April 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

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.

 

Copyright © 2011 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

January 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

As we are well into January, how many of you made New Year resolutions? And did you keep them, stumble from the course, or fall spectacularly head first into the gutter?

So the iPad is perfect for my insomnia. I promised myself it wouldn’t take over my life, and yet here I am writing the newsletter on it. It just keeps me awake longer. OK, so I’ll sleep when I’m dead. You can spend the small hours searching for apps, most of which you’ll never use. But it means I can lie on the sofa tapping blindly at the screen, whilst watching the news in 15 minutes, every 15 minutes. So between 2.30am and 6.00am, I get to hear about Silvio’s Ruby blues 14 times, oh joy.

Now some of you have complained about the brevity of my January teaser. Shame on you, I had the VAT return to do, and some of you should know better. Yes Greg, I mean you. You begged to be on the mailing list only to complain bitterly that the teaser wasn’t long enough and then regularly bring your mother in to torture me. But what goes around comes around. She kindly explained how you had removed your trousers in front of an Upper Class Virgin, the words might be slightly jumbled, but worse was to follow: your mother mistaken for your Cougar? As you said, does she look younger, or do you look older?

Anyway back to Silvio, which seems the most unlikely side of him the Italians will see. It’s a case of the devil you know, but it appears that even Papa Razzi is starting to flag, or perhaps lose track of the indefatigable appetite of the diminutive ex cruiseship crooner. And I use the word diminutive with pride. I too, am diminutive. OK, I won that bet. I managed to use that word 3 times, so much for drinking games. I play them with decaff espresso shots (just ask Jake), rather than alcohol, just to keep me awake. It is rumoured that Kiefer used to play a similar game whilst filming 24, damn it Chloe! “I’ll have another Jack Daniels”, before wrestling a Christmas tree to the ground, trousers round his ankles. But he showed he was a gent, by offering to pay for the damage.

OK, it’s not quite in the league of Charlie Sheen, or my personal favourites Robert Downey Jr driving his Porsche naked and throwing imaginary rats out of the car, and my friend Martin snorkelling naked in the snow in Verbier, and yes there is photographic evidence. Guys, some of you have some serious catching up to do.

However I bumped into a friend, who we will call James (because that’s his name). I was leaving The Wolseley after a hearty breakfast with Don, a close friend who once nearly laid waste to Keira Knightley, but that’s another story. James was always a bit of a party animal and after having been “driven” in his Gallardo, driven been the description I will give the experience. James was in London for a 3 day bender, because:  “the bright lights of Geneva, just weren’t bright enough any more.” At this point he was starting to flag and was craving coffee and a large eggs Benedict, I could have stayed to see the outcome, but I just had to be somewhere else.

Like the drinking games, I could try to start each paragraph with a letter that in some special code would make a word. No, stop trying to work out some hidden meaning in mine, before long you’ll be trying to play your old LPs backwards in an attempt to conjure up the devil, and I left Silvio where he belongs, a couple of paragraphs ago. It’s 3.30am and I’m now too tired to even try and be clever. Settle down at the back. I know what you’re going to say and it’s neither clever nor funny.

Sam passed through London this week and managed to pop in for a few hours between flights.  Bangkok-London-Hong Kong back-to-back in less than three days. As you said mate, I wouldn’t normally use that expression, but he’s an Aussie, “living the dream”, or perhaps 11K a year and £2.60 an hour is just too tempting. Big up Willie Walsh and the new cabin crew contract. There you go, guys, I got your protest vote in.

As you know, I have been in Bologna. It is still the best city in Italy to eat in. However each day I took the train into Florence for the Pitti Uomo trade fair. A mere 35 minutes or that’s what they tell you, not quite time keeping to Swiss standards. In four journeys, no less than 10 minutes late each time, but as my friend Fabio told us over lunch, it’s the Italian way. Rome to Milan in three hours, or at least in three Italian hours, because it’s a matter of pride that it just has to be 3 hours.

At Drogheria della Rosa Emanuele did us proud. Greeted like long lost friends, fed and watered within the limits of my waistband. After Sunday lunch we staggered to the airport clutching a white truffle. Emanuele has made his special kind of dining experience: his food, wine and company of the highest order, all rounded off with a semifreddo. Excuse me, titter ye not, did I hear Frankie Howerd?

Product of the month is the X-mini speaker, which I use for my iPad. Jake’s bored with this, but they are awesome and I suspect he’s slightly envious.