Should've Stuck to the Turkish Baths
Mon Vieux,
All right, so I may have lead you to believe that I was intending to tickle the lettered plastic with my finger tips over Le Weekend. I was. But then somehow, using dark forces, I was enticed to a place where people gather to exert themselves wearing very tight, very short trousers and undershirts with garish designs across the front. Lord only knows what devilish powers were unleashed upon me but all I know is that at nine-o'bloody-clock in the morning I found myself firmly fastened to a crudely fashioned bicycle with no wheels on it.
Now as I'm sure you're aware I have a certain reputation, and it doesn't do for a chap to be seen in casual attire anywhere outside of the Turkish Baths, never mind the inappropriateness of the hour. What then was I to do? I was all set to break down and cite shell shock and an old war wound when the most delicious blonde filly hove into view. She sashayed to my side, bade me a fond Good Morning and then proceeded to lift her exquisite right fetlock over a similar contraption to the one I was strapped to, directly in front of me. Of course the gauntlet had been thrown down, and a tanned and firm pair of buttocks bouncing before me took me back to the old days at school, so I was duty bound to pedal the damned machine for all I was worth until told to stop.
I'm afraid to say for all my hard work the machine moved not an inch so I was cruelly denied my prize, but entre-nous if I'd been thrust into the showers of a sixth form girls boarding school the old feller wouldn't have moved. After that I was taken to the local tennis court and forced to leap and jump and stretch and jog. And so, two days later here you find me, prostrate, aching, and dreaming of my next Challenge Anneka cycling-shorted target. I'll tell you one thing, the new century has a lot more to offer when you bolt your bike to the ground.
Now that I've got that out of my system I can inform you that last week saw me at Christies auction for Fine Jewellery and Watches. I attended the actual sale under duress (tawdry commerce, full of Del-Boys) but the preview was a riot. Imagine if you will, yours truly after six glasses of a very reasonable Sancerre by the stroke of six-thirty pip emma, pronouncing judgement on a six-million dollar necklace. The old hags who'd assembled around it were treated to unfavourable comparisons between the bauble and Steve Austin ad infinitum. I can't honestly say that my lines were funny, they were just repeated, and repeated, and repeated. I had to be led away mumbling pleasantly to myself. These posh auction previews are quite the thing though. Free booze, sugar daddies and their teenage squeeze's, confirmed bachelors suited and primped, and long legged models walking round dispensing glamorous smiles. I shall be making it my business to attend many more.
Sartorial dilemma of the moment - The weather is heating up, it'll be 80 degrees tomorrow, and as a man with the perfect amount of thatching I have to protect the mown sections. To wit what about a chapeau? How does an Englishman go out in the midday sun? Dismiss all thoughts of les chapeaux Americains of course. But the traditional sun hat, as favoured by purveyors of Brit Pop, is far to casual, a straw boater's the thing on the Cam perhaps but it's a wanker-detector in the metrop, so we're left with the one and only Panama. But surely they are for men over fifty and chinless Oxbridge Hoorays at Henly? It's a problem mate and no mistake. I am confined to barracks for the nonce so give me your thoughts post haste.
My very fondest to your very fondest and from my very fondest.
Yoicks afor'ard,
S.