Mine will be 88 in a few weeks. So I felt it might be a good idea to spend a few days with her because on the actual day I will no doubt be in Ibiza, celebrating it on her behalf!
However, the weekend did create a few interesting moments.
Some of you will have heard me tell of her epic levels of fitness, and the 80 steps she climbs at least once a day to her front door. It is not a pilgrimage worshipped, but a trip to recycle the empties! She’d raise a glass to that.
In my case, the grape didn’t fall far from the vine.
Living in Somerset, getting around can be problematic, the local bus company has just gone bust and taxis are few and far between. So if my brother and I are ‘Casa Mama’ she likes to get out and about.
This last weekend was glorious, long days, cloudless skies and warm sunshine.
On the Monday we went to the Valley of the Rocks in Lynton and my mother decided she was going to walk the South West Coast Path. The path although tarmacked, is only 3 feet wide with a sheer drop of 300 feet to the sea below on one side, and has no railing. Mum set off at a pace that would have Paula Radcliffe breathing hard.
Valley of the Rocks – The South West Coast Path
What I have failed to mention is that my mother suffers from Macular Degeneration and carries a white stick at all times! It is known as the ‘Nutkin Slayer’ due to the number of squirrels that have perished at its hand. When I ask mum about the state of her eyesight she pulls the Donald Pleasance trick from ‘The Great Escape’, I can’t tell you how many damn pins I have stood on in her kitchen.
I jogged along at her shoulder for well over a mile ensuring she didn’t make a hasty Brexit, then she ignored my offer of directions and we ended up a mile from the car. This lady wasn’t for turning, so whilst she sat and sipped a cup of Earl Grey, I jogged back to fetch it.
Mother, you want to walk WHERE?
We adjourned for lunch at The Black Venus in Challacombe, and before you ask she wasn’t the one of the ‘Three Graces’ that was banished for bad behaviour. It is a lovely pub, with wonderful food, and great service.
I have oft complained that there is nowhere local to my mother for a decent meal, but it seems times have changed. OK, my mother doesn’t drive; thankfully, and Challacombe is too far to go for an evening meal, however it was a wonderful treat for us.
On the list next time for mum and a must, is Reeves in Dunster. Absolutely fantastic is all I can say; the fact the sun was shining and we were sat in a walled garden dating back to the Norman Conquest looking at Dunster Castle only added to the pleasure of it. I shall pack mum into a taxi, or worse still get one of her octogenarian friends to drive her, the Yarn Market opposite has been standing for nearly a millennium, what could happen?
Before you ask, I have been abroad this month; I may have been to Ibiza.
Yes OK, twist my arm, it’s where I started the month. But now you’ve got me started!
Haircut?
My friends had a suitable haircut after last year, the marina is still the tripping hazard it always was. Oh, come on; not like that.
Queen Scratch
Neil and Scratch are on amazing form. The master continues to ply his trade, and I am starting to see shoots of maturity in his behaviour. He has taken up cycling, although from our conversations, it seems he is cycling mainly downhill. We lunched at Puerto de Cielo, a chiringuito perched high on a cliff near to San Antonio, a far flung place, yet sat on the next table was a client of mine from Miami. I am now world famous (I know not for what!), but you are now reading this odd little ditty in 117 countries. Reading may be too strong a word, but the pictures do paint a thousand emoticons! 😉
The mighty man at work. His genius is his art.
Inkadelic
We Club Tropicana’d it at Pikes for an afternoon before I allowed Neil to do a little work.
Is that the Bus Stop?
The following day I left Ibiza and headed for Mallorca for 24 hours, and our new cycling base. Adam you have duped me once too often, not satisfied with the Velcro running suit, you tempted me with…. I’d rather not say! Well OK, a spa and a Raki massage. The voice plays tricks on the ears on a mobile phone! It turned out to be 24 hours of Ikea, first in the store and then constructing chest of drawers, after chest of drawers and Adam stood over me, stop watch in hand. I left a broken man, but at least with all my parts intact!
However there is a German Schloss devoid of 15ft of BB Italia leather sofa, tables and chairs, how all that fell off the back of lorry I’ll never know!
My feet had barely touched the ground, when I headed for Florence and Milan. Cloth from Andrea for a lucky few and Milan for ties.
So ice cream… Ooops
Fondente!
Photos of Monica Bellucci.
SPQR – Monica Bellucci
Try saying it.
Sapphire rings.
Should have put a ring on it…
Wake up, I’ve not finished yet!
I stayed at Fifty Eight Suite in Milan. Guys, superb thank you so very much. Comfort and style in the centre of Milan.
May has also been cultural. An evening of Mozart’s Requiem, by candlelight in St. Martin’s in the Fields and a scary afternoon watching of watching a dozen Punch and Judy shows, tucked away in Covent Garden. Oh no you didn’t, Oh yes I did, and I have the mental scars to prove it!
Mozart – He shoots, he scores
Mental Scars
A little stock, for those who are interested, the beach towels are back and at least you can dry the rain off, if you don’t get to lie in the sun! For those of you who are that way inclined, or prone to lying down…
Carp Beach Towel – SOLD OUT
Crane Beach Towel
As it was a Sundae I went to The Colony Grill at The Beaumont Hotel, and as if by magic this appeared.
Sundae Lunch
Finally I leave with one of my mother’s gems. We were talking culture, well, mum was talking and I was nodding as if to show a faint understanding of what she was talking about. In discussion she spoke of Keneth Brannagh, and how he has moved on and his mantle is now being carried by the likes of ‘Cummerbitch’…
After those of you who thought last month’s photo was of me, this is not my Mother!
Sport appears to be imploding all around us and I wanted to wait a little for all the wailing, crying, backstabbing and recriminations to subside before commenting.
The strange game with the ball that is not round has finished, and we won what looks like a beautifully carved wooden spoon. So those of you who support other slightly less successful rugby teams, I can see you gazing on in envy…
A Welsh friend of mine who will remain nameless, Daffyd, his favourite flower being a daffydil, sent me a rather tasteless and pointless photo of a Welsh Dragon torching Twickenham. It makes a change of the last one he sent me of him surrounded by his sheep with the caption ‘My Hareem’. Revenge is a dish best served cold, apart from lamb, which I prefer pink!
I have spared his blushes and only posted the photo of the dragon.
Welsh Dragon?
And who’d have thought it 10/10 for the England footballers. Granted, not the most difficult group to qualify from, and my Nan’s Village Hall Eleven could have beaten Lithuania. Apparently Miles Storey may be spending his next loan session in my Nan’s team. So he will then have played at a City, a Town and a Village.
Young Mr Storey isn’t the only one getting around, Ibiza Neil is touring the Far East as ‘Emergency Tattoo Artist’ to David Morales and the crew. This I’m sure, is just in case mid set one of the DJs has a crisis of confidence and requires a little inkie touch up here or there.
I am a simple soul. So this made me smile.
Water on Mars
I took the new, massively hyped iAdrianS on a gentle bender (test). No, not a gender test.
The current model’s power cells are topped up by solar power, which is obviously one of the reasons why I need to travel so much, I will chase the sun like Icarus. A ‘Supermoon’ every 30 years is not good enough.
Supermoon
I hope that we may be able to do away with the solar feature at some point in the future, otherwise we will struggle to sell any beyond the Tropics of Capricorn and Cancer given the summer we have had.
Scorpio and my name is Adrian
Now I don’t like a woman that’s quiet
A woman who carries herself like Mr Universe
Mmm take my hand
Come with me baby, to Love Land
Let me show you how sweet it could be
Sharing loving with me
I want…………
Goodness me the absinthe is hanging around in my system! Float, float on…
Currently I am in talks with VW about a diesel powered version. They are little cagey about the data, but they have showered me with so many gifts, how could I say no?
A breakfast companion of mine is keen on getting her daily dose of Vitamin D, stripping off at the drop of a hat at the sun’s zenith, apparently whatever, wherever and whenever the moment takes her, she calls it her Martini moment, I know she’s not solar powered perhaps she’s just an exhibitionist, et moi?
Upward/Downward Dog – Regents Park
This lady also thinks that I am some kind of exotic, international playboy!
I’ll have you know that this lady is not Lorraine Chase, firstly that was Cinzano not Martini, and secondly I don’t fly from Luton Airport unless I am sedated.
The iAdrianS test was to involve the unit taking part in yoga on Mallorca, so hopefully the hardware and software should work in unison, just in time to blow the bloody doors off in Ibiza, closing parties? Pah!
The yoga was organised through friends of mine who have Sardinia Yoga, they provide yoga breaks in various locations in the Med, not just Sardinia, just in case you thought the iAdrianS mapping system and location services weren’t functioning correctly.
The training aspect of the trip was to involve cycling, so I would have got my Lycra fix. Given how poor the summer has been, I’ve had to wear a fat suit under the Lycra to keep warm on the bike, not my usual svelte look.
And should I have a problem with the firmware, I’ve brought along a little Papa Smurf to help…
For those of you who think I may be losing it by taking up yoga, I will warn you that as always I have an ulterior motive. I have yet to work out what that is, but come the end I will have worked one out! I mean it’s not as if there will be semi-clad people contorting themselves into strange and exotic positions. So another night at the Piers Gaveston Society looks as though it is on the cards, and Dave will be having the Suckling Pig!
That is before he sinks his pearly whites into Jezza.
It’s not going to be a seven course menu degustazione is it? Or more likely, a particularly small ‘amuse bouche’, or one of those sorbets to de-glaze your mouth between courses. Given that all around him are laying into him with gusto he will be nice and tender. Grind his bones to make my bread.
No trip to Mallorca is complete without a visit to 4 kilos
The yoga went well between the thunder storms, yet the cycling and running didn’t happen, the weather put paid to that. I changed hotels and headed north towards Pollenca, bad idea, on so many levels…
I’d hoped for some good weather to put the iAdrianS through his paces, but it was dull and by the time I had finished dinner in a lovely restaurant called Marisco in Can Picafort it was raining, and then it began to properly rain. I made it back to the hotel to be greeted by International Line Dancing Week.
No really, it’s true. At any one time there were 100 German men and women shaking their thing to ‘My Achy Breaky Heart’; when out the line stepped Daisy Duke, or will his name be Duke Daisy, a transvestite of well over six feet tall dressed as a blonde cowgirl. OMG.
I was having a conversation on Whatsapp with a young lady at the time, she asked for photographic proof, now she wishes she hadn’t, and is still being treated for shock.
So this has turned into a rather long, rambling newsletter, and there is no stopping me now, gathering no lichen…
Florence in the Rain
Storm clouds are building
After a long, damp day in Florence, I hopped on a train and headed through the Apennines. I followed this with a very late night fighting over a steak with Emanuele Putin in a misty Bologna.
As I walked towards the mystic portal, light surrounded me, a wooden door creaked open and I was warmly greeted by Vladamir Addone. What happened next is the stuff of folklore that has become Drogheria della Rosa.
Mystic Portico
The Portico Opens
Comrade Addone
So “Blatter, Valke and Platini”, sounds like a pawnbrokers; have all been suspended for a short period. One of them is very short, period! A source tells me that they have been placed in a sack with a snake to fight amongst themselves, on a boat to Australia. Let them deal with the immigration fallout from that one, and again ooooooh Mr Bond once they run out of food they will only be able to eat one thing; rat.
Clearly I’m using the newsletter to gear up for the launch of SPECTRE.
A little bird has told me that the former Toronto mayor Rob Ford is being ‘lined up’ to succeed Cepp the mushroom. Once again I am just throwing jokes around like confetti. Oh, how you spoil us your Excellency.
As his Excellency I now have a Palazzo all to myself in Bologna.
Palazzo Volpe
Finally when travelling by air, look around you.
On our approach to Florence, the woman next to me started to get excited, talking in an animated fashion into to her earpiece, something about looking for a clue.
In a flash, the Lycra lady leapt to her feet, shouted “Eureka”, opened the door to the plane and jumped out. The last thing I saw was her rear disappearing into the fresh air.
As the book is started, and the characters are developed, there is one who freely admits he hasn’t progressed beyond childhood, my cup now runneth over and my creative juices are flowing once again. I could crush a grape! Stop pouring Vash.
Looks like there is another book about me doing the rounds. In it, I am painted as something of a Peter Pan character, with the attributes of Captain Hook, and none of those of Mary Poppins. I’ve heard it is one of the greatest works of fiction ever written. I think its title is “The Life I Never Led”. Tick – tock, tick – tock.
Ever the optimist I will wait for the sequel, it will be quite a challenge to improve on the last one, and I think most of the character development of those involved in the original has been exhausted. So as Tim Robbins said, perhaps I should write two (news) letters a week.
The book will easily transfer to a film. As always Tom Cruise will be aching to play me, but I will have to choose carefully. Perhaps this time, a gritty British actor, I see endless possibilities ahead. Gerard Butler almost has the body, but that inpenetr… accent of his, means that whatever I try to get across in my strange written style will be further lost by his delivery. Or Jason Statham, who comes close, but is always after my ideas for his next suit. I could choose Brando, but then the resemblance would be uncanny, and I love ice cream, especially the dark chocolate one, called Fondente from La Carraia in Florence. Oh, how I miss that.
Versions of the screenplay will appear, but it should have been written by Harold Pinter, sadly he is on a rather long pause; the music by? Certainly not, he’s really out of favour, and I couldn’t stand the wife constantly interfering in my life and affairs. And sadly Richard is no longer around to critique it. How I miss our chats together. He would have constantly corrected my grammar, but I would never have minded.
By now you’ve all read my Ibiza exploits, the tattoos are healing nicely. Not like last time, when 6 hours in Lycra hot pants meant they took an age to heal. Perhaps wearing the mankini at the same time to travel back in didn’t help either. I don’t want to make Neil that angry again, but I’ll do anything to wave my glo’stick at the night sky.
The dog days of summer will soon be with us. Already people are casting off their winter shells, hibernation is over. The cast that has been attacking your cashmere has become a moth, and fluttered off to lay its eggs and destroy another garment. An exasperated customer told me recently that she had lost so much cashmere to moths, that she was going with her kids to the Butterfly House at Syon Park, to allow them to exact their own form of revenge!
That said we should go back to La Carraia. Oh, yes I should, oh no you shouldn’t, oh stop it. My life is not a pantomime no matter what you think. Anyway, on my last visit to Florence, I can’t say when, it was for legal reasons; they delivered a bath load of Fondente, to my hotel. It’s great for the skin, if not for the waistline. Well I did have to eat my way out.
Some are given to bathing in donkeys (yes I know it’s as*$#s) milk, well I couldn’t possibly comment? No really it would be rude to insult their intelligence. I preferred to bath in the rich cool chocolatiness of Fondente. Attached is a photo. Yes I know there is another flavour, it is Fior di Panna. There were photos of me in the bath, but I wanted you to read to the end of this, rather than swoon at this point, so they were omitted.
Ever reminded of Frankie Howerd, I always want to shout “Up Pompeii” each time someone crosses my path. Well OK, up something, but once again we must be sympathetic to spam filters, theirs is a joyless existence. Stopping this, restricting that, what has the world come to! Anyway that’s why I couldn’t post the photos of me in the bath.
My friends can post photos of themselves snorkelling without clothes in the alpine snow. It was absinthe, m’lud, not abstinence that did it. The little green light at the bottom of the bottle said, go, go, go. And so I did. At this point I will introduce a link to a friend’s blog. Gehan writes the Martini Mandate, give it a go, you’ll enjoy it: www.martinimandate.com
Perhaps the Ibiza exploits don’t seem quite so bad now. Eugene and Ina are back in Copenhagen. If you are ever there and are looking for a coffee, his is the place to go. We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when. Oh yes we do, oh no we don’t, oh give it a rest! We will reminisce, swap stories and then start the party all over again. Hopefully this time with a full compliment.
Real life continues no matter what fantasies I create for myself. Last weekend I went to see Oblivion, just to see if TC was up to playing me. Apparently it was shot in Iceland. The scenery was breath-taking, so I will be booking a trip to see the aurora borealis, be TC and eat whale blubber, any takers?
Eventually even I have to stop tapping the keyboard, but I do have to mention Jake. As many of you who follow football have sympathised with him, he is now sobbing gently under the stairs, when the mighty Wolves are meekly heading for oblivion.
Cast your mind back 12 months, or at least take a look at last year’s October Newsletter, and I draw your attention to the closing line.
Finally someone got there, but we will return to this rich vein.
Now one or two of you out there, and there are one or two of you out there, have said last month’s Newsletter was a little flat; that I could have tried harder, more studio in Kensal Rise, than penthouse in Mayfair, just going through the motions.
Well excuse me, I was trying, not that you thought so. So I am hoping this is my Skyfall, when on reflection Quantum of Solace wasn’t all that bad. Bond is the only person I know with more gadgets than Jake, he is our own personal “Q”.
Jake’s hoping that he may discover a way of predictive, predictive text, spotting the errors before he thinks of them, or reading my mind, so not much hope of that then as I thought of it first. I know your game sonny Jim, and it’s not going to save the Wolves.
So I will continue to blindly stab at the keys on my now ancient ipad. However to avert total blindness I have resorted to wearing spectacles, because that is what they are. Most people have been quite complimentary about them, but little did you know they have an x-ray vision mode. I always wanted a pair of them after I saw them in the back of a comic as a child, however trust me you don’t always want them switched on. Ewwwwweee.
Saturday afternoons are amongst my favourite moments in the shop. Normally I have Darren and Michael around for company. Darren knows as much about clothing as anyone I know, and Michael, well Michael is Michael. His favourite scent as you now know is Auld Wood (sic.), Darren described the smell as the essence of Viagra and crushed Werthers Originals, so once again we are back with Jimmy Savile.
Between Darren and Michael I think they have tried most of Mr Ford’s fragrances, and they agree that Auld Wood is the best. As I do not use a fragrance and prefer to air dry after a shower, I couldn’t possibly comment. Try and banish that thought from your memory, but the multi-coloured toe nails and tattoos always provoke a comment or two in the gym. As you can see my coterie of waxers and polishers are once again dutifully employed.
Michael is going to have to move out of his house for nine months, after being flooded by a neighbour. The flooding was so severe that they are going to have to rip out the concrete floors, because the water has penetrated the under floor heating system, turning the whole house into a giant toaster. I’m going round with the brioche and foie gras before he moves.
Neil has been and gone. He came to arrange his visa for India and get drunk with me. Once again he is off to sit atop a mountain and gaze upon the setting sun, perhaps after trying a natural herbal remedy it might resemble the setting sun. Take some more remedy Neil, the effect is wearing off.
Italy is now jailing anybody who has predicted anything. After jailing the seismologist who didn’t predict the strength of the earthquake in Aquilla, they are lining up cases against the weather forecasters, and if you are interested in your horoscope they may well burn you at the stake, as a witch. As we know the results of Italian football matches are predicted weeks in advance, giving you plenty of time to get a bet on. Where the offside rule is wilfully misunderstood, and the refs cover their mouths so you can’t see what they are saying once they have finally made a decision and informed the powers that be, of the details of their Swiss bank account. In fact I predict the word “predict” may have to be removed from the language altogether, along with “taxes”. Oh, sorry they have done that already.
This weekend I saw the first snow of the winter. I was at Montesenario, a convent on a hilltop just outside Florence. In the summer it can be a little crowded because of the beautiful views over all of Tuscany. On days like Sunday it is deserted and there is a strange, eerie silence when the clouds are low and the rain has turned to snow. However there is a cafe to stop, take respite from the weather and enjoy a glass of wine. Once again I have returned to my creative writing course and I have become Sean Connery to Jake’s, Christian Slater. In order to control nature, one must first learn to obey it. As yet I am no Umberto Eco, as some of you have pointed out.
Recently when I have returned from Florence, I have been smuggling in various Neapolitan tarts, supplied by Rita, and one or two of you who live locally have been very keen to sample them, along with an espresso with a little something in it, perhaps a Grappa or Sambuca. Close to Florence there is a town called Montecatini-Terme, and it has a certain reputation, where you can also relax and sample tarts of all descriptions. However there is a local expression, “finito solde, finito amore”, I can assure you the love of our tarts lasts a little longer.
Dimme tutto cara.
If you are reading this the day after I sent it, then today is my birthday. It is a national holiday in many countries, how thoughtful of them. I am beyond celebrating them. They are just a reminder of how well I misspent my youth. How I would love to go back and take that callow youth to one side and explain to him that it will all be OK in the end, and that you should never really worry about what other people think, be yourself, enjoy your life to the full. So to those of you who thought last month’s Newsletter could have been better, my answer is ” Yes I know, and I thank you for your input, and I accept the criticism gracefully, you were perhaps right. However it’s my Newsletter and like my life, it’s for me to mess up. So I’m off to do more legal drugs, have more tattoos and get very, very drunk. So who else is coming?” Vash (Who also had a birthday this week), open a bottle, your work starts now.
Seneca said, “If you wish to be loved, love”.
Well I think that had a bit everything, humour, self-pity, philosophy and pathos.
Oh, and I forgot a little Jimmy Savile, thank goodness, he never fixed it for me.
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.
This is not being written on my new ipad3, as it is currently taking a cold shower. Apparently it is running very hot, or so I’m told. So back to the original.
OK, after last month’s panic, I should clear up a few things for those of you that were worried. Jason is not leaving The Wolseley, he will always be an omnipresent being, and Jake isn’t leaving either. Although Jake applied, he was not accepted for the job as Mick McCarthy’s replacement, nor the vacant England position. Cue more ranting on Twitter. What did I tell him about the cover for his iphone? It is official, Wolves are going down……
This month’s big news? Shirley is moving house. Well, yes she is, but better than that, she is with child and looks radiant. This not how she feels, or so she tells me. Now, I am not laying the blame at Jason’s door, but this is the third young lady who has been affected in this way, by his mere presence. Hens and eggs! Perhaps Jason could be dropped into areas of low population density and left to roam the streets like a “Lynx” advert.
He sat Jake and me opposite my celebrity nemesis this week for brekkie. Best tables in the house. A veritable boxers staring competition, would I stoop so low, would I heck? You know me better than that, moi, pass up a fight? It was like Zoolander, I was Ben Stiller to his Mugato. Yes, I know the other character is Owen Wilson, but Mugato bears a closer resemblance. I think my “Blue Steel” needs a little work, but I was victorious. At least I can turn right, unlike someone I know. Whilst driving a car they are unable to turn right across oncoming traffic. This has led to some horrific detours, taking them miles out of their way, even into neighbouring countries, just to pop down to the shops.
Girls, I expect to see Duran today. He will bring me my new rollerblades. Yes, I know I’m too old, but the need for speed and all that. Oh, vanity thy name is Adrian. He will however have his shirt on given that summer has now been and gone, so form an orderly queue.
The new wheels coincide with a new App for my iphone “Endomondo”, which I use for running, it is excellent, and there is a free version. So I’ll be out tomorrow laying down some mileage, or just lying in the road just moaning. Siri could call me an ambulance, it will make a change from calling me darling!
Michael is back from Miami, where he had a fantastic time. I can’t go into all the gory details, but whatever he did has severely affected his memory. As far as I can ascertain, he can remember leaving his friend’s home every evening, but the return journey appears to be missing, a man after my own heart. One staff member was leaping for joy upon Michael’s return, running round the shop, shouting Michael’s back, Michael’s back. Well he’d promised to bring back “Jelly Beans”. He did not disappoint, bags full of them, we’re all feeling slightly sick now.
He is swapping jobs, and was hoping for a few months gardening leave. All kinds of extravagances were arranged. The release of a thousand doves, a week of intense massage on a beach in paradise, learning to make “Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut”, because, and I quote “I love cheap chocolate”. Well with his taste in other things, obviously he has to cut back somewhere. Unfortunately this story does not have a “happy ending”! He is being made to work his notice, not a happy bunny.
His mood improved after he was presented with a little gift I found him in Rome. As he said, “They are so me”! Fur-lined driving shoes, I was so hoping that he wouldn’t like them so I could have them for myself, no such luck.
Talking of Rome, I was back there last week. I realise that you all feel that I am solely a creative being and my hands have never seen a hard days work. I put it down to mild green “Fairy Liquid”. I stayed somewhere new, for the first and last time. The photos promised so much, and like an online dating site delivered so little. Considering traffic is barred from so many streets in central Rome, it is the noisiest place I have ever stayed in. It required 4 separate keys to enter the room from the street, the last of which to the room, was a wardrobe key. A further key was required to get into the breakfast area, which appeared to be run automatically, as I never saw another sole. Where on my attire I was going to find room for such a large bunch of keys, proved to be a massive challenge.
The bathroom was so dark, yes, even with the lights on shaving was a bit of a cut and thrust affair, and was the location of the only mirror. At no point could I view myself full length. Oh stop sniggering!
Don’t forget, if you would like to relive my past glories, or even find where you may (or may not) have been mentioned in a newsletter, visit www.volpeblog.wordpress.com for a trip down Memory Lane. Or Amnesia Avenue.
Yes, a little Halloween humour, and as you know the newsletter is more trick than treat
And tomorrow is my birthday. Yes, All Saints Day and 21 again.
No wise cracks please.
I had hoped that writing the newsletter would have cured me of my insomnia, but the worry of trying to be amusing month after month is taking its toll, keeping me awake night after night, also worrying where my new ipad2 is. The original ipad has no space left for Apps, and why is it the App I want is always on page 83 of my screens?
One morning after my workout with OT, I returned to the shop to find the door unlocked and the lights on. Most days I go into the shop early, just to switch a few things on and check emails, just in case any of you are up that early, before I head off for breakfast or the gym. But I never leave the lights on and the door unlocked. As I peered in through the door I could make out Jake’s unshaven features. He had arrived very early, 9am, and was waiting to take delivery of his iphone 4S. If this is what it takes to get him out of bed in the mornings, it is going to be a very expensive process. The waiting was finally rewarded the phone was delivered at 3.17pm. However the worst part of it? He has a Wolves shiny gold case (looking slightly duller as each result rolls in – Jake wrote this bit, so don’t complain that I’m giving him a hard time).
And he now only appears concerned with the number of sleeps until Christmas. Does this mean he doesn’t intend to sleep after Christmas?
At breakfast the other morning, Jason at The Wolseley was sharing a little gossip regarding him and Shirley, she is delightful. Don’t I sound like Michael Winner? The day before they had been out to check on the competition, well you know how it is when the day lasts a little longer than it should, but I really think you both are a bad influence on each other and only have each other to blame. I will say no more!
I have also seen Adam’s Ann (Break into a chorus of Prince Charming, Prince Charming) from Cuckoo’s Knob, and what a pleasure it was too. Oh, never mind, am I the only one who remembers the eighties? But it looks like I’m showing my age. Ann appears to be well on the mend, apart from the dizzy spells, and suddenly I am reminded of Friday.
For the mathematicians amongst you, I have been going to a Wine Bar in Leicester Square on and off for about 30 years. I have seen all the managers drunk, and they may have seen me occasionally worse for wear, but Vash the current manager is one of my best friends and I would like to take this opportunity to wish him a Happy Birthday, and he can have Saturday morning’s hangover back. Don, the previous owner of this fine establishment always espoused that life was too short to drink bad wine. Quantity, never quality was always going to be my downfall.
Last week I was back in Rome. Life is hard I hear you say in unison, but the highlight was hopping on a train to Bologna, so I didn’t have to fly back from Fumicino. After visiting a supplier, I had just enough time to visit a chocolate shop called Roccati before returning. Quite excellent chocolate made on the premises and you can see them making it. Apparently Dear Silvio loves it in here, but then you know the old expression about being made out of chocolate. Eeewwwww. Banish the thought Silvio. I always spend far too much money, but I think once every six months is OK.
The clocks have gone back….. For heaven’s sake, Ann has just sent me an email. Will I never get this newsletter finished? I thought the extra hour would give me more time, but I can see I’m going to have to head for the International Date Line, in order to create myself a few extra hours. The International Date Line is not what some of you might think, it is not some chat line to arrange some sort of Bunga Bunga party. What do you take me for?
And as for the passing of Jimmy Saville, when will somebody say what they really think?
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.
After another thrilling bout of end of season excitement Jake has returned blinking into the daylight after hiding under the stairs, only to find out that little Shrek has had a hair transplant. At least Wayne has had the good grace to man up to it, like those prostitute tales. I hate it when people resort to superinjunctions.
I can’t wait for Wayne to be sporting dreadlocks by Poznan 2012. He’s certainly looking a lot more cheerful these days.
Do you know how long it took me to get Jake back to work? I’m going to have to coax him back out again by promising not to jinx Wolves again, and with all the preseason transfer speculation, it’s not as though they don’t need any help. That’s it, I’m banning him from Twitter.
Where’s that? I hear you ask. Don’t worry, I had to look it up too. It’s in Poland and is accessible via Ryanair from Liverpool, a match made in heaven, and fine for Stevie G.
After complaints about the erratic delivery of the newsletters, please be aware that henceforth I shall dispense with formal dates and just send them when the mood suits.
I even got a text asking how I determine when the mood suits and what goes on in the darkest recesses of my warped mind in order to stir the creative juices to a point where they start to flow. I’ve paraphrased the message because producing it verbatim would cause spam filters to explode, which kind of gives you a clue to the content.
Some of you have asked if I’ve been taking steroids to create my pumped look. I didn’t know you cared, well except the person who sent me the text, and of course my stalker. And the customer whose inside leg I was measuring. But that’s a story for another newsletter. The answer is no. It is nothing more than a good healthy diet and lots of exercise under the instruction of my trainer Otaniyien.
One of you who asked is Welsh. Look you, you more than most should know how much effort it takes to chase sheep, especially the young and frisky ones at this time of year.
I’ve nearly got the application of the protective screen to my iPad to a point where it no longer looks like deflated bubble wrap, and no, it’s not one large bubble that covers the entire screen, have some faith, please. Sadly for you lot I can now read what I am typing. Up to this point these have just been a fortuitous collection of key strokes falling into place.
Anyway, the sun is out, the sky is blue, there’s not a cloud to spoil the view……Yes, you get the idea, I’m travelling again. Back to Rome this time to work on next summer’s collection. So soon I hear you cry, but darlinks, I vork in fashion where nothing is qvite vhat it seems, and where Zoolander is more documentary than parody.
It’s not as if we’ve enjoyed the giddy heights of this years’ June downpour, a covered up Centre Court, and the bumper strawberry crop infecting everyone with a new and exotic strain of bug. Well rather that than a Teutonic cucumber (yes, I know it was bean sprouts, but when has the image they convey ever been funny?).
Jason at the Wolseley asked me to resend May’s Newletter, because his iPhone crashed, and he missed his mention him in that one. I duly obliged on condition that he never sits me next to……………”Mr super injunction” and “Miss super injunction” again. It’s not as though I can repeat a word they said.
But wait, spare a thought for Anthony Weiner, and his lover and aspiring actress in the adult field, Ginger Lee. I mean, is that how they do it? Ginger Lee? And is someone not pronouncing his name correctly? I thought it was always “i” before “e”, but perhaps we should consult a linguist. You couldn’t make it up could you? Well I could, but could I do any better than a Jodie Foster film about Mel Gibson and a beaver?
Now for the plug. Oh, for goodness sakes sit down at the back. You really are a rowdy lot.
Mark Williams of Mail Shot International has been our courier service both domestic and international for some time. They offer a very efficient and friendly service, and I feel he deserves a mention for the heroics he undertakes. And he never asks what we really put in the parcels.
Finally, Greg is off to the wedding in Florence, so we wish him well. He contemplated flouting the dress code, but I talked him down. At least he will now wear something in the heat.
Stop press: Olympic ticket allocation, badminton, basketball, tae kwan do, handball, basketball, and wait for it……..women’s beach volleyball. Everybody I had asked had applied for these tickets, but these are mine and not for sharing…… unless!
This is being written on my new gadget of the month, big up to Matthew for the ZAGGmate keyboard for iPad. But now the iPad2 is on the way, what shall I do?
WARNING: Contains offensive and cruel jokes, or so some of you have been telling me.
That Wedding has been and gone and I’m new man enough to say that I watched quite a bit with my wife and mother in law. I regarded it as my duty to be able comment here on matters sartorial. Can’t have too many hats, gloves and scarves! Besides, it was too dangerous to ask them for the remote, a kind of World Cup for the “ladies”.
All I want to know. Was Mike Tindall sitting next to Tara Palmer-Tomkinson?
My other duty was to hold the fort, repel boarders and generally not trying to think of those of you who took the three days in the middle to relax and enjoy yourselves. Hope you enjoyed yourselves. I was doing the VAT.
But anyway, I think it is time to introduce you to a new character. Oh yes, she is real enough. It seems Brenda has found her “hedge fund hubby” and probably chained him to a radiator somewhere, just feeding him Rich Tea biscuits (’cause she thinks they’re posh, well they were for me), whilst raiding his shrinking bank account.
So let me introduce Rosie to the fold. She’s a blonde and a fast piece, that’s for sure. Rosie lives opposite the shop and can be seen around Pimlico jogging, cycling and popping off for tennis just because she can. I was always fascinated by the array of supercars parked outside her flat. I felt taunted, I mean, they were just parked there: Ferraris, Lamborghinis and Aston Martins. It was like Harrods on a Saturday.
But no, Rosie wasn’t a member of the Qatari royal family but a member of a car club, though she did own several cars too.
Rosie was born to race, a kind of posher and prettier Vin Diesel in The Fast and the Furious. Rosie is now single and looking for a new man, but guys beware, her idea of fun is racing an Aston whilst naked around Silverstone. Apparently she’s misplaced her race suit so heaven knows what she’d do at the Nurburgring. She’s currently dating a guy with four Astons; do I hear any advance on that? I’ll keep you posted!
STOP PRESS. Rosie has met Mark. Well, he did have to go over and wipe the bonnet of his DBS after she’d dribbled on it. Introductions were made, but Mark, I don’t hold out much hope, after all you are only a one Aston man.
My good friend Ralph has put me in touch with a fragrance house in LA. We are in negotiations to supply Volpe with an aftershave though I”m not sure who’d want to smell like a fox. Their main scent is called “Gendarme”. So, do I go with Rozzer, Filth, Truncheon (stop sniggering) or “You’re nicked, me old son”?
It was Mike Ashley’s birthday this month, and the wife suggested I should send him a black and white teddy, but how would I know how to get the size right, I mean he’s a big fella.
And talking of that, a certain French chef has been explaining how we Ingleesh should choose our chickens. His expertise comes from a lifetime of looking at coqs. (Only way I could get it through the spam filters). Either that or he spent a great deal of time staring in the mirror. I rest my case m’lud.
No doubt I’ll now be slapped with a super injunction. It won’t be my first or at least attempted. My D list celebrity attempted to stop me taunting him in the newsletter, or posting the pix of him on Hollywood Boulevard dressed as an Oscar in flagrante delicto with a vuvuzela. And my A list “friend” has also attempted to have me banned from getting better tables. Loser.
Those of you who have wandered past the shop recently will have seen me working in the window. Vanity, I hear you all cry at once. OK, OK, I admit it, but not for the first time, my adoring public must be entertained. However the real reason, or at least the one I’m going to give you, is that you can actually see me working, because some of you had doubted me.
