Jake as he is 30 today, try not to choke on the Frosties. As an early adopter he has his hands on the new iPhone 5. However he is concerned about the size of his sim. Jake just how old are you? Oh yes, I forgot 30.

I shan’t mention the football to him, it’s not going well, but the way they are going, he’ll be playing for them next season, and then I really won’t get any work out of him on a Saturday afternoon.

This week I spent a day in Ibiza.  To cut a long story short…. No let’s not, I have a newsletter to fill, and I had an insistent customer who is desperate to have his shoes tattooed (his name is Charlie, how Ibiza is that?). As I had something I needed to do with Neil, and also to fit a customer for a couple of suits, I took the opportunity. The suits will be particularly sparkly, just the things for spinning the discs at Pacha or Amnesia. Now where was I, I’d forgotten.

Neil’s Leg

And then there was of course Neil’s special cargo, his skulls. I found these while I was poking around a flea market in Florence. His studio is full of strange objects stripped back to bare bones: monkeys, cats and lots and lots of skulls. I always expect to see him sitting in a corner running a gnarled nail over an old skull grinning manically into the middle distance. But then that’s his normal demeanour. Oh stop it Neil you’re freaking me out! His favourite piece of this delivery was an eagle skull which I am sure he will put to good use scaring off the pigeons.

I left London on Monday night with Easyjet and arrived at 1am. Neil and I went out for a drink and we didn’t arrive home until 6am. I can still do Ibeefa with the best of them. The night was been spent in the company of a man called Eugene and a couple of others, who were there for 5 days and had no intention of sleeping. However as I was breakfasting with Neil at 11am, Eugene appeared looking rather lost, not sure where the other two had got to, saying he wasn’t feeling so good, and about as pale as Michael’s cadaverous feet. It was taking its toll.

When I returned to Neil’s studio I met a very good customer of mine, who was with Neil for a marathon tattoo session, 6 tattoos in 7 hours. Oh, how I felt his pain.

I returned to the UK at 5am the following morning, after another Easyjet delay. No beach, no clubs and who says my life is fun…..

As I have mentioned my friend Michael, I should remind you of his trip to Naples and his adventures with male fragrance (see previous editions of these epic meanderings). His current “fave” is by Tom Ford, and called “Auld Wood”. Is someone having a laugh? Obviously not Michael, who hates the thought that he might be considered to be or to have old wood, but I know his bark is worse than his bite.

Well the joke wasn’t that bad!

The wedding of the year took place last week, and I was invited. A very beautiful, simple and elegant affair, but then the men were all dressed by me. Yes, you got it, forget the bride, it’s all about me, me, me. But she did look stunning.

Then on Sunday, the groom took his new wife on one of the most clement days this year, to White Hart Lane, to see the mighty Spurs defeat QPR. Yes, I know, I was slightly puzzled as to why? However he is a fanatic, and the wife, she will have to get used to it. Perhaps if she doesn’t enjoy it, she could buy the club, because she can, appoint AVB, and just wait for it all to implode. What do you mean that’s already happened? Now I’m not a Spur’s supporter and in fact I don’t support anyone (apart from Jake after yet another defeat), but I rather enjoyed the whole experience. My highlight was to have my photo taken with a couple of former Spurs players, Martin Peters and Pat Jennings. Now if only I was old enough to remember them. I was wondering if they had doubles that do the same thing at Arsenal and West Ham.

Martin Peters and Pat Jennings

If so could I get one to replace me, whilst I sail around the world.

Talking of which, Jason is headed for San Francisco, for yet another holiday. Does he ever work? I hear you all ask. Sorry Jason, have you been away?

Recently I have struck up a friendship with a chap. He is doing what can only be described as a “deal”. I can’t say what it is, but it’s legit’, although he and the other characters involved are doing their best to make it appear, otherwise. Clandestine meetings at Claridges or the Hotel Metropole in Monaco, lots of very large gentleman in tight suits, who don’t look like they are just there for show. Who might know how to dangle you out of a hotel window to see the colour of your money as it floats gently in the breeze towards the hotel pool. It’s beginning to resemble a Guy Ritchie movie, and my friend, who is also a well-built chap, is now known as “Danish”. It’s all in the name after all we had the character “Turkish” in Snatch.

Following last month’s newsletter, my friend phoned me from Tanzania to explain his spear was really quite impressive, and as I started to discuss this with him, he cut the conversation short, explaining this call was costing him 7 pounds a minute…. I thought he was a man of substance. His words are as shallow as his pockets…

That’ll have him back on the phone for impugning his credentials.

 

Copyright © 2012 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

December 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Well dear all. Let me get the pleasantries out of the way and wish you a merry Christmas and very best wishes for the New Year, to some of you Seasons Greetings, and the rest of you Bah Humbug.

This year the newsletter will double as a Christmas Card. So those amongst you who have scant regard for the environment can print this out. The paper folding instructions are on YouTube, if you search for origami Christmas tree. It’s got to be better than George Osborne made out of balloons, but almost anything has to be better than that. I can never remember, is it life imitating art or the other way around?

Being a Christmas Edition, it should be a bumper version, including a sugar mouse and chocolate money, or alternatively something cheaper like the Drachma: No matter what any of you think, the Euro is here to stay.

It has been rumoured that there will be an “Opus” edition of the newsletters, after my dear friend Karl was mentioned in the Sunday Times Magazine last week. The newsletters will be accompanied by hundreds of never before published photos of me in Polaroid form. Often I was unaware or in no fit state to know the photos were being taken, and because of their candid and graphic nature, some may have been used against me. I am even shocked at some of the images myself, but then my life is about to become an open book. Perhaps a “super injunction” beckons.

Jason from The Wolseley was unwell, struck down by “man flu”. Is there nothing you will not do to get a mention? Shirley and Jayne were left to cope in your absence, and how well they did. They even knew to give me a better table than, he who shall not be named. Some of you have asked who this is; sadly my lips are sealed; well in this format anyway, but face to face it is entirely different. In the past, amongst many others, I have sat next to Clive Owen. Girls, exercise a little control please. He spent the entire time exuding an air of “Please don’t recognise me”. It may be a simple solution, but The Wolseley is not the best place to go if you want to be incognito. I like it for precisely that reason, nobody knows who I am. Well until the “Opus” rockets me to super stardom. My late dear friend Richard would have agreed, but then he would have never ventured into an establishment where he was unknown.

I have received best wishes from far and wide, and I thank you all. The gifts have been a little excessive. Paul, Ines and Sophia ensured that I will be spending most of Christmas in the gym, after the enormous basket of pastries. Share, I think not, they’re mine, all mine. Hands off, Jake. Others of you have ensured that I will be spending the New Year in The Priory, with more alcohol than I usually see on a Friday night.

I have seen a fair amount of Neil from Ibiza, who has been up here quite a bit. Visits to family and all that. I’m currently making him a jacket, where the quilting is made from the feathers of the pigeons he has dispatched, and also from the “fallen” that have flown into dear Michael’s windows, dazzled by their own reflection, or in an attempt to mate with the glass. I’m sure Michael uses some sort of bait to attract them. He is still waiting for a door handle, which doesn’t sound like much, but the delightful way Michael tells it, it could be the entrance to Narnia. I am a little concerned that come summer Neil may launch himself like Icarus from the cliffs overlooking Es Vedra, hoping to fly into one of those perfect Ibiza sunsets. At least he’s forgotten about circumnavigating the world in a coracle.

I’m starting to feel a little queasy after my 6th muffin from the basket, perhaps it was the 3rd cookie or the mince pies that are taking their toll. I’m going to have to stop for a minute and monitor my sugar levels.

This week I ventured across St James Park and into Mayfair. My friend Trevor Pickett always complains that I never go and see him. Simple explanation Trevor, you are never in the shop. The last time I saw him, he was looking very glamorous, swathed in pashmina. No, not just pashmina, but he was hanging round the Palace, busy being Father Christmas, and no the pashmina was not red, but he was sporting some designer stubble. Now do you need to be a designer to wear stubble? Will he get one of those special trimmers for Christmas? I’m fairly certain Jamie uses one, but I wish he wouldn’t wear his trousers quite so tight on telly. Matthew, please don’t comment on that one! But then our recent conversations have been about fitting new male and female parts. Studs, if you must know, to his jacket! There is nothing like bawdy pantomime humour to usher in the festive period, or is there?

Talking of that, I should comment on one or two of the stars of the newsletters this year.

David, there is no mountain high enough for one man and his bike.

Peter, who ran the Jungfrau Marathon, please, there is no joke there. But even I could have told him it would be all uphill. He probably passed Neil studying the lichen on the way up.

Emanuele, will be cooking his fingers to the bone, but he likes to do nothing better.

Dear Silvio will be…? Perhaps I shouldn’t answer that.

Mark, I imagine, may drink the minibar at home dry, stagger into the street to hail a taxi driver and head to Heathrow. He may board a flight to somewhere hot, where he can lie on beach safe in the knowledge that British Airways will not be getting their hands on his money. Ever! He has since intimated that it is a fantasy to turn up at the airport and buy a ticket to the first place that took his fancy. Better that than being escorted to it, to an unknown destination in chains, but then perhaps that is the return journey from the ensuing bender!

Celeb D as he is now known has landed a role in panto; apologies, as a roll. From the photos the costume appears more like a bagel or a doughnut, and the tights he is wearing do nothing for his legs, and the make-up the icing on the cake!

Sunil has stopped texting before 5am, which is a relief, but he now may have now dispensed with sleep altogether.

Duran, best known for taking his shirt off, has disappointed the girls by dyeing his hair dark brown for a movie role. They still prefer him as a blond.

Last and by no means least is Richard. I’m sure he is looking down upon me as I write this, tut- tutting away at my grammar. He is greatly missed, but he will know that if he ever wants to make an appearance somewhere he remains known. If you believe in re-incarnation (I do not) Richard will only come back as himself: His chair will be waiting.

Finally, there are a number of you I’d like to take the opportunity to say a personal thank you to. I do consider that everybody who crosses the threshold of the shop a friend. However some of you may feel this is a little unwise, and yes, on the odd occasion I have had to revise my opinion. But this year, there are some of you who have proved to be great friends. I won’t embarrass you by naming you, but I hope you realise you have been. Thank you again and may I wish everybody the very best for the year to come.

 

If any of you are feeling sentimental (note the senti at the beginning of that word), feel free to wander over to www.volpeblog.wordpress.com to relive any newsletters you may have deleted, missed, or simply tried to erase from your memories.  Feel free to leave comments on any of the postings, but please try to keep it clean: I have a reputation to keep and I don’t need the competition!

 

Copyright © 2011 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

August 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Thank you, thank you, thank you for the largest ever response to a newsletter: the tribute to my friend Richard Pulford.

There were so many kind memories and so many fond words. For this I thank all of you. Your words of comfort have been passed on to Richard’s family.

It’s that time of year when tumbleweed blows down London’s empty streets, and this year, I’m here instead of basting in Ibiza. Many of you have joked quite how much I don’t enjoy the Sale period, but you’d be wrong. It is important for me to quietly hide the mistakes I have made during the year.

Fortunately, I am learning, and after twelve long years there are only two pairs of the acid yellow cords left. Perhaps I could arrange a riot, a little looting, some lightning, and they might vanish off into the ether with my remaining stock of jeans. What else is August in London good for?

Anyway, Shane and family were here from Hong Kong (and at least his out of office reply meant he was coming to see me). And doesn’t he look boyish these days?  A new haircut and glasses in order to make him look more grown up? Perhaps I should explain to Katie (Shane’s wife) they have only made him look more angelic, although I’m not entirely sure it is a word I would normally use about Shane! They’re all off to some detox retreat in Ibiza but how detox and Ibiza go together I will wait to hear.

Ollie, who has also been in Ibiza, has just returned and he’s not happy. Left only with the clothes he was standing up in, he single-handedly boosted the Ibicencan economy, in order to feel that he fitted in at every event he was attending. He and his luggage parted company at City Airport on the way out, and were reunited only after his return to London.

The offending piece of luggage had visited seven European cities before its return, which is more than my wayward friend Mark will be doing with British Airways. Still barred, Mark continues to travel the world in search of new thrills. This leads him further and further afield, searching for a recently filled mini-bar and a maid that he hasn’t already unconsciously surprised in a strange and unusual way.

I have another friend who has taken to wearing glasses with normal lenses in order to lend him an air of intellect and gravitas. I’m not sure he wasn’t wearing specs before and has reverted to non-prescription lenses, because life through the correct prescription was just too frightening.

This year I have had to start wearing spectacles so I can thread a needle and it has added an entire new spectrum of accessories to my wardrobe. As you could predict with me, the collection is growing rapidly.

Soon I will have spex for every occasion. Perhaps even extra-spesh-spex that I will wear to choose which ones I will be wearing today or to look for the pair I’ve just put down or trodden on. I’m still searching for the pair that will make me look more brainy and more important. Andre calls it gravitas but he pronounces it in a vairy particular way every time we meet.

One or two of you are still trying so hard to get a mention: remember, actions always speak louder than words.

John kindly brought back a bottle of wine from Emanuele in Bologna, and Matthew sent me something made by Brasso to polish my gadgets. Oh, please!

But the prize is taken by the couple travelling to Venice on the Orient Express who were trapped in their cabin paralysed by OCD, only to be released once the number of railway sleepers they had counted exceeded the 1 million mark.

I sympathise, as I often feel I’m being followed, and the only way throw the stalker off the scent is to keep off the cracks in the pavement while shouting Macbeth. I have got used to people staring, but then, don’t they always?

However, let me finish on a positive note for Jake. Wolves have topped the table a few times already. The season is young, but Jake has handled his glee with maturity: the screaming and punching the air have been undertaken when customers are not present, or at least when he thinks they can’t see or hear.

If only he could share Mick McCarthy’s pragmatism, but that’s why Jake is a supporter and dreams of Europe next season. Sorry, buster, but if you think I’m giving time off to go to away games in Estonia, think again.

 

Copyright © 2011 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

July 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

I know you are still waiting, like Cinderella I have until midnight to get this out. And for those wags amongst you who might suggest that I am more, ugly sister than down trodden beauty, I’d thought I’d get the insult in first.

If you’re interested, and clearly you won’t be, my D list celebrity is doing Punch and Judy on the beach at Hastings. Punch and Judy is frightening enough, OK not quite clown level, but I’m sure he will make it his own. Although I think that “Now is the winter of my discontent”, is not going to appeal to a bunch of 8 year olds.

What an interesting month!

Firstly, congratulations are in order.

David Tait and his 5 friends completed the Etape stage of the Tour de France. A remarkable feat, and all in the aid of charity. Now if David could just stay off the bike, I’m fed up of taking his suits in.

You know how I like to rib our diminutive foreign leaders. First dear Silvio, and now, Monsiuer Sarkozy, brawling in public. I couldn’t imagine Dave Cameron fighting like this, I mean, he’d need his man in the corner, Marquis of Queensbury rules and by the time the anger was expressed on his heavily furrowed brow, the No 10 press office would claim another crushing victory. By all accounts he is looking to take on the huge Klitchko brothers in a tag fight. Not sure who’ll be behind him in his corner, but I’m sure little George (or his alter ego Gideon) will volunteer.

Summer is just around the corner or so I have been told, I’d go and look, but I’m not sure that I can be bothered to move all my blankets.

I dimly remember we’d had a day of warm weather and it looks as if it might last a few days. Oooops, slightly wrong there. Shorts and flip-flops as far as the eye can see. Do people not realise just how grubby their feet become wandering the streets of London?

And joy, the heady cocktail of alcohol and warm air. Last night two people attempted to urinate in our basement. The front of casa Adrian is now electrified and the next person to whip it out will be in for a shock, caught on film and posted on Youtube.

Not that this has been the first attempt to use our basement for anything but normal comings and goings. A particularly difficult neighbour, who felt my home was her castle, and dealing drugs has been popular, but they were always surprisingly easy to scare away. Shirtless and sporting a weapon, a la Putin has always worked. You should check out FPSRussia on Youtube. Goodness knows how Jake finds all these things, but whilst the football season is in repose, he’s nothing else to do.

As if risen from the dead, Mark is back. Still persona non grata with BA he has turned his attention to peace in the Middle East, but the thought of him trying to broker a deal between 2 warring factions, whilst trying to make money out of it at the same time, makes the alcohol in my blood run cold.

A friend has just returned from Bologna, with a visit to Drogheria della Rosa and Emanuele. He mentioned my name and was royally treated, not the normal response elsewhere when my name is mentioned, but I’ve learned to cope with this. However, it did elicit the gift of a very fine bottle of red wine from Emanuele. So come on the rest of you, get yourselves out there, my wine cellar is looking a little empty!

For those of you who have been asking, I have passed the baton of biggin’ it up in Ibiza to Ollie this year. I have known Ollie many years. He is getting married at the end of August, and as a wedding present to himself, has bought a Jensen Interceptor and a petrol station. As I recall, it is good for about 8 miles to the gallon. So, about what we can expect from Ollie in Ibiza. The carnage will be well documented, and I’ll make sure he visits Neil for a pre-wedding tattoo.

Jake, stop looking at me like that, a Jensen Interceptor is not a Star Wars prop.

Soon to be available on Twitter, or so it has been suggested.

PS Something about a SALE

Which I will be here for in its entirety.

Sent from my iPad or so it seems

 

Copyright © 2011 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

July 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Welcome to the August blog, I hope you all enjoyed July’s.

It didn’t seem as well-read as the others and I’m surprised that none of you took me up on the special offer right at the end when you clicked on the Easter egg.

Oh well, back to July for those of you who didn’t get it.

Anyway, the month has quite flown by. Those of you who follow my every waking move, and I know who you are, will know that although I am on Facebook I don’t use it much. And as for Twitter, it has even passed Jake by.

Another weekend on Ibiza has been and gone, happily without incident and my tan, Mr McKenna, is a shade of orange that surpasses our bags.

By the way, it was great being in Spain for the World Cup Final. The admirable thing about the English is our stoic acceptance of sporting mediocrity twinned with our talent for co-opting celebrations from all over the world; particularly if they involve drinking.

St Patrick’s Day is just one example I can dimly remember. So, bring on the hierbas until about 3am when I want to go to bed.

July is a month of ducking and diving where suppliers who have promised the earth are caught out and the donkey is still sick and the cheque is still in the post. Promising to do what they said they would, would be a start.

Apparently, it will be better next September, which reminds me of school reports. What makes it worse is you know what’s coming. They know what they’re doing, and yet there isn’t a thing you can do about it.

In other news: my house-hunting mates Adam and Anne are moving in on Cuckoo’s Knob. It’s a cheap laugh but when has that ever stopped me?

Who knows what the house will be called. Judging by your previous replies to this newsletter, Anne, I quiver at response.

Sam, Claire and the kids are now long gone, and he’ll be complaining that this hasn’t arrived yet. Sorry mate, but dry your eyes, I’m the one having to come up with this. But we will miss you.

Most important news of the month is the birth of a child to Cristiano Ronaldo. I don’t know why but I keep thinking of Ricky Martin. Can anyone explain why that snake-hipped, entirely heterosexual image is burned on my brain? And why oh why, Victor, do you adore him so?

Ronaldo’s chat-up line is legendary but not to be repeated here because we’ve got those pay-as-you-go lawyers from daytime TV.

But when I used it on Gillian she hit me with her make-up bag. The edge of that tube of Clearasil is going to scar. Bitch.

My friend’s dispute with British Airways rumbles on Volpe passim. Are they incapable of settling anything quickly? He has promised me a sneak at the correspondence, however, he fears that I have a tabloid readership (and wife) and has warned me about touching the snake or some other reference I might have to ask her about. Since I consider him to be a close friend, I am starting to worry.

I note that the glorious Peter sent himself up in a really jolly way to flog his booky wook in the English London Times. I was going to read it but I was put off by the sinister nature of the ads. Do you remember The Singing Ringing Tree or Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Totally Expected? I am much disturbed.

And before you ask smoking jacket wasn’t Volpe. Crikey! Next you’ll accuse me of dressing Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen! Not guilty, m’lud. What is the penalty for perjury? (I could help you with that one – Ed)

On to my celebrity friend: I won’t tell you who he is, but it’s not The Stig, though he hates Clarkson too. Apparently he’s importing 100,000 recycled vuvuzuelas. Why? He only needs one to blow his own trumpet, an act I’m not sure he’s flexible enough to do. But the sound is much like listening to him talk about his next big project.

So, to next month: I’ll be spending part of it in Ibiza, which means that after the sunbathing, partying, drug-taking (Nurofen and antihistamines before you get too excited) and did I say partying, there’ll be no time for the newsletter. Or will there?

For those of you who will be interested, we do start a SALE on the 30th of July.

Ps: Sale is a dirty word in France. But I’ll let you off.

 

Copyright © 2010 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

May 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

It’s been an exciting month, jam-packed with, well, work, actually, so that’s the reason the newsletter is late  – before you ask, Sam.

God knows, my wife has tried enough times to get the News of the World to part with £500,000 for a meeting with me, but they weren’t interested so we have to fall back on conventional ways of paying the mortgage.

So, that’s why I’m off to Rome on a whirlwind visit next week and for the first time I’m flying Easyjet so I’ve sharpened my elbows and paid excess baggage in advance. At least I’m landing in Rome, not a different city or a different country.

It’s not that I don’t trust BA to get me there though they have just banned a friend for life. The way he tells it, it was over innocent joshing with a humourless stewardess over a request for a glass of water.

I believe him. Millions wouldn’t.

As he was being assisted down the aircraft steps at Abu Dhabi he queried whether the ban would be for his lifetime or that of the airline. But BA is tied up with other important matters and may never get back to him or the rest of us.

The stewardess should worry. This is a man often found by Housekeeping naked on the bed surrounded by empty bottles after drinking the mini-bar dry. They’ve never complained and have even commented on the thoughtful way he always passes out face down to spare any embarrassment.

What else. Oh yes, there was that election business which was interesting.

Who could begrudge the licence fee that was spent on the BBC’s election night broadcast from the Ship of Fools moored near the London Eye?  Andrew Neil mined nuggets of political gold from such top opinion formers as Joan Collins and Bruce Forsyth while the Pinot Grigio flowed.

But hats off to Sky for the most memorable coverage of the election for all the wrong reasons.

I’d have paid money for a ringside seat at ahem, heavyweight Adam Boulton slugging it out with Alastair Campbell. (Look it up on You Tube if you missed it).

Boulton nearly invited Campbell outside but then remembered they were. Outside the Mother of Parliaments. Made me feel proud to be British.

Boulton was transported to finger-jabbing, spitting fury as Alastair did his ‘I’m just a reasonable, stand-up kind of guy who never tells fibs’ routine.

‘Don’t you tell me what I think,’ shouted Boulton, stifling a belch, as Campbell told him what he thought.  Boulton looked close to creating an ash cloud that would have closed Westminster airspace when Campbell told him to calm down while smirking.

Later on in round two, poor Boulton was needled by the deceptively charming Ben Bradshaw, the Hugh Grant-lookalike and former Secretary for Culture, Media and Sport, who has a nicer tan than me at the moment.

Has Our Dark Lord been giving Ben tips and sharing yacht space?

Unconfirmed reports have it that Boulton was later wheeled off to a padded room where he could start an argument with the voices in his head. I’d love to see him interview Russell Crowe. Funny how you never see those two in the same room together.

So, Nick and Dave will be like good boys at a birthday party and play pass the parcel without any grabbing. How long will it be before Dave doesn’t agree with Nick and Nick cries over the meagre contents of his party bag?

Meanwhile Little George is still finding unopened final demands stuffed down the back of the sofa at Number 11.

I’ve noticed that in the words of that cheesy song, that it’s goodbye Sam, hello Samantha. The delightful Mrs Cameron has reverted to her proper name now the election is over and she doesn’t have to pretend she’s not posher than the Queen any more. Good for her. The poor woman’s facing the next five years having to pretend she actually likes wearing £19.99 shoes from New Look; she ought to be allowed some dignity.

Speaking of bargain basement shopping, as you can imagine, Primark is not my normal haunt, but I was told of an incident that shows the level of desperation to which our economic climate has driven people.

A young lady explained to me, how she had seen a man ejected by security staff for shoplifting….. I mean, why shoplift from Primark? They’re not far short of paying you to take the stock away. I know David (yes, he of the shorts) calls it as Primarni, so I can only assume that this poor fellow didn’t understand the irony.

I’ve just returned from a pleasant lunch in the West End, where I enjoyed a salad with tofu and a glass of freshly pressed wheatgrass, or also known as: ‘My usual, Landlord’. I’m always grateful for whatever is supplied, especially when Vash is the Landlord and the usual has a certain vintage.

On the bus back, yes, I know that you all expect me to travel everywhere by stretch Hummer, I was confronted by a man with a dog, who had obviously enjoyed an inferior class of wheatgrass.

He  was bothering an American lady who I doubt will ever travel on public transport in London again. The upshot being I assisted in ejecting him from the bus, with his long suffering chihuahua, Jackie, who the whole bus felt really sorry for and wanted to adopt. But she loyally followed her master. Dogs really are stupid. Bet he’s the sort to shoplift from Primarni.

Film reviews

This month Hardcore Mother In Law saw:

Lebanon: Das Boot in an Israeli tank

Hot Tub Time Machine: Cruder than the Gulf of Mexico but a lot of fun.

Cop Out: The worst film Bruce Willis has ever made and that includes The Last Boy Scout.

 

Copyright © 2010 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

April 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

OK Sam, I know it’s later than you want. At least I’m not stuck in some faraway land with no means of returning home. You’ll have to wait for June and my first trip to Ibiza for that.

STOP PRESS  Apologies – BREAKING NEWS – Winter over: David bares all: the legs are out of hibernation.

This month I have visited Rome, if only to take some tips from “Dear” Silvio on how to run the country. I had to postpone it from last month because of the British Airways strike, and have narrowly missed being brought down by a belching volcano expelling large amounts of hot air into the atmosphere. Well, I was going to leave the politicians out of this. OK, OK, but it’s a joke and everybody has used it! Thanks everybody for the Ashley and Cheryl Cole jokes, sadly you know I can’t put any of them in here.

The election has just been called and Sky has been wall-to-wall polls, the Skycopter is up, and I love statistics, because you can say what with you want with them and you’re not lying. As for the leaders’ debates, I have busied myself with other things if only not to look upon Gordon’s saddened face, Dave’s smoothed brow or Nick’s laconic approach. Have you noticed how much like one of my customers he looks? He’s not, but the resemblance is uncanny, I wonder if his wife knows? Anyway I feel that at this point the Dark Lord deserves a mention, only because he will be reading this, and I know he’d like me to mention that his bite is much worse than his bark, and yes, Peter you can take it as a compliment.

Anyways to take your minds off the manifesti, but enough of Italian, perhaps like mine a higher purpose calls me.

I do not disagree that Lionel Messi has little to prove as the world’s current greatest player, but he has learnt well, possibly at the knee of his mother or a maiden aunt, the skill of the swoon. CR9 may well have learnt well at the knee of an uncle, whilst feasting on a Werther’s Original, it’s those chubby cheeks, you know. He could stay down for hours, or just long enough for the Ref to brandish the card of his payee’s choice. In my day, (O, callow youth) what would revive you quicker was the application of smelling salts or a cold sponge with a spot of Ralgex to your tender parts (when I was young it was called Wintergreen. Such a stupid name because for a while after this it would be forever autumn). Stand down those of you who find this less of a punishment and more of a revival technique.

As the footie season draws to a close poor old Wayne wanted a rest from running around doing his job and Dimitar’s, and went down like a sack of spuds (nothing to do with his looks). Now I thought at the time that the acting was of quality seen only by my “celebrity” “actor “ “friend”. By now I think we can cross out all three, because come Panto time I’ll be off the Christmas card list.

Now you may have been following my one-sided correspondence with my “celebrity””actor” “friend”, and he has now said that what he did was not “Strictly Panto”. Now I can imagine production companies everywhere wondering if I they can get this scheduled and out by next Christmas. Me and my big mouth. He also pleaded with me to stop texting him “Macbeth”, well you must have seen Blackadder.

This month we will be featuring some film recommendations from my 86-year-old mother-in-law. Now stop with the jokes, that’s my domain. She’s now to be known as Hardcore Mother-in-Law.

Recently viewed:

1: Avatar – Good, long, but not nearly violent enough. She’s also worried about seeing everything with a blue tinge. Well it’s not likely to be Viagra.

2: Pimp – Enough violence and sex, and she liked the surprisingly happy ending for Danny Dyer.

3: Eastern Promises – going into the mens’ showers will never be the same again for her.

4: Marley and Me – Why didn’t they shoot the dog?

5: Alice in Wonderland – I’m not taking those drugs again, everybody looked like Madonna

6: The Bounty Hunter – Rubbish, I’m getting too old to waste my time watching this.

7: Gran Torino – Clint Eastwood, my kind of leading man, also Harrison Ford, George Clooney, Viggo Mortensen, the list goes on……

8: A History of Violence – Well she liked the title and whatisname.

9: Sexy Beast – Ditto

10: The Hurt Locker – Not like Eastern Promises

And as for “Kick Ass”, she’s been doing it for 86 years and isn’t likely to stop now.

 

Copyright © 2010 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.