My wishes have been granted, as will yours be if you persevere to the bitter end.
You will have wondered why my posts have been so thin on the ground, almost like hens’ teeth.
I have been pushed from pillar to post, run ragged, hither and thither, dragged through a hedge forwards, not knowing my left from my right, up hill and down dale? And if anyone remembers my Dale Winton story; you’ll know what a harrowing set of circumstances I encountered.
However, finally for one brief moment in time I gained an hour.
Oooooh what did I do with it? Boil a dozen eggs? What do think; I’m going soft?
How did I spend it, binge watch Game of Thrones, read the treat of Maastricht, go long on hours, go short on days?
We have received new stock and there will be photos as soon as my phone remembers what my face looks like… read to the end.
That extra hour? I put it in the bank and saved it up for nothing more than another monumental series of birthday celebration.
Then with that hour, I shall rise shameless with the lark, early one morning, just as the sun was rising, I heard a maid sing in the valley below…
While those who we entrust with our prized sovereignty play bureaucratic ‘Deal or No Deal’, sporting pudding basin haircuts. I partied away the days, and nights with people from all four corners of the earth, every shape and size, gender, colour and creed.
Tarif la Quiff would have raised sanctions against me for this excess and debauchery, while Beelzebub looked the other way and Nigel spluttered into his half pint…
My cup was never empty, my lips never without a smile, time with some of my nearest and dearest, rich in the knowledge that when this feast ever ended, lack of sleep would not be my famine.
I would also like to everybody for their kind wishes, each and every one gratefully received.
One or two, put two and two together, and still got the answer wrong!
PLEASE NOTE:
We will be closed on Tuesday 13th November 2018 and re-open on the 14th.
Vintage merino wool sweaters £150
Merino wool and cashmere pullovers £150
Belt and braces merino wool cardigan £220
Vintage merino wool sweatshirt £135
Merino wool birds eye cardigan £220
Water repellent wool cardigan £220
Vintage merino wool cardigan £175
Brushed cotton shirts £145
Woven cotton shirts £145
Cotton shirts £145
Cotton shirts £145
Brushed cotton shirts £165
Gingham check cotton shirts £145
Woven cotton shirts £145
Merino wool and flannel quilted Harrington jacket £390
Hood merino wool and flannel jacket £390
Reversible Loro Piana Storm System Cashmere and quilted coat
Denim colour Loro Piana cashmere Storm System quilted short coat £950
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:
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.
My apologies for disturbing you, I know one or two of you are either relaxing by a pool or on a beach somewhere warm, smug in the knowledge that we are not basking in a heatwave at home.
Oh irony, well I’ve stopped now, Raoul does hate it when I take over his chores. Those of you queueing at a border controls across Europe, my commiserations, but I voted to remain, and as I can feel the cold breath of winter from our near neighbours, it is time to get the home fires burning. If we create enough pollution and burn a great big hole in the ozone layer we will have weather to die for, and no need to leave the country we got back! Ibiza, no chance you can’t hold a candle to Cromer!
Mother Nature is fickle, and what is worse she is being paid less than Father Time, but no sooner had we started to compare this summer to the glorious summer of 1976 when she brings autumn forward.
With this to read, perhaps you might just put that riveting book down, you know the one on the “History of Oil and Kerosene Lamps” (non-illustrated edition), or perhaps you have now moved onto the “Altitudinal distribution patterns of Alpine plants”, wake me up before you gogo!
I was almost sweet sixteen in 1976, like a young Les McKeown, well apart from the tartan strides and outrageous accent, so even those of you without a background in astrophysics should be able to work that one out. Forty-five days without rain, stand pipes in the street and temperatures of over 25C, pah, memorable summer of 2017 my whatsit, grow a beard and man-up.
Well, I see the little silhouette of a man Scaramucci, Scaramucci has fandangoed his way straight out of the White House. Apparently his expletive tirades we too much for the Big D, but what Big D didn’t know is that the more we swear, the more trustworthy we are perceived to be. So ^$*” ^ *%*£ *$ you!
I feel so much better now I’ve got that off my chest, don’t seem to feel any different, I suppose once a snake oil salesman! Perhaps Tony was coming from a much lower base, and I guess the only way was up.
Trump’s Presidency is starting to resemble a Netflix Original series, Netflix and chill… eeeeewwww, Big D at your side, strategically placed tie, doesn’t bare thinking about, don’t even countenance the thought!
This side of the pond our lot are in recession, in their respective constituency surgeries perhaps and like your Doctor an appointment isn’t available until after the next election. No talk of staycationing this year.
Well this was a brief ditty to remind you to look at the ‘Daily Deals’, keep a careful eye out, I might offer up my gran at any time!
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.
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.
Like the little Matryoshka dolls we will peel back the layers one by one…
Dolls?
I have to get this out now, before I end up on the Steppes along with the lemmings… How I wish I was Roadrunner, rather than Wile E Coyote.
It may be my last newsletter before some Mata Hari steps out of the shadows to smother me in KY and baby oil again, I have survived several previous attempts without putting up too much of a fight, nervous gas, moi?
So Donald is taking a pounding in the press, he may end up sitting at the table on his own with no one around to respond to his ravings. Cries for impeach ring out, from a professional point of view, Donald will look terrible in the colour, it will clash horribly with his foundation, but hey, it can’t get much worse, or can it!
I have also taken cast iron measures to ensure Donald cannot come back as me, much as he may try! Yes, there is a carefully planned list for when I finally decide to pass on my mantle, and it will be restricted to a 4 year term.
It is rumoured that ‘Vlad the Lad’ gave Donald a set of Oblique Strategy cards for Christmas, except rather than being the work of Brian Eno, Vlad has put his own spooky, little spin on them. Something of a curve ball, apparently it’s a baseball term, nothing to worry about.
Hand delivered by the gorgeous Svetlana, how could Donald resist, this won’t end happily, and when he finally realised it wasn’t Trivial Pursuit, he tried the Monopoly board, then he confused Twister for Twitter; give a me a consonant please Ms Vorderman. Rumours are that Ivanka has never been the same since Donald cheated using his red tie as an extra limb!
Putin appears to be laughing all the way past go, picking up considerably more than £200.
The Russian ministries are looking at all sorts of diversionary tactics, one of them aims to turn football hooliganism into a sport, my dear friend Tony ably supported by Andreas and Mark will ensure it kicks off nicely, none of that passing it back sedately to one of your defenders, the boot will be definitely laid into the opponents midfield. We’ve already seen the Zoltan (sic.) and young Mings practising, Vinnie Jones and the ‘Crazy Gang’ would love it.
The Florentines have been playing a game like this for centuries called ‘Calcio Storico’. It’s not quite as violent as the Russians would like, but it has possibilities.
The Italians have been playing another game for decades, it has not yet descended into violence, not on my account, however I have been sorely tempted over the years. It is played on a train and involves the seating arrangement.
Just the Ticket
In Italy you are required to reserve a seat when buying a train ticket, and on the three train journeys I have taken there this week I have found someone sitting in my seat, much like daddy bear. Now, is it because they are rebels and don’t believe in rules, do they for some strange reason prefer my seat, or are they generously keeping it warm?
As one or two of you know I speak Italian, reasonably well; well enough to understand and be understood. So it required gently asking the first two of them to move, in fact as far as to the seat opposite, although one was slightly affronted by my requested, huffing as he moved his newspaper. On the third occasion an ‘Oi’, as my polite request fell on deaf ears, my ‘rudeness’ prompted a change of carriage for the miscreant.
It could have descended into worse, a lady friend of mine who is not backward in coming forwards would have commented, ‘Hold me earrings I’m goin’ in!’
I must admit I would miss it, if it didn’t happen!
Following a dry January, and by dry I mean no Newsletter.
You didn’t think for one moment that I would, or could have given up alcohol!
Foo Dog
We are well into 2017, so what does the New Year have in store for us?
Light the blue touch paper.
Those resolutions cast at the side of the road like Neil’s banana skin, organic and biodegradable. They’ll be long gone by Easter.
One or two of you have found new addictions, like following The Donald on Twitter, unlike Sky with its predictable mantra, The Donald fires off missives and fires people on a whim.
A man holding up a sign in the European Parliament saying Nigel Farage is lying to us all, no guano Watson, where were you a year ago? Surely this is how we expect our politicians to behave, expanding to a packed audience, not a dry eye in the house.
Statistics were born of Beelzebub; you can make them say anything you want, support any argument, give credence to clear water, and hence we are in the mess we are in!
The poisoned chalice of Europe is filled to the brim with hemlock, and it appears that the mandarins wouldn’t want a sip for all the tea in China.
Talks of trade deals and behind the scenes machinations have the politicians in a tizzy.
Secret societies, ‘Deep State’, the Underwater World of Jacques Cousteau, Thunderbirds are Go, Joe 90, Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons…
By all accounts they were all playing at DC10 on New Year’s Day. By way of explanation, DC10 is a club in Ibiza (well of course it would be), it is 300 metres from the end of the runway and to the roars of the crowd planes come in to land only a couple of hundred feet above!
At New Year, I was wandering round the garden centres of Ibiza with Neil, not looking for psychotropic substances on this occasion, but an olive tree for his back patio at the new house.
Morning Face
We struck a strange trio, three more unlikely amigos you are likely to find. Neil gold toothed, beanie-hatted tattooist with all the bedside manner of Neil the tattooist, Eugene; Danish sex god, sporting a black python skin jacket and matching Cuban heeled boots, et moi your basic ‘eurotrash’, looking for the perfect plant.
We would stop from time to time and discuss pruning methods to create the perfect topiary and disc like platers that will adorn said tree.
Flame trees of Ibiza
Perhaps a glass of Mezcal, Tequilla or Hierbas con hielo would aid the decision making process, so we adjourn to a restaurant and while away the hours.
Ibiza does that to you, minutes become hours, which in turn become days, one minute you were sober and completely in control of your faculties, the next you wake up next to a cactus or a prickly pear. No metaphor intended!
I strolled along the golden sands of Las Salinas without a soul around shoes and socks off, lay on the sand, paddled in the sea; I could be forgiven for forgetting that it was January.
Toe in the water
From Ibiza I headed for Pitti Uomo in Florence, by comparison it was grey and damp, and full of yet more men in ridiculous outfits, I do not include myself.
Pitti as it is known has become selfie heaven, Instagram Nirvana, the more OTT the outfit, the more people hope to be snapped for an obscure Japanese fashion magazine, which is printed on seaweed and available only from a small kiosk opposite the middle school in Fukaura.
I returned to London, my aura a little shaken by the look, but have no fear; none of it will be making its way onto our shelves, so rest easy.
Dedicated followers of fashion
There will new stock shortly, but meanwhile you will have to amuse yourselves with the rantings of a man with a very long red tie.
The new website is up and running, full of photos and with a video still to come, it is not and is never likely to be a trading website, but more a window into the world of clothing we make.
I must say a huge ‘Thank you’ to my close friend and model Kirk Newmann, and the producer and photographer James Nader of Visual Prestige Agency. The results speak for themselves, incredibly impressive and innovative work.
The blog and existing website will continue as is, there is a menu tag for the new website on the old and visa-versa.
Sadly for you lot I will continue to attempt to write.
Finally before a Newsletter, a thank you to each and every one of you who has made what I do so much fun. Without this I would not be doing a job I love and dealing with people I consider friends. ‘Thank you’ I’ll be coming back as me too!
So, without further ado.
Bet you wondered where I had got too!
Well, like Santa Claus I have been dealing with a very long list of requests.
The list stretches to the gates of Hades and almost to a man, or woman there was a theme. Why do you want to come back as me? It’s not as if I am a playboy of the status of Lapo Elkann. Who he you ask?
Lapo is the grandson of Gianni Agnelli, and don’t ask, who he? Look it up, I am not Wikipedia, I only write this and I still have to look things up!
Lapo is trying his hardest to keep up with me, but it seems like it snows all year round in his world, and where as the rest of us would have a minor tantrum if all was not well with the world, Lapo pretends he has been kidnapped, and with his well-documented issues of what seems real to him, well m’lud I rest my case.
Yet I still wonder why me?
Trips to exotic locations. Always on a plane with a party to go to, and to paraphrase a thousand songs “New York, St Tropez, Tokyo, Miami and Ibiza, da da da”.
I could be a songwriter and I can’t wait to become Interstellar star on Jupiter, Mars, Alpha Centauri, Zubenelgenubi, well U all know where this is disappearing!
Superstar
Sheila from BA is plying me with champagne, ensuring that my fun levels are topped up. After all, everybody loves champagne…
I am Pitbull without the looks, off the leash and I’m not wearing a muzzle, I am celebrating, mazel tov!
As sure as eggs are eggs (thoughts are turning to Easter already?), Jake has reminded me that it is only a certified number of sleeps to Christmas, and if I hadn’t stopped him, he would have reeled off the number of hours, minutes, perhaps snowflakes before the auspicious day. He’s 33 years old and yet seems keener than a 10 year old and trying to deflect from the performance of his beloved Wolves.
OK, OK, perhaps I’m a jaded old trump, but I am tiring of the Americanisation of everything.
The hands across the sea relationship now seems like Uncle Sam has his hand in our back pocket and is rummaging around for our wallet.
Black Friday and Cyber Monday, what are they? An event crammed between Trick or Treat and the Nightmare before Christmas?
There is recount going on in 3 American States because of Vlad the Lad’s apparent handiwork, Hillary is personally recounting all the votes, one for me, one for me…
Hopefully it will take her four years.
I would believe in conspiracy, but the aluminium foil helmet and dongle I fashioned myself means I now have Blueteeth, and wifi streaming directly into my brain, the X-ray specs I bought out of the back of a comic as a kid aged seven are finally working!
Mr Assange has been inside my head, you didn’t stay long did you Jules? Heheheh!
Meanwhile Lord Farage of Brexeter, will be attempting to remove a friend of mine from his current position, no, no not our excellent Ambassador to the United States, mind you I’m sure Sir Kim might be happier if it were the case.
I can see Donald throwing these lavish White House parties where there will be a dress code and all the men have to wear these ridiculously long red ties, and not much else, which would probably be much more up Nige’s street.
However it is pantomime season and I received an email from my celebrity friend who has been remarkably quiet of late. I removed him from the mailing list at his behest because he had complained that my life seemed so much more fun than his, but it looks like he has been playing catch up via the website.
Well yes, of course it is, and when you are relegated to the horse’s arse it can feel a bit like pushing something uphill. However Nige is happy to take on this role as long as The Donald takes up the front end and the Pony Club can plait his mane.
Imagine it; The Donald and Nige doing dressage, like Crystal Tips and Alistair, it will be more like Doctor Dolittle’s Pushme-Pullyou, you could franchise it for TV, and call it ‘Ballroom Blitz’ compered by Mickey Mouse dressed as a magician and waving a wand. Couples could include….. Why don’t you think about it?
I’ll start you off with Jeremy Clarkson and James May; Michael Gove and Michael Gove, Dear SIlvio and Vlad the Lad…
Suggestions on the back of a stamped, addressed envelope, don’t forget to include one of the new fivers, tallow aren’t I!
Finally the travel section, well given the amount I travel it is long overdue. Well maybe in the bumper Christmas edition of he newsletter!
Everybody is headed for the Canadian Border, and even the Canadian Immigration website crashed when all the Americans realised Nigel Farage Donald had won.
The ‘Perfect Storm’ is brewing
First Brexit and then The Donald, the wind of change is blowing a gale and the only thing not moving is Donald’s quiff.
Apparently Francois Hollande is impeach, I thought Michael Portillo and I were the only people who wore that colour!
Monsieur Hollande should take a tip from Donald’s coiffeur, as it probably costs a great deal of money to arrange this particular topiary, something little Frankie is not shy of, at least Donald looks like he gets value for money. Frankie’s hairdresser has to deal with his helmet hair, where as the Donald’s had a helmet made to minimise the effect!
You just know that his head will appear on a dollar bill one day. Perhaps the billion dollar note, which he will be unable to use because no one will be able, or want to give him change.
Much like the €500 note.
The Helmet
Donald is now familiarising himself with the White House.
Where best to have the photos for Hola taken, perhaps add a condo, or a golf course and resort.
But apparently he is having problems accessing one or two areas. Some of the doors are locked and he is being shadowed by someone from the FBI telling him there is nothing to see behind them!
They’ve even removed anything with buttons on, including the remote controls and microwaves just in case he gets the midnight munchies, or needs to go for a Wikileak and it ends in Armaggedon, rather than a Pot Noodle. Just when Hillary thought she had first dibs on Jon Bon Jovi, you wouldn’t want to miss a thing!
I’ve heard that he may be given one of those telephones with the big keys, but it’ won’t be wired up, as Vlad the Lad will be listening in.
He’s got that sulky look on his face that he gets when he’s done something to upset Ivana and she is reading the riot act, and Hugh Hefner (is he still with us?) is off the Christmas Card list, even at 90 he’s been staying up all night!
Wandering in the hallways of the White House, Donald is suddenly confronted by a faun, and the faun beckons him into one of the many bedrooms. Donald thinks finally the magic will happen and he will understand the inner machinations and workings that go on behind those locked doors.
The faun opens a wardrobe door and ushers Donald through, his tiny hands pushing away Melania’s fur coats, on and on the two of them wander until Donald feels his feet starting to get wet and suddenly the path drops steeply away, and Donald is falling; faster and faster, then there is daylight and Donald is catapulted through the air landing with a huge splash in a giant swimming pool to huge cheers.
When he surfaces, next to him in the pool are Hugh Hefner and Snoop Dog, leading the cheering crowd is Hillary dressed as the white witch and directing a Mexican wave!
Hillary and the crowd shout in Unison, “Welcome to our all inclusive resort!”
In the real world the person that appears to be Donald is softening his stance, keeping Obamacare and talking not about building stonewalls, but fences he can sit on.
Have you noticed how his hair is parted on the other side, and do his hands do seem slightly larger?
For goodness sake, give me five minutes sojourn from travelling, and celebrating my birthday in order to write a newsletter.
I thought you’d all be glad of a rest from all this drivel, but I have been reminded more than once, that I hadn’t written anything in ages.
This has meant that I have had to break off from my Bacchanalian feasting long enough to press fingers on keys and give my own peculiar take on world events.
My birthday; if you were not aware occurs on All Saints Day, this was a source of mirth for one or two of you. Moi the third Duke of Pimlico in a vineyard in Bordeaux at 3am with my reputation?
But my thoughts are drawn to current affairs…. No, the news, not my private life. For heaven sake, do you have to look at everything from a juxtaposition? I tried it, my back has only just recovered, and I know there are some of you who will go home and try this tonight, I warn you it’s not what you think, so don’t blame me.
Politics on both sides of the Pond is starting to look like a really bad haircut, with politicians fighting for attention, like Donkey in the Shrek movies, pick me, pick me. Waiting for Simon to press his Golden Buzzer.
Unfortunately it seems our politics have never been more polarised and the speeches are being made from the wings each playing to their own gallery, too scared or unable to understand how to take the centre stage.
The Washington and Westminster villages are starting to look like bubbles where the people on the inside are the ones wielding the pins and seem set on trying burst them!
I leave it to the Bard to Prologue the scene:
Two households, both unalike in dignity,
In fair Parliament, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean….
After Shakespeare.
Jingoism Unchained, the people are set free, we are all headed for Candyland.
Europe meanwhile, has been enjoying an Indian summer, et ego quoque.
I decided that this year the celebrations would mirror those of Bacchus, but only after I had returned to the white isle for one last swim. I have a small secluded beach I run to, where I can guarantee that I will not be troubled by people requiring my sartorial advice, where I can be at one with nature.
S’estanyol
Even in the middle of October the water in Ibiza was warm enough for me not to require a layer of goose grease, anyway it would be a terrible waste of foie!
Neil was on sparkling form, we were going to cycle together now that we have formed the Inkadelic Cycling Club, but a short, sharp shower put paid to that and Neil decided that I required a little more work. Raoul my ‘waxer’ was mortified, but he does scare easily and Halloween was just round the corner. He just kept muttering, is that blood, real blood?
It was my intention to post a photo of Neil at work, but it has been censored following several complaints after I had posted it on Facebook.
Inkadelic Cycling Club Ibiza
Neil has finally put down some serious roots on the island, and is looking forward to moving into his new pad in D’alt Villa next year.
We both made a new friend this year and our thoughts are with this new friend and his dad after Shifty came off worse in an altercation with a car. Shifty is a miniature pinscher and those of you who are that way inclined can follow him on Instagram ‘Shiftys_world’.
Instagram shiftys_world
My life is full of rich experiences, whether someone is chucking pound coins at me and demanding that I dance, perhaps this is what it is like being at a West Ham game (it transpires that the rent on the Olympic Stadium is less than I pay for the shop, how does that happen?); or an older lady telling me how much she admires how I fill out my clothes, it appears I’m on to a winning streak!
Bordeaux by night
My birthday celebrations took place in Bordeaux and Saint Emilion, swanning, not swaying round a couple of Chateaux.
My private tour was organised by ‘Bordeaux with Elodie’.
I cannot recommend Elodie and Laetitia highly enough.
They organised two wonderful days around Bordeaux.
A marvellous tour of two vineyards in Saint Emilion, Chateau Guadet, which is one of only two Chateau in the centre of the village, full of history and eerie limestone tunnels.
This was followed by a tasting of some magnificent wines, and before you ask, that is a bottle of Chateau Angelus, and yes we did taste 8 wines. Hic!
If I must!
And I may have bought the odd bottle.
This was followed by lunch and a visit to a more modern set up, at the newly renovated Chateau Tour Saint Christophe, set in the beautiful rolling hills around Saint Emilion. Wonderful wines with a different structure.
Laetitia drove us back to Bordeaux, via all the Chateaux of the area. The sun went down to end a perfect day.
Sunset over Chateau Angelus
The next day was spent at the Dune du Pyla, where I imagined I was Lawrence of Arabia… I can but dream, but by all accounts I have strange imagination and do not live in the real world.
Dune du Pyla
And lunch…… You can see the weather was kind.
La C(o)rniche
We have many new projects afoot including a 360 degree view inside the shop on both levels. Just drag the little dangly man on Streetview over the shop on Google Maps and by the power of the interweb you are beamed by Scotty straight onto the ground floor, press the lift button and the basement beckons.
There will be a new website, it will be attached to this blog and also as a separate entity and much more impressive presence on social media.
And if you have read all the way to the end, there will be a wine tasting soon, including some of the wines I brought back.
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 4th 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!
