June 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on June 23, 2011 by volpeadrian

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!

March 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on March 31, 2011 by volpeadrian

As you know I like to draw out the suspense with this newsletter vis a vis the end of the month.

However, I’ve been even busier than normal, what with it being my wife Gillian’s birthday on the last day of the month. So it’s only natural that I’ve been distracted by planning a lavish celebration with lots of gorgeous presents. (Gillian – I put this bit in anticipation of lots of gorgeous presents. There will be an update you on the state of our marriage next newsletter.)

Today I’ve cast aside the iPad. I’m rather hung over, and I was unable to focus on the keys. We spent an evening with the man “who is a suit short of a week” and his husband. At least with these two we’re never a glass short of a drink. However he is 6ft 6ins and the expression “hollow legs” was created with him in mind.

I am back travelling again. I had a couple of days in Rome and a bit of spring weather and a meeting with dear Silvio. Just to pick up a few tips mind you. Well you know old dogs, new tricks, and all that.

I spent the time with one of my best friends and his family, the ever youthful Pietroluccis. I’ve known Max 20 years and before you all say it, yes, I really am that old.

He, his brother Mau and father Sergio have not aged one bit. Max ‘Five Vests’ Pietrolucci is a bit of a Godfather name but he needed to keep warm while lodging in Wembley, studying English in London and working with me in Piccadilly in January.

Better than doing national service somewhere crappy in Italy. These days he keeps his temperature up with his voracious appetite for cheese. Vash at the Cork and Bottle has never known anyone eat so much cheese at one sitting!

Max reminded me about the egg box of a kit car I used to drive in those days. Small boys would point and stare in awe at it until dragged away by their mothers. Their dads would stand slack-jawed until dragged away too. Don’t say it; I know you were thinking it!

You could drive it under an articulated lorry to do a short cut on the Hogarth roundabout. I had the hood off in all weathers; well it would be after being driven under a lorry, but it did have a heater.

It was probably the fastest car to 50 mph I have ever driven, but then it would either breakdown or hit a metaphorical brick wall of acceleration, at which point everything I’d overtaken would get me back. But I’ve learnt to cope with the humiliation. I mean it wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.

There have been a large number of new subscribers to the newsletter, and hopefully some of you might do something worthy of writing about. I mean it’s not as if you all have gone into hibernation. Pulses seem to have slowed to a rate where it is hard to tell whether you are alive or not, but in some cases this seems the norm anyway.

The first rays of spring sun, and thoughts turn to, well you can keep those thoughts to yourself.

Anyway David is back in the shorts and driving shoes – green suede, very nice. Andre is sporting his Birkenstocks and not much else it seems, or so he likes to tell me. He’s just arrived back from Miami, no doubt after abusing some poor soul in first class. Perhaps they didn’t want a French wine.

Richard with his sylph-like physique stretches to a jean with a 26 inch waist. He can apparently buy these in Selfridges, either from Dior (so Richard), and Dsquared (so not Richard).

Their assistant was apparently just hangin’ in the department. I am unable to recount Richard’s story of trying on the Dsquared jeans as well as him. These were probably designed by MC Hammer, which once on, he was unable to get off over his feet, trying to stand up and holding on to a rotating rail, which apparently kept throwing him to the floor.

After an hour of struggle he removed the jeans he finally wandered off to Dior to purchase his bling.

Anyway back to the rays of sun. I bet you’ve all been keeping up with Wonders of the Universe on the BBC iPlayer, and Prof Brian Cox, a man who considers himself even more gorgeous than me. (As if that were possible).

No, I hear you say, but yes; bestriding the universe with his floppy hair and moist lips. Traversing mountain tops, deserts and glaciers. Gazing at sunrises and sunsets. Experiencing weightlessness, flying at the speed of sound, and feeling the force of g (yes, I did have to think carefully how I worded that).

Vanity, thy name is Brian. You’re not the Messiah. Just a very naughty boy with a spectacularly good publishing deal, and great hair.

Sent from my iPad 4

January 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on January 31, 2011 by volpeadrian

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.

June 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

Posted on June 28, 2010 by volpeadrian

We wuz robbed, I tell you. And I’m not talking about the Budget, of which more later.

Like Don Fabio, I’ll brook no dissent. Mi casa, my rules. We were much the better side. Just look at the statistics and you know my thoughts on that.

Apparently Capello sent the team on to the pitch with the rousing cry: ‘Let’s make English football history.’ I feel that got lost in translation.

It seems even Paul the psychic octopus from the Sea Life Aquarium predicted a German win. Yeah, well let’s see how he fares against Spain where they like fried squid rings.

But as I said we were so much the better side; even my wife agrees and as I know by now, she is never wrong.

There was a moment during England’s nail-biting journey to oblivion on Sunday night when she shouted: ‘Lamps’ at the TV.

I share Don Fabio’s dislike of infantile footballing nicknames, and unless she was describing what she wanted Fat Frank to do to the assistant referee, then divorce beckons if she ever uses such a word again. And I’ll sue for alimony if she says Wazza.

Still, there are upsides to Sunday’s match.

The WAGs were waiting until this week to go out so no pictures of them shopping and falling off bar stools.

And the James Corden’s World Cup Party may be in for an early bath which means an end to the canvassing of opinions of such football geniuses a Pixie Lott by a smug fat bloke in a suit two sizes too small for him. I’m with Patrick Stewart there.

As you know at the end of May I visited Rome again. This time it was just for the day to visit a shoe wholesaler who refused to deal with me over the phone or via email. What strange world we live in. It’s right up there with: ‘The donkey’s sick, so I can’t get the parcel to the UPS office.’ Yes, a supplier has used that excuse. However it wasn’t an entirely wasted trip, I ate a decent lunch and spent some of the day with one of my best friends Max Pietrolucci, and even did a little sightseeing.

However a journey I will be making this month will be back to Ibiza. Those of you who think I have a home there, sorry to disappoint, and if I did, no you couldn’t use it. Also for those of you who have attempted to photograph me under the influence of something that isn’t wheatgrass, waving glo sticks like a five year old would sparklers, again you’ll be disappointed. Neil “the tattooist” has informed me that he will go back to doing stars, geckos, dolphins etc, because as yet I have not agreed to have the roof of the Sistine Chapel in miniature on my back. He has also offered both Eugenia and Carla summer jobs as his receptionist, and I don’t believe it, they are contemplating accepting. Now Eugenia has “previous” for this kind of arrangement. All I can say to her is remember what happened last time.

Not that I’m not going to dwell on it but yesterday’s referee Jorge Larrionda also has “previous” for “over the line” incidents. In 2004 he deprived Brazil of a winner so they drew 0-0 with Colombia in a World Cup qualifier. He once told an interviewer “I hope I never see the day when technology arrives that can help or replace the job I do”. Also in 2002 he was suspended by Uruguay’s FA for unspecified alleged irregularities that meant he was unable to officiate at the 2002 World Cup. Not that I’m bitter.

A thank you is due to Matthew who bought me some chocolates back from Bologna, a kind and unnecessary gesture, but he is a kind and thoughtful chap. I thought he’d go far, but then flattery and presents always bring out the best in me. The latest 3D gadgets wouldn’t go amiss.

This month we also lost Sam to Hong Kong once more. The family soon to follow and I must admit I will miss Xavier’s Saturday morning attempts to total the Ferrari. Sam and Claire be warned, let him loose with a Playstation before he gets his hands on the real thing. The new Test Drive game will be based in Ibiza, so next year it will be full of kids, driving dad’s Nissan Micra lit from underneath with blue neon, ear splitting music blaring from open windows. So nothing will really change. Oh dear, I do sound old.

Now, my friend who has admitted in the past that he was a suit short of a week still is according to him. He feels that a racy little linen number to complete his collection of linens would fit the bill. Not that I want to turn away business or condemn excess in any way, because that would be commercial suicide. I just don’t think that he’s likely to have five consecutive days of sunshine in this country. Apologies, this week has proved me wrong, but mark my words it won’t last.

The customer is king has always been my motto; or one of them. Maybe I’ll make a list of my mottos and add them to next month’s newsletter.

So were you a winner or loser in the Budget – or more accurately, a loser or a really big loser?

I’m still mulling it over so I’ll hand over to Sheherazade Goldsmith, the gorgeous ex-wife of billionaire Zac, newly-minted MP for Richmond.

It would be vulgar to speculate on the sheer tonnage of Mrs Goldsmith’s divorce settlement but it’s clear that even she feels some belt-tightening is in order.

‘If you grow your own raspberries, pick them and make them into jam, it’s a very satisfying feeling,’ she said recently.

‘Much more satisfying than buying it from Fortnum & Mason.’

A sentiment with which we can all agree, and as English as a World Cup defeat.

For those of you who have asked about my mystery “celebrity”. Well, he is currently staying on at the World Cup owing to a promotional role. I felt it would be too cruel to ask which particular animal he would be dressed as, but it would certainly need to be one of the veldt’s larger inhabitants, if only to accommodate his ego. He has been muttering about how poor Brien Blessed’s contribution has been, well at least his voice will be heard above the vuvuzelas.

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.