July 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on July 31, 2011 by volpeadrian

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

End of May 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on May 28, 2011 by volpeadrian

So it looks like you’re going to get it twice this month. Oh goody, I hear you all cry in unison.

I’ve struggled with my conscience, but I finally had to end my run in the window. My adoring public will have to wait. I mean the matinees I could cope with, but the evening performance was playing to an entirely different crowd, plus I was getting a little tired of wearing the make-up. What an ill-mannered rabble of drunks and hecklers my customers can be. Perhaps I should have enlisted my d-list friend to understudy, but then I’d never have got rid of him. He’d only draw attention to himself, and who in their right mind would want to do that!

Jake has aged in the last few days. Some of you may know, but he supports Wolverha…. Wolves. They survived the drop, the outcome left until the final throes of the season. On recent Saturdays Jake would disappear for hours. OK, he was in the shop, but I would find him, head in hands, muttering to himself, much of which I can’t repeat here. All because Wolves had let in a goal in the first minute, let in a goal in the last minute, or worse, both. Then he would blame me for jinxing them or if it got really bad, his parents for bringing him into this miserable world. Oh well, such is the life of a fanatical football supporter. But spare a thought for me, yes, I know it’s all about me, but it is my newsletter. We’re going to have this all over again next season, and he still won’t be allowed to wear club colours to work.

The ash cloud has returned. Well there is a bank holiday this weekend, OK, OK, at the moment isn’t there. All part of Dave’s happiness index, who wouldn’t feel better not going into work every day?

And there is nothing more certain than an ash cloud to turn Michael O’Leary from the adorable little Andrex puppy he is, into a snarling dandy dinmont (it’s a dog before you have to look it up). I mention him because I feel at this moment in time I am one of the few people on the planet not to blame for any slight upon him. I’m sure he’s dreaming up ways to charge for tours of the ash cloud, come to think of it he may even charge you for dreaming if you dare to fall asleep on one of his flights. I say this without ever having flown with Ryanair, but then Ryanair conveniently doesn’t fly to anywhere I want to go at the moment. Phew!

By the way, my theory is that Ryanair isn’t an airline but a psychological experiment to see how much humiliation human beings will endure in order to save a few bob.

The ash cloud has given Sky the opportunity to report on its position every 15 minutes. Perhaps it will encircle the country rendering travel impossible by all but a leaky boat, and once again “chicken licken”, the sky is falling in.

As for you lot, well! Rosie has a stalker! No not me, and not Mark either, but there are sinister things afoot in Pimlico Village. I’d like to thank one customer in particular for the kind text he sent me. Never, ever do it again. Pervert! Those of you who have seen the text will know what I mean, those of you who haven’t, not a chance. No really, not a chance, suffice to say it exists, as evidence. And Michael, you can stop calling, Duran (the underwear model) is in Miami, so there is no chance of him coming round to walk the dog.

Now I hadn’t heard from Adam and mad Anne, but it seems there was a reason for her madness. A large brain tumour, strange how finally the reasons show themselves. My wife has previous for this, she suffered from and was successfully treated for one just after we were married. So we wish Anne all the very best and a very speedy recovery, but quite how she will manage that with Adam’s help I will never know.

Finally, time for a little plug. Otaniyien Ekiomado my personal trainer has launched a website. Since he worked wonders with my tired old bones, I feel that “Intelligent Vanity” is worth a visit. I wish him all the very best with it. In my case one of those words in the title is applicable. I’ll leave you to work it out.

Sent from my iPad=—====—-=== with go-faster stripes!!!!!!

February 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on February 28, 2011 by volpeadrian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember one swallow doesn’t make a summer.

November 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on November 29, 2010 by volpeadrian

Is everyone as excited as I am about the Royal Wedding? Like Dave, I camped in The Mall for Chas and Di, but I’ll probably be a bit too busy to be there this time.

The meeting with the accountant was a little disappointing. He strongly advised me not to try and slip one or two trifling things past the taxman. So it will be arrivederci to Damian my personal photographer (he never made me look as bad as Nick Clegg), Mandy my stylist (once I dress up, she and I are one so she’ll never really disappear), and it’s adieu to Nils (nails), Carmen (waxing), Ricardo (the other waxing), Twinkle (Twinkies) and Mai Lee (who has daily struggled to pull the condom over my head to keep me looking as smooth-skinned as Dave or a baby’s bottom. There’s not much in it, to be honest. If, as I suspect, you’re not regular Guardian readers or otherwise left-leaning (professional tailor’s term), do check out Steve Bell’s cartoons. Oh and Jacob… only joking.

I let Neil snipe me for Tony Blair’s nail clippings, which were amongst Cherie’s various wacky offerings on ebay this month. Neil says they’re an aphrodisiac lure for the pigeons, but Neil, I‘ve seen the skulls and voodoo stuff in your shop, and suspect you have a far more sinister motive in mind.

Next it will be Elvis’s sweat, Maradona’s pacemaker, Berlusconi’s phone book, the children’s round-nosed scissors Lord Sugar uses on his beard and Madonna’s conical bra. By the way, I have a replica of that I like to wear at weekends when I like people to call me Mandy. But as Neil would say: “Peace”. He’s off to India, and I needn’t say more, if you are keeping up.

Pink, once he’s escaped sciatica and Charlene, has been touring Europe tattooing anything with a pulse. My friend Martin, love god of Ibiza’s Sa Trinxa, is also touring Europe for not entirely different reasons and also insists on a pulse and a fit body. Martin makes his first appearance in this newsletter so I can ski for free in Verbier where he’s guesting this winter. Eugenia wanted to add more but even in this rag of a newsletter I cannot repeat her thoughts. Close your mouth, dear.

After receiving October’s newsletter, Sunil texts from the world capital of taste and refinement that is Dubai, to tell me we share an experience with last month’s celebrity rock chick. Serendipity, or pity us both, depending on your thoughts on the matter. It was a very long time ago, and neither of us is Steve Tyler and don’t want to be. Well apart from that bit in the elevator.

This month has also seen Ireland accept a large donation of European overdraft as a result of maxing out the credit cards. Also the Koreans are hurling slightly more than insults at each other. I intensely dislike the thought of Kim Jong Il willy waving, but that thought has revived a long-time Volpe favourite; those people stood naked at the foot of my bed saying they are ready for fun. So perhaps I should start the list with world leaders.

But before I do, here’s a mention for all of those of you who begged to be mentioned. Don’t worry, you asked not to be named, but you know who you are. No, I don’t understand that either, but the customer is always right, or so you think.

1: Bill Clinton – just ask Bob

2: While we are at it…Hillary

3: Vladimir ‘The bare-breasted Siberian cat-strangler’ Putin. Yes, those rare tigers are safe in his hands.

4: Dave Cameron. The condom-on-the-head look doesn’t make the policies any smoother, safer or easier to swallow. And I don’t want him offering Nick Clegg to sweeten the deal

5: Katie Price (aka Jordan. NB not the country). Doesn’t she look like she might explode one day like an angry carrot?

6: Ann Widdicombe. A rumba in the jungle is off my dance card.

7: Gordon Ramsay. This is the man who never needs an excuse to get his shirt off in front of the camera. However I’m starting to feel slightly sorry for him with his in-law problems.

8: Mickey Rourke. See Katie Price except like an explosion in a cheek filler factory

9: Jocelyn Wildenstein – see Mickey Rourke and Katie Price. I mean, if I’d wanted a cat…

10: One for the wife’s many obsessions – Harvey Keitel. A formerly good-looking man of a certain age who’s morphing into an elderly lady. It happens. See also: Mickey Rourke, Oliver Reed and David Hemmings.

May 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on May 27, 2010 by volpeadrian

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.

April 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on April 19, 2010 by volpeadrian

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.