August 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Thank you, thank you, thank you for the largest ever response to a newsletter: the tribute to my friend Richard Pulford.

There were so many kind memories and so many fond words. For this I thank all of you. Your words of comfort have been passed on to Richard’s family.

It’s that time of year when tumbleweed blows down London’s empty streets, and this year, I’m here instead of basting in Ibiza. Many of you have joked quite how much I don’t enjoy the Sale period, but you’d be wrong. It is important for me to quietly hide the mistakes I have made during the year.

Fortunately, I am learning, and after twelve long years there are only two pairs of the acid yellow cords left. Perhaps I could arrange a riot, a little looting, some lightning, and they might vanish off into the ether with my remaining stock of jeans. What else is August in London good for?

Anyway, Shane and family were here from Hong Kong (and at least his out of office reply meant he was coming to see me). And doesn’t he look boyish these days?  A new haircut and glasses in order to make him look more grown up? Perhaps I should explain to Katie (Shane’s wife) they have only made him look more angelic, although I’m not entirely sure it is a word I would normally use about Shane! They’re all off to some detox retreat in Ibiza but how detox and Ibiza go together I will wait to hear.

Ollie, who has also been in Ibiza, has just returned and he’s not happy. Left only with the clothes he was standing up in, he single-handedly boosted the Ibicencan economy, in order to feel that he fitted in at every event he was attending. He and his luggage parted company at City Airport on the way out, and were reunited only after his return to London.

The offending piece of luggage had visited seven European cities before its return, which is more than my wayward friend Mark will be doing with British Airways. Still barred, Mark continues to travel the world in search of new thrills. This leads him further and further afield, searching for a recently filled mini-bar and a maid that he hasn’t already unconsciously surprised in a strange and unusual way.

I have another friend who has taken to wearing glasses with normal lenses in order to lend him an air of intellect and gravitas. I’m not sure he wasn’t wearing specs before and has reverted to non-prescription lenses, because life through the correct prescription was just too frightening.

This year I have had to start wearing spectacles so I can thread a needle and it has added an entire new spectrum of accessories to my wardrobe. As you could predict with me, the collection is growing rapidly.

Soon I will have spex for every occasion. Perhaps even extra-spesh-spex that I will wear to choose which ones I will be wearing today or to look for the pair I’ve just put down or trodden on. I’m still searching for the pair that will make me look more brainy and more important. Andre calls it gravitas but he pronounces it in a vairy particular way every time we meet.

One or two of you are still trying so hard to get a mention: remember, actions always speak louder than words.

John kindly brought back a bottle of wine from Emanuele in Bologna, and Matthew sent me something made by Brasso to polish my gadgets. Oh, please!

But the prize is taken by the couple travelling to Venice on the Orient Express who were trapped in their cabin paralysed by OCD, only to be released once the number of railway sleepers they had counted exceeded the 1 million mark.

I sympathise, as I often feel I’m being followed, and the only way throw the stalker off the scent is to keep off the cracks in the pavement while shouting Macbeth. I have got used to people staring, but then, don’t they always?

However, let me finish on a positive note for Jake. Wolves have topped the table a few times already. The season is young, but Jake has handled his glee with maturity: the screaming and punching the air have been undertaken when customers are not present, or at least when he thinks they can’t see or hear.

If only he could share Mick McCarthy’s pragmatism, but that’s why Jake is a supporter and dreams of Europe next season. Sorry, buster, but if you think I’m giving time off to go to away games in Estonia, think again.

 

Copyright © 2011 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

June 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

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!

 

Copyright © 2011 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

End of May 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

So it looks like you’re going to get it twice this month. Oh goody, I hear you all cry in unison.

I’ve struggled with my conscience, but I finally had to end my run in the window. My adoring public will have to wait. I mean the matinees I could cope with, but the evening performance was playing to an entirely different crowd, plus I was getting a little tired of wearing the make-up. What an ill-mannered rabble of drunks and hecklers my customers can be. Perhaps I should have enlisted my d-list friend to understudy, but then I’d never have got rid of him. He’d only draw attention to himself, and who in their right mind would want to do that!

Jake has aged in the last few days. Some of you may know, but he supports Wolverha…. Wolves. They survived the drop, the outcome left until the final throes of the season. On recent Saturdays Jake would disappear for hours. OK, he was in the shop, but I would find him, head in hands, muttering to himself, much of which I can’t repeat here. All because Wolves had let in a goal in the first minute, let in a goal in the last minute, or worse, both. Then he would blame me for jinxing them or if it got really bad, his parents for bringing him into this miserable world. Oh well, such is the life of a fanatical football supporter. But spare a thought for me, yes, I know it’s all about me, but it is my newsletter. We’re going to have this all over again next season, and he still won’t be allowed to wear club colours to work.

The ash cloud has returned. Well there is a bank holiday this weekend, OK, OK, at the moment isn’t there. All part of Dave’s happiness index, who wouldn’t feel better not going into work every day?

And there is nothing more certain than an ash cloud to turn Michael O’Leary from the adorable little Andrex puppy he is, into a snarling dandy dinmont (it’s a dog before you have to look it up). I mention him because I feel at this moment in time I am one of the few people on the planet not to blame for any slight upon him. I’m sure he’s dreaming up ways to charge for tours of the ash cloud, come to think of it he may even charge you for dreaming if you dare to fall asleep on one of his flights. I say this without ever having flown with Ryanair, but then Ryanair conveniently doesn’t fly to anywhere I want to go at the moment. Phew!

By the way, my theory is that Ryanair isn’t an airline but a psychological experiment to see how much humiliation human beings will endure in order to save a few bob.

The ash cloud has given Sky the opportunity to report on its position every 15 minutes. Perhaps it will encircle the country rendering travel impossible by all but a leaky boat, and once again “chicken licken”, the sky is falling in.

As for you lot, well! Rosie has a stalker! No not me, and not Mark either, but there are sinister things afoot in Pimlico Village. I’d like to thank one customer in particular for the kind text he sent me. Never, ever do it again. Pervert! Those of you who have seen the text will know what I mean, those of you who haven’t, not a chance. No really, not a chance, suffice to say it exists, as evidence. And Michael, you can stop calling, Duran (the underwear model) is in Miami, so there is no chance of him coming round to walk the dog.

Now I hadn’t heard from Adam and mad Anne, but it seems there was a reason for her madness. A large brain tumour, strange how finally the reasons show themselves. My wife has previous for this, she suffered from and was successfully treated for one just after we were married. So we wish Anne all the very best and a very speedy recovery, but quite how she will manage that with Adam’s help I will never know.

Finally, time for a little plug. Otaniyien Ekiomado my personal trainer has launched a website. Since he worked wonders with my tired old bones, I feel that “Intelligent Vanity” is worth a visit. I wish him all the very best with it.  In my case one of those words in the title is applicable. I’ll leave you to work it out.

Sent from my iPad=—====—-=== with go-faster stripes!!!!!!

 

Copyright © 2011 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

Mid May 2011 – Volpe Newsletter

Greg, he of cougar fame, has complained he’s not getting it often enough. I thought once a month would be enough for him, but he’s continued to gripe. So I’ve relented but I can’t say whether I’ll be making a habit of it. However I may just dispose of the months and send the newsletter when it suits me, or just when I’m bored, which is most of the time, according to you lot. At least I’ll refrain from tweeting every pip and squeak like Jemima Khan.

A bit like Tim Robbins in  The Shawshank Redemption, I’ll write it twice a month, ensuring that at least Greg gets something more often. He could even use the powers of the newsletter as a seduction tool; a literary blue pill. He’s off to a wedding in Firenze next month and has confided his  hopes that by being mentioned in the newsletter he might strikes it lucky with bridesmaids. I don’t know if Pippa is going to be doing the honours again but if so he’ll be in a long queue behind her.

I’ve continued to work in the window inspired by the success of streets in Hamburg and Amsterdam – not my success; more my tribute. I shall be reviewing my wardrobe though and perhaps donning something more revealing.

I wore shorts to work last week, and before you suggest an alternative, more popular was the rip in the derriere of my trousers created by stepping out of the window. Thank goodness I was wearing something more substantial underneath, rather than the usual thong.

That reminds of a friend who used to work behind the bar at the Embassy Club, many years ago. The uniform was a white vest and the tiniest red satin shorts. Limahl from Kajagoogoo used to try to outdo him in a tutu. Well come on, it was the Eighties and excess was de rigueur, although how my friend’s  shorts amounted to excess I’ll never know, unless of course we’re talking about the overspill.

The other morning we were saved by Jason at the Wolseley;  breakfast was to be taken in an antechamber until he stepped in. Thankfully normal service was restored and the earth continued to turn. I mean, how could I be seen to sit just anywhere? Does nobody know who I am?* Obviously not. Has my infamy not spread far and wide? Yes, yes in for me, in for me, they’ve all got it in for me. I know it’s an old joke.

But now you’ll be happy to know there will be twice as many…………..And please do not complain about the amount of French I am starting to use in the newsletter. It appears many of you have spam filters more sensitive than you are.

And just for Jake, are Wolves safe? He’ll hate that, because now I’ve jinxed them.

By the way Greg, Happy Birthday for tomorrow….don’t think I’ll make a habit of personalising newsletters to all and sundry.

*A certain celeb with an injunction is regretting asking that of a prostitute. She didn’t but Google was her friend and so was Max Clifford.

Sent from my iPad

 

Copyright © 2011 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.

August 2010 – Volpe Newsletter

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…..

 

Copyright © 2010 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.