August 2012 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on August 31, 2012 by volpeadrian

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

November 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on November 29, 2010 by volpeadrian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1: Bill Clinton – just ask Bob

2: While we are at it…Hillary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on August 20, 2010 by volpeadrian

Well dear Rob has left us to set up his guest house in Fez (Morocco, for those of you who didn’t pass geography). Apparently he always read the newsletters, and by all accounts enjoyed them. Are there no levels to which people will not stoop for a mention? I wish him very good luck, he deserves you all to go and visit him, and once he is set up I will pass on the details. His place has been taken at The Wolseley by Jayne, who admitted to me she was a little worried she wouldn’t receive the newsletter. Because although Rob had been enjoying them, I feel it had been a solitary pleasure. But Jayne have no fear, you even get a mention.

The footie season is upon us again, and for those of you who play fantasy football I’m yet to work out where the fantasy ends and reality begins. Don’t do as Jake has done and pick the entire Wolves team, pleased as punch to get it in under budget and then likely to sink without trace. David, on the other hand, can’t understand that there is a cap on the value of the team, but then he is a Chelsea supporter and hence no sense of value for money. Fashion note: he’s still wearing his shorts but teamed with a fetching pair of Volpe driving shoes, now sadly beyond repair.

Mark Williams is a good friend (and since we are plugging, owns a courier business). He has expressed his joy at receiving the news letter, but what makes him different to you whingers out there, is that he reads them on his Blackberry with no problem. So the rest of you can grow up.

I am of course lying on a sun-lounger on a beach in Ibiza, flunkies running hither and thither, seeing to my every need. The newsletter is being dictated (Mark H, it’s not what you think) to my less enthusiastic PA. She hangs on my every word, with a look that suggests it may be my last. The more observant of you may have noticed that the chairs in the shop are only for customers; staff are expected to stand and make themselves look busy.

I do it myself but I’m on holiday and I’m giving my gout a rest. But she can stand, and I don’t care if the sand is burning her feet. She should have thought better than to bring Birkenstocks which I confiscated immediately for being dreadful.

Really, the staff should know their place, and if not should expect a damn good thrashing. When I get back the first thing I’m going to do is call little Nick Clegg who has been given the special task of taking calls from the public about laws that particularly bother them. In my first job being singled out for that kind of attention was more a subtle form of punishment than honour.

I’m taking to this new coalition and its sharp-elbowed middle-classness.

I, of course am not Staycationing in Cornwall, you know one rule for me, and a different one for everybody else. But if you were to, I know you can feel a plug coming on, you could do worse than to visit Sennen Cove where my friend Pat Dowling has a restaurant and surf shop right on the beach.

Live update:

This is going to be a long news letter.

At this moment (could be any time of day or night because we’re 24 hour party people) I’m sitting in a square in Ibiza with Neil who is giving me grief over the following; not appearing in the last newsletter, a particular shape of glass that a green cocktail has arrived in which signifies everything that’s wrong with the world, and more importantly backing out of having my tattoo on my last visit.

“Pussy whipped” is the expression he used, whilst demonstrating his own manliness by giving me Ray Mears-style survival advice involving finding north by closely examining lichen and how to tell how many hours of daylight are left without a watch. Why anyone wouldn’t have a watch is beyond me. He is of course, artistic but tells the time by use of a mobile.

Later……the conversation turns to ebay. Now Neil and I both use it from time to time, but when I explained I used a sniping tool, Neil nearly fell off his chair with rage. All those hours he has spent waiting and waiting, staying up into the small hours with the help of some Pro-Plus only to be outbid in the dying seconds by someone who’s tucked up in bed using technology to do the dirty work.

I tried to explain that this was progress like penicillin and the wheel, but to Neil, it was CHEATING.

I resolve in future to take a lot of drugs and stay awake……like those of you at the back.

Neil is a peaceful man interested in Buddhism and Tibet. But we have seen a darker side in his battle with the pigeons, who want to share his apartment breaking glasses and crashing into the ceiling fan like the kind of lively guests we all get from time to time.

He has bought an air rifle and is exacting terrible revenge. I suggested a balaclava to complete the look but in orange to protect his Karma.

More to follow…..

May 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on May 27, 2010 by volpeadrian

It’s been an exciting month, jam-packed with, well, work, actually, so that’s the reason the newsletter is late – before you ask, Sam.

God knows, my wife has tried enough times to get the News of the World to part with £500,000 for a meeting with me, but they weren’t interested so we have to fall back on conventional ways of paying the mortgage.

So, that’s why I’m off to Rome on a whirlwind visit next week and for the first time I’m flying Easyjet so I’ve sharpened my elbows and paid excess baggage in advance. At least I’m landing in Rome, not a different city or a different country.

It’s not that I don’t trust BA to get me there though they have just banned a friend for life. The way he tells it, it was over innocent joshing with a humourless stewardess over a request for a glass of water.

I believe him. Millions wouldn’t.

As he was being assisted down the aircraft steps at Abu Dhabi he queried whether the ban would be for his lifetime or that of the airline. But BA is tied up with other important matters and may never get back to him or the rest of us.

The stewardess should worry. This is a man often found by Housekeeping naked on the bed surrounded by empty bottles after drinking the mini-bar dry. They’ve never complained and have even commented on the thoughtful way he always passes out face down to spare any embarrassment.

What else. Oh yes, there was that election business which was interesting.

Who could begrudge the licence fee that was spent on the BBC’s election night broadcast from the Ship of Fools moored near the London Eye? Andrew Neil mined nuggets of political gold from such top opinion formers as Joan Collins and Bruce Forsyth while the Pinot Grigio flowed.

But hats off to Sky for the most memorable coverage of the election for all the wrong reasons.

I’d have paid money for a ringside seat at ahem, heavyweight Adam Boulton slugging it out with Alastair Campbell. (Look it up on You Tube if you missed it).

Boulton nearly invited Campbell outside but then remembered they were. Outside the Mother of Parliaments. Made me feel proud to be British.

Boulton was transported to finger-jabbing, spitting fury as Alastair did his ‘I’m just a reasonable, stand-up kind of guy who never tells fibs’ routine.

‘Don’t you tell me what I think,’ shouted Boulton, stifling a belch, as Campbell told him what he thought. Boulton looked close to creating an ash cloud that would have closed Westminster airspace when Campbell told him to calm down while smirking.

Later on in round two, poor Boulton was needled by the deceptively charming Ben Bradshaw, the Hugh Grant-lookalike and former Secretary for Culture, Media and Sport, who has a nicer tan than me at the moment.

Has Our Dark Lord been giving Ben tips and sharing yacht space?

Unconfirmed reports have it that Boulton was later wheeled off to a padded room where he could start an argument with the voices in his head. I’d love to see him interview Russell Crowe. Funny how you never see those two in the same room together.

So, Nick and Dave will be like good boys at a birthday party and play pass the parcel without any grabbing. How long will it be before Dave doesn’t agree with Nick and Nick cries over the meagre contents of his party bag?

Meanwhile Little George is still finding unopened final demands stuffed down the back of the sofa at Number 11.

I’ve noticed that in the words of that cheesy song, that it’s goodbye Sam, hello Samantha. The delightful Mrs Cameron has reverted to her proper name now the election is over and she doesn’t have to pretend she’s not posher than the Queen any more. Good for her. The poor woman’s facing the next five years having to pretend she actually likes wearing £19.99 shoes from New Look; she ought to be allowed some dignity.

Speaking of bargain basement shopping, as you can imagine, Primark is not my normal haunt, but I was told of an incident that shows the level of desperation to which our economic climate has driven people.

A young lady explained to me, how she had seen a man ejected by security staff for shoplifting….. I mean, why shoplift from Primark? They’re not far short of paying you to take the stock away. I know David (yes, he of the shorts) calls it as Primarni, so I can only assume that this poor fellow didn’t understand the irony.

I’ve just returned from a pleasant lunch in the West End, where I enjoyed a salad with tofu and a glass of freshly pressed wheatgrass, or also known as: ‘My usual, Landlord’. I’m always grateful for whatever is supplied, especially when Vash is the Landlord and the usual has a certain vintage.

On the bus back, yes, I know that you all expect me to travel everywhere by stretch Hummer, I was confronted by a man with a dog, who had obviously enjoyed an inferior class of wheatgrass.

He was bothering an American lady who I doubt will ever travel on public transport in London again. The upshot being I assisted in ejecting him from the bus, with his long suffering chihuahua, Jackie, who the whole bus felt really sorry for and wanted to adopt. But she loyally followed her master. Dogs really are stupid. Bet he’s the sort to shoplift from Primarni.

Film reviews

This month Hardcore Mother In Law saw:

Lebanon: Das Boot in an Israeli tank

Hot Tub Time Machine: Cruder than the Gulf of Mexico but a lot of fun.

Cop Out: The worst film Bruce Willis has ever made and that includes The Last Boy Scout.

April 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on April 19, 2010 by volpeadrian

OK Sam, I know it’s later than you want. At least I’m not stuck in some faraway land with no means of returning home. You’ll have to wait for June and my first trip to Ibiza for that.

STOP PRESS Apologies – BREAKING NEWS – Winter over: David bares all: the legs are out of hibernation.

This month I have visited Rome, if only to take some tips from “Dear” Silvio on how to run the country. I had to postpone it from last month because of the British Airways strike, and have narrowly missed being brought down by a belching volcano expelling large amounts of hot air into the atmosphere. Well, I was going to leave the politicians out of this. OK, OK, but it’s a joke and everybody has used it! Thanks everybody for the Ashley and Cheryl Cole jokes, sadly you know I can’t put any of them in here.

The election has just been called and Sky has been wall-to-wall polls, the Skycopter is up, and I love statistics, because you can say what with you want with them and you’re not lying. As for the leaders’ debates, I have busied myself with other things if only not to look upon Gordon’s saddened face, Dave’s smoothed brow or Nick’s laconic approach. Have you noticed how much like one of my customers he looks? He’s not, but the resemblance is uncanny, I wonder if his wife knows? Anyway I feel that at this point the Dark Lord deserves a mention, only because he will be reading this, and I know he’d like me to mention that his bite is much worse than his bark, and yes, Peter you can take it as a compliment.

Anyways to take your minds off the manifesti, but enough of Italian, perhaps like mine a higher purpose calls me.

I do not disagree that Lionel Messi has little to prove as the world’s current greatest player, but he has learnt well, possibly at the knee of his mother or a maiden aunt, the skill of the swoon. CR9 may well have learnt well at the knee of an uncle, whilst feasting on a Werther’s Original, it’s those chubby cheeks, you know. He could stay down for hours, or just long enough for the Ref to brandish the card of his payee’s choice. In my day, (O, callow youth) what would revive you quicker was the application of smelling salts or a cold sponge with a spot of Ralgex to your tender parts (when I was young it was called Wintergreen. Such a stupid name because for a while after this it would be forever autumn). Stand down those of you who find this less of a punishment and more of a revival technique.

As the footie season draws to a close poor old Wayne wanted a rest from running around doing his job and Dimitar’s, and went down like a sack of spuds (nothing to do with his looks). Now I thought at the time that the acting was of quality seen only by my “celebrity” “actor “ “friend”. By now I think we can cross out all three, because come Panto time I’ll be off the Christmas card list.

Now you may have been following my one-sided correspondence with my “celebrity””actor” “friend”, and he has now said that what he did was not “Strictly Panto”. Now I can imagine production companies everywhere wondering if I they can get this scheduled and out by next Christmas. Me and my big mouth. He also pleaded with me to stop texting him “Macbeth”, well you must have seen Blackadder.

This month we will be featuring some film recommendations from my 86-year-old mother-in-law. Now stop with the jokes, that’s my domain. She’s now to be known as Hardcore Mother-in-Law.