July 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Welcome to the August blog, I hope you all enjoyed July’s.

It didn’t seem as well-read as the others and I’m surprised that none of you took me up on the special offer right at the end when you clicked on the Easter egg.

Oh well, back to July for those of you who didn’t get it.

Anyway, the month has quite flown by. Those of you who follow my every waking move, and I know who you are, will know that although I am on Facebook I don’t use it much. And as for Twitter, it has even passed Jake by.

Another weekend on Ibiza has been and gone, happily without incident and my tan, Mr McKenna, is a shade of orange that surpasses our bags.

By the way, it was great being in Spain for the World Cup Final. The admirable thing about the English is our stoic acceptance of sporting mediocrity twinned with our talent for co-opting celebrations from all over the world; particularly if they involve drinking.

St Patrick’s Day is just one example I can dimly remember. So, bring on the hierbas until about 3am when I want to go to bed.

July is a month of ducking and diving where suppliers who have promised the earth are caught out and the donkey is still sick and the cheque is still in the post. Promising to do what they said they would, would be a start.

Apparently, it will be better next September, which reminds me of school reports. What makes it worse is you know what’s coming. They know what they’re doing, and yet there isn’t a thing you can do about it.

In other news: my house-hunting mates Adam and Anne are moving in on Cuckoo’s Knob. It’s a cheap laugh but when has that ever stopped me?

Who knows what the house will be called. Judging by your previous replies to this newsletter, Anne, I quiver at response.

Sam, Claire and the kids are now long gone, and he’ll be complaining that this hasn’t arrived yet. Sorry mate, but dry your eyes, I’m the one having to come up with this. But we will miss you.

Most important news of the month is the birth of a child to Cristiano Ronaldo. I don’t know why but I keep thinking of Ricky Martin. Can anyone explain why that snake-hipped, entirely heterosexual image is burned on my brain? And why oh why, Victor, do you adore him so?

Ronaldo’s chat-up line is legendary but not to be repeated here because we’ve got those pay-as-you-go lawyers from daytime TV.

But when I used it on Gillian she hit me with her make-up bag. The edge of that tube of Clearasil is going to scar. Bitch.

My friend’s dispute with British Airways rumbles on Volpe passim. Are they incapable of settling anything quickly? He has promised me a sneak at the correspondence, however, he fears that I have a tabloid readership (and wife) and has warned me about touching the snake or some other reference I might have to ask her about. Since I consider him to be a close friend, I am starting to worry.

I note that the glorious Peter sent himself up in a really jolly way to flog his booky wook in the English London Times. I was going to read it but I was put off by the sinister nature of the ads. Do you remember The Singing Ringing Tree or Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Totally Expected? I am much disturbed.

And before you ask smoking jacket wasn’t Volpe. Crikey! Next you’ll accuse me of dressing Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen! Not guilty, m’lud. What is the penalty for perjury? (I could help you with that one – Ed)

On to my celebrity friend: I won’t tell you who he is, but it’s not The Stig, though he hates Clarkson too. Apparently he’s importing 100,000 recycled vuvuzuelas. Why? He only needs one to blow his own trumpet, an act I’m not sure he’s flexible enough to do. But the sound is much like listening to him talk about his next big project.

So, to next month: I’ll be spending part of it in Ibiza, which means that after the sunbathing, partying, drug-taking (Nurofen and antihistamines before you get too excited) and did I say partying, there’ll be no time for the newsletter. Or will there?

For those of you who will be interested, we do start a SALE on the 30th of July.

Ps: Sale is a dirty word in France. But I’ll let you off.

 

Copyright © 2010 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

May 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

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.

 

Copyright © 2010 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

April 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

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.

Recently viewed:

1: Avatar – Good, long, but not nearly violent enough. She’s also worried about seeing everything with a blue tinge. Well it’s not likely to be Viagra.

2: Pimp – Enough violence and sex, and she liked the surprisingly happy ending for Danny Dyer.

3: Eastern Promises – going into the mens’ showers will never be the same again for her.

4: Marley and Me – Why didn’t they shoot the dog?

5: Alice in Wonderland – I’m not taking those drugs again, everybody looked like Madonna

6: The Bounty Hunter – Rubbish, I’m getting too old to waste my time watching this.

7: Gran Torino – Clint Eastwood, my kind of leading man, also Harrison Ford, George Clooney, Viggo Mortensen, the list goes on……

8: A History of Violence – Well she liked the title and whatisname.

9: Sexy Beast – Ditto

10: The Hurt Locker – Not like Eastern Promises

And as for “Kick Ass”, she’s been doing it for 86 years and isn’t likely to stop now.

 

Copyright © 2010 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.