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 2012 – Volpe Newsletter

Firstly, Jake is back from holiday – oh joy. And just as I was able to catch up on some work.

Congratulations to all our medal winners, a magnificent haul. It seems a shame that they won’t all be honoured in the time honoured way, a large contract with the BBC. They should be rewarded for their efforts, but somehow like exam results it is fashionable to move the goalposts just as the ball crosses the line. Perhaps to do a U turn, just to show we care. Of course by “we” I mean Dave and Nick, who I’m sure I will be snuggled up under the duvet of coalition as soon as it gets cold and the electricity prices go up.

Most of you seemed to scarper as soon as the Olympics started and were not to be seen again until we dropped the baton. But it did mean that you could get a table in any restaurant in London, and cross Piccadilly without looking.

Jake is now offering me his iphone 4S 64GB, so he can upgrade to the new iphone 5 when it comes out. At what he says will be at a preferential rate, he is even going to throw in a very attractive gold Wolves case! Aaaaaaarggghhhhh. Many of you missed the start of the football season. Oh, poor Jake; the first game a loss and now the board are selling off the crown jewels, left right and centre. Their season is over.

It is a similar dilemma for me, when asked, why there are never any plain blue or white shirts in the sale. It’s a simple answer, next season I will have to go out and buy the same thing again for more money. Have football clubs not grasped this simple concept? The key is in the word simple, or Joey Barton!

Talking of the crown jewels, I would have expected nothing less from Harry.

Well it’s not the first time, but once again I am writing this sat on an aeroplane. I have avoided jokes about the mile high club for the sake of the prurient amongst you. Is it really up, up and away?

Back to Florence again, life is full of hardship, but as Sam has been very quiet on the travel front, I thought I should take up his mantle. This weekend I should be meeting up with Sunil in a Castello near Viterbo. He is taking a holiday, wonders will never cease.

Things are going well there. But those of you who know, know, and those of you who don’t, I’m sorry for the moment my lips are sealed. Isn’t that so unlike me, but then I’m nothing but capricious.

And please, I am not helping “Dear Silvio” with his return. This is well underway, and they have found a stash of lire in a warehouse in Palermo which should boost the economy. ON everyone someone has written, please pass this on for luck……..

Obviously this was last weekend, but I was writing this beforehand, trying to show that there is input throughout the month.

Also I could recount every tube and bus journey, and the ins and outs of my Oyster Card, but I’d soon have you all asleep, and we’ve only just begun.

A few updates are in order. Jason is back from hols, and knowing his reputation, woe be tide any young ladies that might have been in his vicinity upon his Athenian travails, you know what happens. Shirley is not far from releasing her first born upon the world. By the time this is published she will have stopped working, and Marie tells me that the time is nigh. She could always spend her days reliving her pregnancy via my newsletters on the website, hoping the odd snigger may induce labour and get it all over with.

Some of you may remember Eugenia who used to come into the shop from time to time. Yes, she’s the one who we taught to see a second meaning in everything, a degree in double entendre. By we, I mean me, because poor Jake was too young and innocent. I did say he was! Eugenia is getting married later this year, to Ricardo from Ecuador. Eugenia is multi lingual. Good, avoided the obvious joke, but you know where I was going. She even speaks Swahili, which surprised the heck out of a friend of mine. I’m pretty sure she told him that his spear wasn’t as big as he thought. I think Ricardo knows what he is letting himself in for, and I did try to warn him, but perhaps he is blinded by her looks. She is very pretty. Sorry Gen, but you have grown into your ears. Oh, how I remember the days when we used to be able to pick you up by them!

Michael is in Mikonos, and has been on a diet for what seems like forever, and all he talks about is food, I think this has severely affected his mental state, and it’s made his legs turn yellow. Oh no, that’s the fake tan, and his feet are still cadaverous. B*$£h I can hear him say. I just wish I could be there to see him exit the water, a la Daniel Craig. I just hope he remembers to tie the cord on his trunks, up. But it would be so like him not to. However Michael is looking very svelte, he just tries to thwart me by buying macaroons from Pierre Herme (eat your heart out Laduree) this is the real deal.

Neil doesn’t appear to have noticed that I’m not in Ibiza, but I think his head has been turned by an Italian beauty supplied by Pink, who is down there helping Neil out.

Sorry another update, Neil has noticed that I’m not in Ibiza. By all accounts August has left him a nervous wreck. All of those acres of unadorned flesh have left his needles blunt, and only faithful Scratch for company.

And although he hasn’t been mentioned for a while my ‘D’ list celebrity “friend”, has been spotted promoting clubs on the beaches in Ibiza. This generally involves you walking around shirtless, tanned and surrounded by a bevvy of girls dressed the same way. However in his case it means dressed as a Pacha Cherry. A strange way of getting your five-a-day.

And finally Richard has been gone a year, but not forgotten. His chair remains, and perhaps I shall have a brass plaque made to honour him in his absence. Only recently have the emails been returned, perhaps he keeps tabs on my grammar via the website. He will always be able to return to somewhere, where he is known.

Sent from my ipad

 

Copyright © 2012 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

February 2012 – Volpe Newsletter

Some of you appear a little bemused by the newsletters. In conversations recently, one or two of you have expressed concern over my well-being, and the fact that you don’t have a clue what the heck I am going on about. Has it crossed your mind, that I may not have a clue either?

But let me explain. In the universe where I live, the sky is always blue, the sea is always warm, the grass is never greener, snow doesn’t go slushy, Boris Johnson is London Mayor, Nick Sarkozy is 6’2” and baby sweet corn is banned. Why? Well for some people it is clowns, for me it is baby sweet corn, cracks in the pavement, and hairs on the palms of my hand. The list doesn’t stop there, but I can see that one or two of you at the back are starting to drop off.

Why do I think like this? Well, on a Friday evening when the temperature was -5C and the wind chill made it feel like -15C, I met Duran (underwear model). He was wearing shorts and rollerblades! OK he had a t-shirt on, for a change. No wonder I am, what I am.

As for poor M. Sarkozy, he has been getting some stick for spending 10K a day on food. Somehow I don’t think he’ll be eating baby sweet corn. Anyway back to the 10K per day. When I sit down to supper with Nick and Carla, they generally stump a week’s worth of cash on the wine alone. She and I may play footsie under the table, whilst she feeds me oysters. Sorry, did I just think that? Or did I really put pen to paper? It couldn’t be Nick’s feet, but I don’t think his legs are long enough, and the invite always say “no heels”, so what am I to wear? I’d taken up pole dancing to keep fit and I thought the stripper heels would be just perfect.

Sam is still living the life. This visit was sans famille, just between Mumbai, Dubai and goodbye. Apparently he’s off to Mars next year, lucky fellow, there and back in a weekend on Airmiles by all accounts. Let’s just hope he takes the family, if they will let the kids out of school.

Neil is in Norway staring at the Aurora Borealis. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was lying on his back in his flat in Ibiza surrounded by mushroom stalks. But photos of him exist outside Noma in Copenhagen, and he did go inside and eat with Eugene.

Greg, the cougar magnate, has been disciplined for sleeping overnight in the office after a particularly heavy session. I should hope so too. If the gutter is good enough for me, then it should be for him. No good falling asleep with your head on the keyboard. You’ll probably find when you wake up you’ve cost your employers several billion dollars. Anyway, he wanted me to get a table at The Wolseley for Valentines, then he didn’t, then he did, then he didn’t. Oh come on, I’ve got a newsletter to write.

On the quiet, The Wolseley has become my dead letter drop. I have a great friend in Marie, who I often see at breakfast. She doesn’t have an email or do the internet, so I supply her regularly with envelopes stuffed with the newsletter, usually via Jason or Shirley. They can then discreetly pass on the mighty tome. I am awaiting her feedback, but as she clearly thinks I’m mad already, I don’t think anything I have written will change her mind.

Jason may be moving on to greater things. He has intimated that I may have to learn an entirely new set of social skills to communicate with his replacement. Suddenly I am racked with self-doubt I think I may be too old to change. Surgery can only alter so much it may take years of therapy to cope with this.

But, I suppose this is what you’ve really been waiting for. The back pages, and Don Fabio and the saga of the invisible man ‘aka’ ‘Arry. Now I don’t care what you might think, but I feel sorry for Don Fabio.  At least he has been less colourful than some of his predecessors. Who can forget Mr Burns with Nancy, Ulrika et al, and Dutch my akshent ish schlipping. Perhaps Mourinho will throw his hat in the ring, buying a house in London. He’s never been known to play to the media, ever.

Don Fabio had a thankless task trying to marshal 11 hopeless narcissists into a team, with their ridiculous rivalries, quiffy hair and diamond jewellery. Suddenly I reminded of, me, me and me. I guess trying to manage eleven of me would prove too much for anyone. Fortunately no more than three of my personalities manifest themselves at any one time.

Stop Press: Big Mick has gone. I had told Jake to take the case off and leave it off, but no. Between games he’d put it back. It’s like England having a part time manager. In the end, I think it jinxed Mick. He’ll never forgive me for that one! But he has been on Twitter berating journalists about getting God the sack. However he is starting to accept the interim replacement. Thank goodness he keeps muttering, not Steve Bruce.

 

Copyright © 2012 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.