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.

November 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

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.

 

Copyright © 2010 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.