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).
Thursday, 30 August 2012
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)