Early February Newsletter 2015

Given what is going on in Europe, I have been looking for a new tax haven to store my vast wealth. By vast wealth I refer to the jar half full of coins that was on the mantelpiece. It was fuller, but I had to raid it for 20 pence pieces the other day in order to buy a bottle of Petrus.

I had kept a note of its contents in my Smythson’s ‘Soho Sinner’ notebook, but that has recently gone AWOL. Yes Dave, it appears the Creative Consultant has been doing a marvellous job. It seems I’m not the only one interested in setting up a complicated series of trusts and offshore companies to save a few pence.

I decided to look for a safe haven in order not to pay the Swiss a huge roll to put it under their mattress.

I had contemplated transferring it to the principality of Battenburg, but that would be the icing on the cake.

And who really knows what the Swiss are going to do next? One night we might go to bed and the next day, the entire nation may have disappeared only to re-appear, invisible to the naked eye, on the moon in some sort of despicable act undertaken by some evil genius who doesn’t look unlike a stretch Silvio.

Good – then the Martians can come along and steal it all.

A small l.e.d. lamp went off in an environmentally friendly fashion in my head.

How about keeping my huge stash like, onshore man, perhaps sink it in a Cornish Tin Mine, no, not as an investment. So I consulted a friend, a certain P.Diddy, he lives down that way. It’s not his real name, but then who’d really want to be called that.

Mr Combs, it’s over!

Goodness, I am throwing jokes around like confetti today.

I took my private jet to Newquay. HM’s government allows me this expense for the rapid transfer of stock and deliveries for all my important clients.

As PD and I flew over what appeared to be a small private island on our reckie, I thought to myself that old rogue Redknapp must be doing well. The greatest manger England never had. That’s almost like saying Steve McLaren was the greatest manager England never had.

You mean he was England manager? I never knew, really? Perhaps I just blotted those rainy days and Sundays from my memory, they always got me down.

However, the island turned out to be St Michael’s Mount. Even better, a rock that in times gone by was inhabited by pirates, what safer place could there be?

Here are my four options. It’s a Mad, Mad World.

End of the Rainbow

End of the Rainbow

Land's End

Land’s End

Sennen Cove

Sennen Cove

St Michael's Mount

St Michael’s Mount

 

So we all now have the election on our minds. Election I said!

I see it going like this, thanks once again, to Monty Python.

The Tousled Blond Mayor of the Lake, his arm clad in the purest shimmering samite held aloft a Glo’stick from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that Dave was to carry the Exchequer and THAT is why he is your Prime Minister.

Well, strange blond men lyin’ in ponds distributin’ swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate of the masses, not pond life and some farcical aquatic ceremony.

Related to the election, apparently there are those amongst you who will do anything to get to Ibiza.

Grant Shapps has been joking that although there will be stiff competition, only the hardest, working campaigners (ooohhh get you and your double entendres!) will be able to join Sam and Dave in a villa on holiday in Ibiza. So it will be days at Blue Marlin, chorizo by the pool and goodbye to Torymolinos.

Lucky old Dave even has a club named after him, DC10, a mixture of his initials and what he scores out of a 10 as a human baked bean. A friend of mine would say he’s “Awesome”. Not so!

So soft drinks all round and Adam Boulton will be pouring out the ‘Red Bull’, or just seeing a little red mist.

Whoa! Where do I sign?

If it means knocking on doors I’m up for it. I love a game of ‘Knock Down Ginger’.

As for kissing babes… me the Third Duke of Wimburn kissing women on their doorsteps for the sake of political gain, for an old school chum, with my reputation!

Oh sorry, babies! Eeewwww.

Apparently Nigel F is offering a weekend picking elderberries. Do elderberries become sloeberries, does the gin have anything to do with it, and was ‘his mother a hamster?’

Once again, thank you Monty Python….

So if the Camerons are going to enjoy the hedonistic lifestyle of the la Isla Bonita, Space, Amnesia, Es Paradis and Glitterbox at Boom, where the f*%$ am I going to go?

Anyways, that’s not the election that everyone is talking about.

We all want to know if David Ginola will become FIFA president and oust the bumbling, tumbling, fool Bepp Splater.

Daveeed would like to merge the mens and ladies’ World Cups in order that they take place at the same time.

OOoooooooooooh Davveeeed, me the Third Duke of Wimburn in the shower of the Brazilian Ladies changing room at the full time whistle with my reputation, I wouldn’t know which way to turn.

Daveeeeeed, you’ll be getting my vote and that of a good friend of mine who has now changed her profile photo to one of a young, coiffed and timberless Daveeeed.

By her own admission she has a little bit of crush on him, well him and Jose Mourinho. Well him, Jose, George Clooney and the Hemsworths. Well Daveed, Jose, George, the Hemsworths and… . Stop this is getting a little out of hand. Is there someone you don’t have a crush on? I don’t have all day to write this!

I took the liberty of inserting a photo of what the majority of people feel are the ideal woman, followed by that of the ideal man.

JW PH

Well I don’t know what else you expected!

Given these days of sexual liberty, I will allow you all to decide on which side of the fence you will fall.

However, one amongst you, and a man amongst men, has another type of crush. After purchasing a new pair of shoes, he will place the right shoe next to him on the bed on a velvet pillow. The shoe must not have been worn, the shoe tree must be in place, and it must be freshly polished. He will then stroke and buff the shoe until the smell of fresh polish puts him to sleep.

OK, OK, the last bit I made up, but as for the velvet pillow, well OK, I made that bit up as well, the silk pillow cases he uses are good enough. I just didn’t think it sounded weird enough. Really?

These are photos of shoes for those of you who not satisfied with the other photos above and require something a little stronger. A little bit of posh, a little bit of rough and of course a little something for those of you who grew up on a farm.

Headed for a Velvet Pillow

Headed for a Velvet Pillow

A Little Bit of Rough

A Little Bit of Rough

 

No Sign of a Struggle

No Sign of a Struggle

And finally a panorama……

St Michael's Mount

St Michael’s Mount

Copyright © 2015 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

August 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

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…..

 

Copyright © 2010 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.