Hello my lovelies,
Feeling rather relaxed after a wonderful week away. We flew first class. The weather was hot. The Duchess and I sat on a terrace at sunset, listening to the sea and sipping cocktails. All the best things in life are fleeting. Otherwise, they would become ordinary! Goosebump-inducing bliss.
Christmas is almost upon us. The crisp air and bright sunshine are certainly most amenable to shopping. Every day in Mayfair, the wealthy hordes arrive in their nice cars, to shop until their personal assistants drop. The glittering streets of the West End hum with the sound of thousands of sybarites in search of their daily fix. Savile Row appears to be busier than ever. The big luxury brands reap ever-growing annual profits.
What is so baffling is that one rarely sees anyone wearing these beautiful clothes! I fear that the enormous sartorial decline in Britain has made some people too shy to wear elegant clothes in public. The last time that I had afternoon tea at Claridges, I wore a bespoke sports jacket and trousers with shirt and tie. Nothing showy. I almost felt overdressed. Few men had bothered to wear a jacket and even fewer had put a tie on. The ladies were a shambles. Sad indeed. Such architecture and such service deserves more.
Still, 'tis the party season so let's hope that there's some snappy dressing on display in the coming weeks! Here are the best places to don your glad rags over the festive season and beyond:
The Ritz Hotel
Opulence, glamour and history. This is surely the place to dress up to the nines.
Dress code:
Restaurant/ Palm Court (Jkt and tie required). Rivoli Bar ('Jkt only required, not tie')
Claridges Hotel
Art Deco temple of understated glamour, elegance and refinement. It's as if the Jazz Age never ended.
Dress code:
Restaurant ('Smart. Jkt preferred'). All other areas ('Elegant smart casual. No shorts, vests, sportswear, flip flops, ripped jeans or baseball caps').
The Savoy Hotel
Stunningly refurbished. Magnificent. and palatial. Royalty, Hollywood. Every notable has stayed here.
Dress code:
Savoy Grill ('Smart casual. Smart trainers and denim acceptable'). All other restaurants and bars ('Smart casual. No sportswear').
The Royal Opera House
Culture and glamour. Beautiful architecture. A wonderful place to spend an evening. Two restaurants and three bars (including a Champagne bar).
Dress code:
None. Dress can vary widely between those in the grander seats and those up in the Gods. However, many of those who attend like to dress elegantly for the occasion.
These are by no means the only places to dress up. One can, and should, also hold black tie dinner parties at home and throw small, elegant soirees whenever it takes ones fancy, my dears. Let's take the fight to the dishevelled, crumpled masses!
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough
Wednesday 12 December 2012
Wednesday 21 November 2012
Par For The Coarse
To good health!
Sitting here sipping a coupe of the effervescent French stuff. My sick bed is now a distant memory. It's so nice to wear normal clothes again. I was beginning to feel like Hugh Hefner, in my PJs and silk dressing gown, although minus the bimbos. The lovely Miss B did come and occasionally mop my brow when the coast was clear, but she would cut off your crown jewels if you dared call her a bimbo!
Prior to my recent death throes, the Duchess and I were invited to dinner at my aunt's rather lovely country pile. Hardly ever see the old girl and barely knew anyone there. A proper black tie affair. We started with cocktails on the terrace in the chilled autumnal evening air. Then, over some wonderful food we told ridiculous jokes and dissected the current state of Britain (more of that later). What was nice was that, of the twelve people around the table, there was an interesting blend of old and young, posh and not-so-posh, as well as several nationalities thrown in. It makes for more varied conversation.
I must say that everyone was beautifully attired. We had a very funny discussion about the way us Brits dress. The foreign contingent was actually quite indignant about the slovenly appearance of British people at airports or in the street. Perhaps they come to live in the UK looking for the fantasy that they know from films and books? The foreigners and the not-so-posh ones also took the upper classes to task for trying to dress like Joe Bloggs! I'm sorry to say it but they are right (although they did kindly absolve me of any such sartorial crimes!). The upper classes should start dressing in a way that bloody befits them, as their fathers did before them!
I simply aore the charms of Mayfair but Britain today can seem like Dante's Hell. On an almost daily basis one is shocked by the appalling rudeness and the loutish behaviour of so many people in public places. The Duchess and I were taking a train from Euston one afternoon last week when six young men with bulging biceps and tattoos sat near us (sadly, there was no first class coach). We were forced to move due to their inane, expletive-ridden 'conversation' shouted all over the carriage. I have too many examples and will not bore you with them. In the past, it was enough to remind such types that there were ladies present. Such chivalry can nowadays have grave consequences. Even our politicians - the ones who make the rules - are corrupt and dishonest. Who can forget the drunken bar brawl in Parliament recently? Lord save us.
Our society is in sharp decline and something must be done to arrest it. There are kind, decent and hard-working people amongst every social class. We must all be free to live our lives without daily fear of crime, violence and abuse. It should not be a luxury. When socialising, no sensible person wants to be sat near a table of foul-mouthed imbeciles. I predict that new members' clubs will soon start sprouting up everywhere and that existing clubs' waiting lists will see unprecedented growth. What else can one do?
This old Duke is absolutely in dire need of a holiday. Flying first bloody class! Somewhere warm, exotic and rather peaceful.
More anon.
The Duke of Snarlborough x
Sitting here sipping a coupe of the effervescent French stuff. My sick bed is now a distant memory. It's so nice to wear normal clothes again. I was beginning to feel like Hugh Hefner, in my PJs and silk dressing gown, although minus the bimbos. The lovely Miss B did come and occasionally mop my brow when the coast was clear, but she would cut off your crown jewels if you dared call her a bimbo!
Prior to my recent death throes, the Duchess and I were invited to dinner at my aunt's rather lovely country pile. Hardly ever see the old girl and barely knew anyone there. A proper black tie affair. We started with cocktails on the terrace in the chilled autumnal evening air. Then, over some wonderful food we told ridiculous jokes and dissected the current state of Britain (more of that later). What was nice was that, of the twelve people around the table, there was an interesting blend of old and young, posh and not-so-posh, as well as several nationalities thrown in. It makes for more varied conversation.
I must say that everyone was beautifully attired. We had a very funny discussion about the way us Brits dress. The foreign contingent was actually quite indignant about the slovenly appearance of British people at airports or in the street. Perhaps they come to live in the UK looking for the fantasy that they know from films and books? The foreigners and the not-so-posh ones also took the upper classes to task for trying to dress like Joe Bloggs! I'm sorry to say it but they are right (although they did kindly absolve me of any such sartorial crimes!). The upper classes should start dressing in a way that bloody befits them, as their fathers did before them!
I simply aore the charms of Mayfair but Britain today can seem like Dante's Hell. On an almost daily basis one is shocked by the appalling rudeness and the loutish behaviour of so many people in public places. The Duchess and I were taking a train from Euston one afternoon last week when six young men with bulging biceps and tattoos sat near us (sadly, there was no first class coach). We were forced to move due to their inane, expletive-ridden 'conversation' shouted all over the carriage. I have too many examples and will not bore you with them. In the past, it was enough to remind such types that there were ladies present. Such chivalry can nowadays have grave consequences. Even our politicians - the ones who make the rules - are corrupt and dishonest. Who can forget the drunken bar brawl in Parliament recently? Lord save us.
Our society is in sharp decline and something must be done to arrest it. There are kind, decent and hard-working people amongst every social class. We must all be free to live our lives without daily fear of crime, violence and abuse. It should not be a luxury. When socialising, no sensible person wants to be sat near a table of foul-mouthed imbeciles. I predict that new members' clubs will soon start sprouting up everywhere and that existing clubs' waiting lists will see unprecedented growth. What else can one do?
This old Duke is absolutely in dire need of a holiday. Flying first bloody class! Somewhere warm, exotic and rather peaceful.
More anon.
The Duke of Snarlborough x
Friday 9 November 2012
From The Boardroom To The Bedroom
Dear gorgeous readers,
You find me coughing and wheezing on my bed, wallowing in self-pity and surrounded by a veritable mountain of 3-ply tissues. However, I simply cannot tolerate boredom and am keeping myself amused in an appropriate manner.
I am re-reading Tolstoy's rather weighty Anna Karenina with greedy relish and it is every bit as superb as I remembered it. What a mind he possessed! I last read it at Eton in my pimply youth and, thankfully, remembered little of it in detail. I also have James Sherwood's latest tome, The Perfect Gentleman. It's sexy and glossy and is cheering me up no end!
As I am confined to my bedroom, I have also had the chance to go through my wardrobe with a fine tooth comb. I've just sent a pile of clothes over to my tailors for minor repairs and alterations. Although I do have a rather nice dressing room, I still keep a traditional wardrobe in the bedroom itself. It's a family piece and was made with staggering craftsmanship in Gdansk in Poland about 200 years ago. Walk-in wardobes are rather soulless in comparison.
My antique wardobe is reserved for my bespoke clothes according to the current season. The heavy cloths suggest an age of elegance, intrigue and adventure. 18oz grey flannel, heavy black barathea, tweed check jackets in wonderful hues, beige speckled Donegal, odd vests in tartan, Tattersall check and boxcloth. Butter-soft heavy camel wool trousers, a Harris tweed hacking jacket, double-breasted chalkstripes, an Inverness cape and my piece de resistance: a 23oz mid-grey herringbone overcoat with a Russian sable-fur shawl collar.
If I were a pauper, I would still find a way to fill my wardrobe with cheaper clothes that had nice fabrics and colours. Tracksuits, sweashirts, nylon coats and cotton hoodies are depressingly dull and unnecessary. People show little imagination in their dress these days. Budget does not come into it!
I was just back from France last week (my love/hate relationship with the frogs continues) and was walking along Piccadilly when I saw the magnificent sight of our soldiers in full ceremonial dress collecting donations ahead of Remembrance Sunday. Believe it or not, I have never seen a Welsh Guardsman in scarlet tunic and Bearskin hat up close! There were also Scottish soldiers in full highland regalia and various other soldiers beautifully kitted out, shaking their collection tins. Well, I had absolutely no cash at all about my person and I have never been so mortified in my life! I felt so ungrateful and hung my head in abject shame. I have made my contributions since but it still stings just thinking about it! I do hope you are also doing your bit?
Be good.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough
You find me coughing and wheezing on my bed, wallowing in self-pity and surrounded by a veritable mountain of 3-ply tissues. However, I simply cannot tolerate boredom and am keeping myself amused in an appropriate manner.
I am re-reading Tolstoy's rather weighty Anna Karenina with greedy relish and it is every bit as superb as I remembered it. What a mind he possessed! I last read it at Eton in my pimply youth and, thankfully, remembered little of it in detail. I also have James Sherwood's latest tome, The Perfect Gentleman. It's sexy and glossy and is cheering me up no end!
As I am confined to my bedroom, I have also had the chance to go through my wardrobe with a fine tooth comb. I've just sent a pile of clothes over to my tailors for minor repairs and alterations. Although I do have a rather nice dressing room, I still keep a traditional wardrobe in the bedroom itself. It's a family piece and was made with staggering craftsmanship in Gdansk in Poland about 200 years ago. Walk-in wardobes are rather soulless in comparison.
My antique wardobe is reserved for my bespoke clothes according to the current season. The heavy cloths suggest an age of elegance, intrigue and adventure. 18oz grey flannel, heavy black barathea, tweed check jackets in wonderful hues, beige speckled Donegal, odd vests in tartan, Tattersall check and boxcloth. Butter-soft heavy camel wool trousers, a Harris tweed hacking jacket, double-breasted chalkstripes, an Inverness cape and my piece de resistance: a 23oz mid-grey herringbone overcoat with a Russian sable-fur shawl collar.
If I were a pauper, I would still find a way to fill my wardrobe with cheaper clothes that had nice fabrics and colours. Tracksuits, sweashirts, nylon coats and cotton hoodies are depressingly dull and unnecessary. People show little imagination in their dress these days. Budget does not come into it!
I was just back from France last week (my love/hate relationship with the frogs continues) and was walking along Piccadilly when I saw the magnificent sight of our soldiers in full ceremonial dress collecting donations ahead of Remembrance Sunday. Believe it or not, I have never seen a Welsh Guardsman in scarlet tunic and Bearskin hat up close! There were also Scottish soldiers in full highland regalia and various other soldiers beautifully kitted out, shaking their collection tins. Well, I had absolutely no cash at all about my person and I have never been so mortified in my life! I felt so ungrateful and hung my head in abject shame. I have made my contributions since but it still stings just thinking about it! I do hope you are also doing your bit?
Be good.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough
Friday 5 October 2012
Ode To Mystique
How wonderful! I had a free morning. I asked Miss B to shove all my meetings and appointments back to the afternoon. Not that I was canoodling with the wonderful Miss B, mind. Went for a long, leisurely breakfast at my club in St James's and then toddled over to Trumper's in Curzon Street to get polished up.
I must say, the men of Mayfair have that unique air of elegance and gravitas. Bespoke sober-coloured suits. Polished, expensive shoes. Crisp, handmade shirts and smart ties. Battered briefcases. The very antithesis of fashion. These men turn the wheels of this nation. Without them, the much-heralded creatives in our society would be mere 'bedroom geniuses'.
I love walking through the area's historic streets. Mayfair holds many secrets behind its large, ornate doors. It's simply impossible to ever be bored by this place! Regarding style, I'm afraid that the British woman has rather less of it than her male counterparts. It's either clownish 'edgeiness', cheap department store mundanity or 'tranny chic.' The Duchess of Cambridge, however, is always beautifully dressed. I simply adore her! She certainly has had her critics, but she has shown that class comes from within - it is not an automatic birthright as her brother-in-law has demonstrated.
How sad that Abu Hamza is finally being booted out of the UK! I don't know a single other personage with a hook for a hand! He really is a comic-book villain and his loss will be mourned by many - his leaving means it will be highly unlikely that we wll ever have the opportunity to lynch the fat b*****d from the nearest lamppost.
I must tell you this. I was just riding in the back of the Rolls, lost in my thoughts, on the way to lunch at Wiltons. As we turned into Piccadilly, I saw the most incredible woman! I can't even begin to describe her to you. Above average height. Slim but shapely. Beautiful, intelligent face. Stunning hat, and wearing a boucle tweed cape. Can't remember anything else. She simply had the most incredible mystique about her. I only mention it because it's so rare to witness!
There's very little mystique in the world today. Personally, I find that my soubriquet of The Duke of Snarlborough affords me a cloak of anonymity. I can be as naughty as I like! The movie stars of yesteryear adopted a profile for the public that projected glamour, sophistication and a fair amount of mystery. Take Marilyn. We never would have loved Norma Jean in the same way as we loved 'Marilyn Monroe'. Would you really wsh to see her cutting her toe-nails? Movie stars today like to 'keep it real' yawn, yawn. Likewise, the Haute Couture houses in Paris. The camera crews have access all areas! Even Savile Row has lost much of its mysterious image of old. The problem with publicity is that the private and the esoteric becomes rather everyday. There is nothing left to discover. No surprises. I still remember the first day that my father took me to Huntsman. A new world opened up before me!
Cancel your Twitter account. Make yourself scarce on Facebook. Dress like you have somewhere better to go. Always hold a little back for yourself. In short, raise your glass to the wonderful and rarified charms of 'Mystique'!
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough
I must say, the men of Mayfair have that unique air of elegance and gravitas. Bespoke sober-coloured suits. Polished, expensive shoes. Crisp, handmade shirts and smart ties. Battered briefcases. The very antithesis of fashion. These men turn the wheels of this nation. Without them, the much-heralded creatives in our society would be mere 'bedroom geniuses'.
I love walking through the area's historic streets. Mayfair holds many secrets behind its large, ornate doors. It's simply impossible to ever be bored by this place! Regarding style, I'm afraid that the British woman has rather less of it than her male counterparts. It's either clownish 'edgeiness', cheap department store mundanity or 'tranny chic.' The Duchess of Cambridge, however, is always beautifully dressed. I simply adore her! She certainly has had her critics, but she has shown that class comes from within - it is not an automatic birthright as her brother-in-law has demonstrated.
How sad that Abu Hamza is finally being booted out of the UK! I don't know a single other personage with a hook for a hand! He really is a comic-book villain and his loss will be mourned by many - his leaving means it will be highly unlikely that we wll ever have the opportunity to lynch the fat b*****d from the nearest lamppost.
I must tell you this. I was just riding in the back of the Rolls, lost in my thoughts, on the way to lunch at Wiltons. As we turned into Piccadilly, I saw the most incredible woman! I can't even begin to describe her to you. Above average height. Slim but shapely. Beautiful, intelligent face. Stunning hat, and wearing a boucle tweed cape. Can't remember anything else. She simply had the most incredible mystique about her. I only mention it because it's so rare to witness!
There's very little mystique in the world today. Personally, I find that my soubriquet of The Duke of Snarlborough affords me a cloak of anonymity. I can be as naughty as I like! The movie stars of yesteryear adopted a profile for the public that projected glamour, sophistication and a fair amount of mystery. Take Marilyn. We never would have loved Norma Jean in the same way as we loved 'Marilyn Monroe'. Would you really wsh to see her cutting her toe-nails? Movie stars today like to 'keep it real' yawn, yawn. Likewise, the Haute Couture houses in Paris. The camera crews have access all areas! Even Savile Row has lost much of its mysterious image of old. The problem with publicity is that the private and the esoteric becomes rather everyday. There is nothing left to discover. No surprises. I still remember the first day that my father took me to Huntsman. A new world opened up before me!
Cancel your Twitter account. Make yourself scarce on Facebook. Dress like you have somewhere better to go. Always hold a little back for yourself. In short, raise your glass to the wonderful and rarified charms of 'Mystique'!
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough
Tuesday 11 September 2012
Harrods v Fortnum
Good day, my little pom-poms!
Just back from a lovely breakfast at The Wolseley. The air feels wonderfully Autumnal. Still on a high from Andy Murray's historic win at the US Open. What a match? God loves a trier and, my word, he certainly has tried. The first of many one hopes.
It's not all good news, though. My buttocks are killing me! Miss B could very well be a little too young and energetic for me. However, she really is the most diverting creature and she certainly keeps me entertained.
Sybarite that I am, one can occasionally overdose on luxury. I popped in to Harrods during the week. It's been yonks. Was looking for a small gift to keep the Duchess sweet. I didn't stay long. There were so many arabs that one felt like a tourist in downtown Riyadh!
The once-hallowed food halls now feel commercialised and touristy. I passed through the Egyptian-themed monstrosities to the furniture department and was there confronted by sights that would make a Premier League footballer vomit. Maybe time for a coffee?
Unfortunately, every single cafe was so full of arabs that one felt alien and rather intrusive. I really don't mind the arabs coming to London but perhaps they might show some imagination in where they go? Finally, The Diana & Dodi Memorial is utterly tasteless and has no place in Harrods. Apparently, it was a condition of sale to the new owners that it remained there. Pity. I used to love Harrods.
Anyway, I beat a hasty retreat and asked my driver to convey me to Fortnum at the double! If Harrods was lost it would indeed be sad in a historic sense. However, if Fortnum & Mason were to close I would be bereft! It's just so utterly, utterly English. Large but not too large. Its thick red carpets and wood panelling give warmth and character. The teas are unparalleled. The foods and condiments are absolutely exquisite and it's never, ever colonised by arab tourists! I bought the Duchess a beautiful silk scarf and some lovely perfume (following a few heavy hints). Couldn't resist buying Miss B a large French saucisson to provoke her filthy laugh!
Then on to Jermyn Street. Now, as I stated earlier, one can overdose on luxury. Jermyn Street is the most elegant and charming street in London. It has just about everything that any man of substance could possibly dream of. There, one is treated with mere politeness by that increasingly rare breed: the English salesman.
Absolutely no bowing and scraping, no champagne on a silver salver, no extracting all your personal details for marketing purposes. I love it! You see, if the truth be told we English find the whole 'luxury' experience a bit embarrassing. Take Berry Bros on St James's. If LVMH took over it they'd cover the wood-panelled walls and creaky floor in Italian marble and build a VIP room. One would be served by some crazed Italian girl with too much make-up and too little Inglese. Balls to that!
Some of us prefer a whisper of luxury rather than a shout. I'm afraid it all comes down to class. There are few who understand the true meaning of understated elegance and hospitality. Savile Row and Jermyn Street do it so brilliantly.
Now, I'm off to take a long, hot bath to relieve my tired old bot!
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough x
Just back from a lovely breakfast at The Wolseley. The air feels wonderfully Autumnal. Still on a high from Andy Murray's historic win at the US Open. What a match? God loves a trier and, my word, he certainly has tried. The first of many one hopes.
It's not all good news, though. My buttocks are killing me! Miss B could very well be a little too young and energetic for me. However, she really is the most diverting creature and she certainly keeps me entertained.
Sybarite that I am, one can occasionally overdose on luxury. I popped in to Harrods during the week. It's been yonks. Was looking for a small gift to keep the Duchess sweet. I didn't stay long. There were so many arabs that one felt like a tourist in downtown Riyadh!
The once-hallowed food halls now feel commercialised and touristy. I passed through the Egyptian-themed monstrosities to the furniture department and was there confronted by sights that would make a Premier League footballer vomit. Maybe time for a coffee?
Unfortunately, every single cafe was so full of arabs that one felt alien and rather intrusive. I really don't mind the arabs coming to London but perhaps they might show some imagination in where they go? Finally, The Diana & Dodi Memorial is utterly tasteless and has no place in Harrods. Apparently, it was a condition of sale to the new owners that it remained there. Pity. I used to love Harrods.
Anyway, I beat a hasty retreat and asked my driver to convey me to Fortnum at the double! If Harrods was lost it would indeed be sad in a historic sense. However, if Fortnum & Mason were to close I would be bereft! It's just so utterly, utterly English. Large but not too large. Its thick red carpets and wood panelling give warmth and character. The teas are unparalleled. The foods and condiments are absolutely exquisite and it's never, ever colonised by arab tourists! I bought the Duchess a beautiful silk scarf and some lovely perfume (following a few heavy hints). Couldn't resist buying Miss B a large French saucisson to provoke her filthy laugh!
Then on to Jermyn Street. Now, as I stated earlier, one can overdose on luxury. Jermyn Street is the most elegant and charming street in London. It has just about everything that any man of substance could possibly dream of. There, one is treated with mere politeness by that increasingly rare breed: the English salesman.
Absolutely no bowing and scraping, no champagne on a silver salver, no extracting all your personal details for marketing purposes. I love it! You see, if the truth be told we English find the whole 'luxury' experience a bit embarrassing. Take Berry Bros on St James's. If LVMH took over it they'd cover the wood-panelled walls and creaky floor in Italian marble and build a VIP room. One would be served by some crazed Italian girl with too much make-up and too little Inglese. Balls to that!
Some of us prefer a whisper of luxury rather than a shout. I'm afraid it all comes down to class. There are few who understand the true meaning of understated elegance and hospitality. Savile Row and Jermyn Street do it so brilliantly.
Now, I'm off to take a long, hot bath to relieve my tired old bot!
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough x
Thursday 30 August 2012
Problem Child
Harry Windsor. Quite the boy. Now, I'm no saint, as you know, but I must say that I'm terribly unimpressed with his antics in Las Vegas. Despite his connections, despite his top drawer education, despite his being a military officer, despite his obligations to the British taxpayer, he really has no class at all. What a bloody chav!
The main problem is that his tawdry behaviour reflects on us all in the eyes of foreigners. Think of Berlusconi! That little sh*t ruined people's estimation of Italy and all those who voted him into power. Think of the ragbag Monaco Royals. Harry is third in line to the throne and has already undertaken ambassadorial duties overseas. He is representing Great Britain. Every single bloody day!
It's H.M. The Queen that one feels most sorry for. She has spent 60 years garnering respect and admiration from around the world for our dear country. Harry would be well-advised to remember that.
Las Vegas is surely the last place on earth that a person of any style or taste would want to be seen dead in. I must say, strip poker is a game for people of low intelligence or dubious character. It lacks any trace of class or sophistication. I may have done a few rakish things in my time but I'd like to think it did them with a dash of elegance and panache, my dears!
A few tips to those who need them:
1. Bum chums. My generation kept things private. For example, I had a few close homosexual friends in my time but it was never even mentioned by any of us. Simply irrelevant. Far more stylish, don't you think? Nowadays, all the furtive fun must surely have gone out of being gay. EveryTom, Dick and Fanny is out and proud! Less Elton 'n' David, more Brideshead please.
2. Sober up. If one overindulges on the sauce one should try their damndest to affect an air of nonchalent and dignified sobriety. Often comical to witness, but to be openly sozzled in elegant company is simply not done! Young types take note.
3. Treat the mistress well. Extra-marital affairs should always be conducted with impeccable discretion and style. One must avoid making false promises to one's mistress. However, she must be treated to sumptuous dinners, expensive hotels and a life of naughty indulgences. Why bother, otherwise?
You see? We each of us have our little weaknesses and imperfections. All that's required is a little restraint and a little discretion. One needn't be 'To The Manor Born' to follow these rules of life.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough x
PS. The Duchess has just spilt coffee all over my cherished copy of James Sherwood's book on Savile Row. Trying desperately to sound sanguine. 'Don't you worry, dear!' Silly woman. Oh well, I'll replace it asap and then whisk Miss B off for a frolic in the country! (See tip no 3).
The main problem is that his tawdry behaviour reflects on us all in the eyes of foreigners. Think of Berlusconi! That little sh*t ruined people's estimation of Italy and all those who voted him into power. Think of the ragbag Monaco Royals. Harry is third in line to the throne and has already undertaken ambassadorial duties overseas. He is representing Great Britain. Every single bloody day!
It's H.M. The Queen that one feels most sorry for. She has spent 60 years garnering respect and admiration from around the world for our dear country. Harry would be well-advised to remember that.
Las Vegas is surely the last place on earth that a person of any style or taste would want to be seen dead in. I must say, strip poker is a game for people of low intelligence or dubious character. It lacks any trace of class or sophistication. I may have done a few rakish things in my time but I'd like to think it did them with a dash of elegance and panache, my dears!
A few tips to those who need them:
1. Bum chums. My generation kept things private. For example, I had a few close homosexual friends in my time but it was never even mentioned by any of us. Simply irrelevant. Far more stylish, don't you think? Nowadays, all the furtive fun must surely have gone out of being gay. EveryTom, Dick and Fanny is out and proud! Less Elton 'n' David, more Brideshead please.
2. Sober up. If one overindulges on the sauce one should try their damndest to affect an air of nonchalent and dignified sobriety. Often comical to witness, but to be openly sozzled in elegant company is simply not done! Young types take note.
3. Treat the mistress well. Extra-marital affairs should always be conducted with impeccable discretion and style. One must avoid making false promises to one's mistress. However, she must be treated to sumptuous dinners, expensive hotels and a life of naughty indulgences. Why bother, otherwise?
You see? We each of us have our little weaknesses and imperfections. All that's required is a little restraint and a little discretion. One needn't be 'To The Manor Born' to follow these rules of life.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough x
PS. The Duchess has just spilt coffee all over my cherished copy of James Sherwood's book on Savile Row. Trying desperately to sound sanguine. 'Don't you worry, dear!' Silly woman. Oh well, I'll replace it asap and then whisk Miss B off for a frolic in the country! (See tip no 3).
Sunday 19 August 2012
Time Warps, Deco and Dame Jess
Art Deco. How it conjures images of jazz and cocktails, beautiful cars and shimmering evening gowns. One inevitably reaches an age in life where every mortal, whether a Duke or a dustman, begins to yearn for a bygone age. As civilisation becomes uncivil, as travel becomes a squalid experience, as BBC newsreaders become politely ethnic, as dressing up becomes dressing down I find myself dreaming of the glam and glitz of the 1930s.
Brasserie Zedel in London is a veritable time-machine that waltzes one back to those halcyon days. Its evocation of Deco is magnifique and warms the heart of my little cockle! The entrance lobby is a statement, the restaurant rather wonderful. However, the jewel in the crown, for me, is the Bar Americain. It simply transports you! I dragged the Duchess down there and she was soon purring in my ear. One does not drink Peroni there. We sipped heavenly cocktails and talked art, architecture and orgasms.
Why no dress code, though? Such a bore. We were both looking resplendent but there were a few plebs in this temple of glamour in jeans and t-shirts! Rather depressing, but then a tall, pretty lady made an entrance in a lovely gown and a white fox stole around her shoulders. No really. It made our day.
Been glued to the box for 3 weeks absorbed in the Olympics. Who needs Viagra? It's done wonders for my sex life! Endless amounts of pert bodies and heroic acts aplenty. Jessica Ennis should be made a Dame. She symbolises all that's great about this small island of ours.
Call me a heel but I fail to grasp the point of the Paralympics. I sincerely have every sympathy for those who find themselves disabled, but the whole idea of an Olympics for the disabled is crass. Tell me, who has the edge in a 100m sprint? The blind man, the man with artificial legs, the man with artificial arms or the man with celebral palsy? Tough to call. Or simply not necessary.
I was just on my way over to Savile Row for a fitting on a new tweed jacket. Anyway, I bumped into Lord such-and-such in Bruton Street. He's an old and dear friend of the family. He invited me to shoot some grouse up in Scotland. I may be a Duke but I haven't gone shooting in years! I'll try to avoid peppering his a**e with pellets if at all possible. My tailor was happy, too, as I ordered a nice pair of plus fours to go with the jacket. Better get my Purdeys serviced.
That reminds me, my new P.A. Miss B has agreed to let me take her to dinner. Delightful girl.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough x
Brasserie Zedel in London is a veritable time-machine that waltzes one back to those halcyon days. Its evocation of Deco is magnifique and warms the heart of my little cockle! The entrance lobby is a statement, the restaurant rather wonderful. However, the jewel in the crown, for me, is the Bar Americain. It simply transports you! I dragged the Duchess down there and she was soon purring in my ear. One does not drink Peroni there. We sipped heavenly cocktails and talked art, architecture and orgasms.
Why no dress code, though? Such a bore. We were both looking resplendent but there were a few plebs in this temple of glamour in jeans and t-shirts! Rather depressing, but then a tall, pretty lady made an entrance in a lovely gown and a white fox stole around her shoulders. No really. It made our day.
Been glued to the box for 3 weeks absorbed in the Olympics. Who needs Viagra? It's done wonders for my sex life! Endless amounts of pert bodies and heroic acts aplenty. Jessica Ennis should be made a Dame. She symbolises all that's great about this small island of ours.
Call me a heel but I fail to grasp the point of the Paralympics. I sincerely have every sympathy for those who find themselves disabled, but the whole idea of an Olympics for the disabled is crass. Tell me, who has the edge in a 100m sprint? The blind man, the man with artificial legs, the man with artificial arms or the man with celebral palsy? Tough to call. Or simply not necessary.
I was just on my way over to Savile Row for a fitting on a new tweed jacket. Anyway, I bumped into Lord such-and-such in Bruton Street. He's an old and dear friend of the family. He invited me to shoot some grouse up in Scotland. I may be a Duke but I haven't gone shooting in years! I'll try to avoid peppering his a**e with pellets if at all possible. My tailor was happy, too, as I ordered a nice pair of plus fours to go with the jacket. Better get my Purdeys serviced.
That reminds me, my new P.A. Miss B has agreed to let me take her to dinner. Delightful girl.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough x
Sunday 1 July 2012
Tits, Tatoos and Dress Codes
Bonsoir my little dumplings,
New balls please! I am currently sitting in my favourite tweed wingback armchair with legs akimbo, wincing at the intermittent throbs in my nether regions. Now, this is usually a welcome sensation but, you see, my plums really are rather sore. My 4 year-old nephew was visiting and aimed a kick with impressive accuracy. Johnny Wilko look out!
Anyway, I've already taken to using my antique walking cane at every opportunity. Sans limp it may be construed as pretentious, but with a limp - I could get used to this. It makes me think of my late grandfather in his Opera cloak, which I vaguely remember seeing him wearing as he set off for a night at Covent Garden.
Nowadays, some people wear jeans to the opera. Or for dinner at Claridges. It's their 'right', of course. The problem is, when one dresses smartly it sort of ruins the sense of occasion if ones fellow revellers are in supermarket shopper mode. Kills the moment.
The Ritz is the only remaining place in London with a dress code. Astonishing, isn't it? My townhouse in Mayfair has now become a bastion of old-fashioned style and glam for me and my comrades. The Duchess and I now hold regular black tie dinners and glam soirees for those who don't need to be given a dress code. It feels like being in the French Resistance, but minus the navel-gazing and garlic breath.
In my unswerving opinion, dress codes are both helpful and highly necessary. Look at Ascot! One attends the Royal Meeting precisely to dress up. It's a special occasion. The extant problems lie in the fact that too many 'ladies' seem to be under the impression that Ascot is an Essex nightclub. Sparkly crotch-skimming mini-dresses and 7-inch tranny heels simply won't do. Think of the turf, my dears, think of the turf. The revised dress code was sorely needed.
You see, we, the human race, need to be saved from ourselves. Without rules, we would happily drink and smoke ourselves to death. We would eat only fast food and we would never go to work. We would kill with impunity and wear only tracksuits or pyjamas. We might even buy suits at William Hunt. We are animals.
Civilisation requires rules.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough x
New balls please! I am currently sitting in my favourite tweed wingback armchair with legs akimbo, wincing at the intermittent throbs in my nether regions. Now, this is usually a welcome sensation but, you see, my plums really are rather sore. My 4 year-old nephew was visiting and aimed a kick with impressive accuracy. Johnny Wilko look out!
Anyway, I've already taken to using my antique walking cane at every opportunity. Sans limp it may be construed as pretentious, but with a limp - I could get used to this. It makes me think of my late grandfather in his Opera cloak, which I vaguely remember seeing him wearing as he set off for a night at Covent Garden.
Nowadays, some people wear jeans to the opera. Or for dinner at Claridges. It's their 'right', of course. The problem is, when one dresses smartly it sort of ruins the sense of occasion if ones fellow revellers are in supermarket shopper mode. Kills the moment.
The Ritz is the only remaining place in London with a dress code. Astonishing, isn't it? My townhouse in Mayfair has now become a bastion of old-fashioned style and glam for me and my comrades. The Duchess and I now hold regular black tie dinners and glam soirees for those who don't need to be given a dress code. It feels like being in the French Resistance, but minus the navel-gazing and garlic breath.
In my unswerving opinion, dress codes are both helpful and highly necessary. Look at Ascot! One attends the Royal Meeting precisely to dress up. It's a special occasion. The extant problems lie in the fact that too many 'ladies' seem to be under the impression that Ascot is an Essex nightclub. Sparkly crotch-skimming mini-dresses and 7-inch tranny heels simply won't do. Think of the turf, my dears, think of the turf. The revised dress code was sorely needed.
You see, we, the human race, need to be saved from ourselves. Without rules, we would happily drink and smoke ourselves to death. We would eat only fast food and we would never go to work. We would kill with impunity and wear only tracksuits or pyjamas. We might even buy suits at William Hunt. We are animals.
Civilisation requires rules.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough x
Wednesday 6 June 2012
Rule Britannia!
Dearest denizens of the British Empire,
Here we are, hungover and bleary-eyed, after a rather wonderful weekend of celebrations for Her Majesty The Queen's 60th year on the throne! Magnificent. I don't quite recall ever feeling so proud to be British.
We may not be perfect but much of the wrongs in modern society can be laid at the door of feeble politicians and political correctness. Call a spade a damned spade I say and to hell with them if they don't like it!
Despite the riots and the Hoodies, the Hip Hop, the binge-drinking and the benefits culture there is still much for the nation to be proud of:
Snobbery. Us Brits still rather excel at snobbery. We all do it. It simply needs a PR makeover. True snobbery is about setting a high standard and is the only thing separating civilisation from barbarianism.
Weather. Admit it, we do weather like no-one else. Unusually, we still get all the four seasons. Often in a single day. Would you really want 50C and palm trees growing on your lawns? When would one wear ones tweeds?
Dress. We wrote the book and the well-dressed British gent still sets the standard. Chalkstripes, tweeds, Barbours and wellies, blazers, black tie, white tie, morning dress. We've got it all covered.
Sporting Failure. Our athletes have the least effective anabolic steroids in the world. We should take pride in that.
Table Manners. Granted, our table manners (general population) may leave a lot to be desired but have you observed some of the wealthy American tourists at Claridges or Browns? Lord save us.
Understatement. Even now, the French and the Italians don't get it. One doubts that they ever will and it really would take far too long to explain it to our diminutive neighbours. Less is more.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough xx
Here we are, hungover and bleary-eyed, after a rather wonderful weekend of celebrations for Her Majesty The Queen's 60th year on the throne! Magnificent. I don't quite recall ever feeling so proud to be British.
We may not be perfect but much of the wrongs in modern society can be laid at the door of feeble politicians and political correctness. Call a spade a damned spade I say and to hell with them if they don't like it!
Despite the riots and the Hoodies, the Hip Hop, the binge-drinking and the benefits culture there is still much for the nation to be proud of:
Snobbery. Us Brits still rather excel at snobbery. We all do it. It simply needs a PR makeover. True snobbery is about setting a high standard and is the only thing separating civilisation from barbarianism.
Weather. Admit it, we do weather like no-one else. Unusually, we still get all the four seasons. Often in a single day. Would you really want 50C and palm trees growing on your lawns? When would one wear ones tweeds?
Dress. We wrote the book and the well-dressed British gent still sets the standard. Chalkstripes, tweeds, Barbours and wellies, blazers, black tie, white tie, morning dress. We've got it all covered.
Sporting Failure. Our athletes have the least effective anabolic steroids in the world. We should take pride in that.
Table Manners. Granted, our table manners (general population) may leave a lot to be desired but have you observed some of the wealthy American tourists at Claridges or Browns? Lord save us.
Understatement. Even now, the French and the Italians don't get it. One doubts that they ever will and it really would take far too long to explain it to our diminutive neighbours. Less is more.
More anon
The Duke of Snarlborough xx
Tuesday 29 May 2012
Grandeur and Grit
Lords, ladies and lady-boys,
I offer you my immense gratitude for your indefatigable patience. I've been rather a busy boy, you see. A takeover deal here, a soiree there and numerous indiscretions to brush under the Persian rugs.
Mayfair. This morning. There I was strolling over to Trumper's in Curzon Street in the bright sunshine feeling truly at peace with the world. Queen's Diamond Jubilee Union Jacks wherever one looks and a unique feeling of 'Britishness' in the air. Believe me, over the past week I have never seen so many club ties, blazers and cravats in my life! Not sure that the ladies have hit their stride yet, though. Must do better methinks.
We ate Italian last night. However, I do seem to have a rather chronic case of uncontrollable flatulence. What a bore! Angela Hartnett's fault. Love her grub but, my word, this could lead to the divorce courts.
Ah yes, the wife. I made a solemn promise to myself to think about her at least once per week. One would not call it a marriage of convenience but we did indeed marry and it was immensely convenient. Haven't rogered her in years but, hell, I've grown accustomed to her face....
From good landed gentry stock, she hunts, shoots and has Cecconi's on speed dial. Good turn of leg, pert bosoms and she can tie a Hermes scarf a hundred ways. Can't cook to save her life, but I'm not unduly concerned about that as I'm goosing the cook. I sometimes wish I'd married for love but think of all the wonderful affairs that I'd have missed out on.
I type this from my bed, surrounded by large squidgy pillows, as I watch the French Open on television. Had two prime tickets for Roland Garros and the Eurostar booked. Unfortunately, the Duchess and I had an unusually large quarrel and that meant au revoir to our little trip.
Life really loves to make fools of us all, dear friends. What are tribulations without trials, after all? There, in all the far scattered corners of the Universe, one always finds grandeur and grit travelling together on their endless journey.
Never mind. All being well, the Duchess and I will soon be off for a week on a friend's yacht around Italy and the Mediterranean.
More anon.
The Duke of Snarlborough
I offer you my immense gratitude for your indefatigable patience. I've been rather a busy boy, you see. A takeover deal here, a soiree there and numerous indiscretions to brush under the Persian rugs.
Mayfair. This morning. There I was strolling over to Trumper's in Curzon Street in the bright sunshine feeling truly at peace with the world. Queen's Diamond Jubilee Union Jacks wherever one looks and a unique feeling of 'Britishness' in the air. Believe me, over the past week I have never seen so many club ties, blazers and cravats in my life! Not sure that the ladies have hit their stride yet, though. Must do better methinks.
We ate Italian last night. However, I do seem to have a rather chronic case of uncontrollable flatulence. What a bore! Angela Hartnett's fault. Love her grub but, my word, this could lead to the divorce courts.
Ah yes, the wife. I made a solemn promise to myself to think about her at least once per week. One would not call it a marriage of convenience but we did indeed marry and it was immensely convenient. Haven't rogered her in years but, hell, I've grown accustomed to her face....
From good landed gentry stock, she hunts, shoots and has Cecconi's on speed dial. Good turn of leg, pert bosoms and she can tie a Hermes scarf a hundred ways. Can't cook to save her life, but I'm not unduly concerned about that as I'm goosing the cook. I sometimes wish I'd married for love but think of all the wonderful affairs that I'd have missed out on.
I type this from my bed, surrounded by large squidgy pillows, as I watch the French Open on television. Had two prime tickets for Roland Garros and the Eurostar booked. Unfortunately, the Duchess and I had an unusually large quarrel and that meant au revoir to our little trip.
Life really loves to make fools of us all, dear friends. What are tribulations without trials, after all? There, in all the far scattered corners of the Universe, one always finds grandeur and grit travelling together on their endless journey.
Never mind. All being well, the Duchess and I will soon be off for a week on a friend's yacht around Italy and the Mediterranean.
More anon.
The Duke of Snarlborough
Tuesday 27 March 2012
Down T My Last 40 Mill'...
Dearest glamourpusses, faded aristos and fashblog Hogs,
The time has come to stand up and be counted. All around us, the citadels of style, taste and culture are crumbling. I type this from the plush backseat of a vintage Rolls gliding through Mayfair but let's not dwell on details. There are bigger things to think about.
The Knowledge Part 1
Gentlemen should not talk about their clothes. Ever. Bond Street dandies take note, you poor dears. A man's clothes are incidental. They should compliment his personality - not act as a substitute. He should dress with style, yes, but must never be caught loitering around his wardrobe for too long. His mind should be on his work or his woman.
The Knowledge Part 2
Bespoke. My man in Savile Row occasionally asks for my view. He's just being polite. One should never, ever, play the pedantic, indecisive Frenchman in these matters. Thou shalt not ask the cutter to leave while you change. Thou shalt not invite your wife/ mistress in for the fitting. Thou shalt not turn up in jeans and flip-flops. Thou shalt not buy Richard James R-T-W and tell your cohorts that it's Savile Row. Be a man.
The Knowledge Part 3
Style is ethereal and many-faceted. It is all-encompassing. Style means always dressing correctly for whichever occasion, whether formal or not. It also means treating ones household staff nicely. It means looking beyond the obvious and aiming for originality. It means comporting oneself with elegant nonchalance. One cannot buy style. It's there or it isn't.
Well, here we are at Claridges. Deco heaven. Whispered echoes of a bygone era soothing my very soul. There's a recession shaking the gates but what's a poor Duke to do? One must not let ones standards slip. More anon.
The Duke of Snarlborough xx
The time has come to stand up and be counted. All around us, the citadels of style, taste and culture are crumbling. I type this from the plush backseat of a vintage Rolls gliding through Mayfair but let's not dwell on details. There are bigger things to think about.
The Knowledge Part 1
Gentlemen should not talk about their clothes. Ever. Bond Street dandies take note, you poor dears. A man's clothes are incidental. They should compliment his personality - not act as a substitute. He should dress with style, yes, but must never be caught loitering around his wardrobe for too long. His mind should be on his work or his woman.
The Knowledge Part 2
Bespoke. My man in Savile Row occasionally asks for my view. He's just being polite. One should never, ever, play the pedantic, indecisive Frenchman in these matters. Thou shalt not ask the cutter to leave while you change. Thou shalt not invite your wife/ mistress in for the fitting. Thou shalt not turn up in jeans and flip-flops. Thou shalt not buy Richard James R-T-W and tell your cohorts that it's Savile Row. Be a man.
The Knowledge Part 3
Style is ethereal and many-faceted. It is all-encompassing. Style means always dressing correctly for whichever occasion, whether formal or not. It also means treating ones household staff nicely. It means looking beyond the obvious and aiming for originality. It means comporting oneself with elegant nonchalance. One cannot buy style. It's there or it isn't.
Well, here we are at Claridges. Deco heaven. Whispered echoes of a bygone era soothing my very soul. There's a recession shaking the gates but what's a poor Duke to do? One must not let ones standards slip. More anon.
The Duke of Snarlborough xx
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