Two Chaps Talking

Mon vieux,

You know where it all came from don't you, this too-long-for-shorts-too-short-for-trousers business? Some silly Gianni tried on a pair of proper Englishman's regulation length shorts at the beach one day without first having had his mother take 'em up. Somewhat vertically challenged as one might naturally expect they fell to below his spindly little knees. Alas the poor sap thought this was the point and gave 'em to his uncle to manufacture a million of 'em. Unfortunately certain of our own great unwashed suck up just such rubbish from our olive oil exporting cousins and the rest is rather unpleasant and troublesome history.

Moving on (but I wonder how far?). When one's been called a poove as many times as yours truly then perhaps one can be forgiven for a soupcon of doubt at times when it doesn't happen. Such was fortunately not the case during my previously mentioned recent sojourn in an earthly paradise. Allow me if you will to set the scene: the gentle lapping of waves, the sun full and bright and creeping over the far horizon miles out to sea, a pelican diving for its breakfast, the chug of a fishing boat seeking something worthy for one's dinner, and a gnarled wooden pier with room enough at its end for half a dozen bright young things to play twister without the dots.

What could be more swashbuckling and swordsman-like one might think? Surely Connery at his most macho could cast no manly aspersions on such a scene? Especially as your humble correspondent was the only chap amongst the flora and fauna. Well, believe it or not, terms of gentle mockery were indeed thrown at one upon one's return to the bustling metrop.

Let's move forward a week or two shall we? Tans are fading, the grime of city life is encroaching and in general normal service is all but restored. Bar one thing. I, your fellow Old Bournemouthian and son of the Empire, have taken to the previously described pastime with gay abandon, if you'll pardon the pun. Yes that's right, far from returning from one's hols having caught 'the gay' as current parlance would have it, I am luxuriating in my new substitute for fencing.

I mean, having hitherto struggled to do something worthy with lumps of metal more suited to the Albert Dock alongside those aspiring to revoltingly Arnie-type bulk, I can now be found gently dipping, swooping and bending amongst some absolutely top-of-the-line models. It beggars belief old thing it really does. With fine figures of feminine felinicity assuming the kind of poses illegal even in Pat Phong till the early nineties not four feet from one's bulging eye balls, and with a nubile young nymph touching and feeling one through the strain of it, and, wait for it, with ogling, gazing, staring and drinking-in positively encouraged, nay required, not least by the Trouble, well, I'm weak at the thought and my tears of joy stain the keyboard.

But here's the biggest laugh of all. When oafs, vagabonds and hoi polloi in general find out, they cast aspersions on the side of street upon which one shops. Ha! I laugh in their collective face. I mean, not that it's ever been aught short of a compliment anyway, but frankly which would any red blooded Englishman choose; testosterone flexing with over-muscled, hirsute, rancidly-singleted ogres in terminal denial of their persuasion, or quiet elongating with bikini-waxed and tanned ballet dancers whose only desire appears to be to ensure one's pleasure.

Moving slowly and lingeringly on I find myself once more the bearer of glad tidings. 'Tis a tough life in the colonies and no mistake, so when an oasis presents itself one rejoices with choirs of heavenly angels.

Now in previous dispatches I have had cause to congratulate the odd boite and hostelry of this ill-begotten isle for their excellence in the supplying of Great British food, and the 'G' may be considered either upper or lower case as both are correct. I now have the pleasure of announcing to the world in general the opening of another, or indeed should I perhaps say, the foremost purveyor of God's own food on this side of the Atlantic.

No they don't have Heinz beans. And no they don't do a fry-up of a morning no matter how many Stellas a chap had for the road (and no it wasn't that one of them was bad either). This temple of all that is correct in a city, nay country, where so much is not (and where have we heard that before?) is called UK New York. And, when called upon to do so, their offerings include the following. Are you ready...?

- Beef Wellington. Hurrah!

- Toad in the Hole. Huzzah!

- Trifle. Hip-Hip Hooray!

- Spotted Dick. For he's a jolly good fellow...!

And, though my eyes water and my temperature rises at its mere mention, here goes...

- Banoffee Tart. Copious weeping, rending of garments, behaviour of a generally biblical nature.

It's like Portugal June 2004 and Florida November 2000 never happened and all's right with the world. I've managed to find my way there, and it's a way from my own Berkley Square type locale I can tell you, more times than is considered possible in the currently accepted time/space continuum. So what if the Fragrant One now has the manager on speed dial for ease of locating her nearest and dearest. I stand proud. Beef Wellington it was at our nuptials and so it shall be evermore.

I mention this only in passing of course. I mean, bring up our native cuisine here and one gets short shrift indeed. What, they ask, have their erstwhile masters ever done for world cuisine? Honestly old thing, they truly ask that. It's almost as if Cambridge Burnt Cream never happened. This from the country that gave the world something called the 'weiner' and continues to afflict McAsh'n'fluff 'burgers' upon us. What pray, is the great American contribution to world cuisine, and I don't mean the incredible ribs that can certainly be had in the places where sheets are worn over heads?

Anyway my dear old quality chop, the days are ticking by and my man is polishing the ashtrays in Coventry's Finest in advance of your visit. It's hotter over here than a small cupboard in Kylie's dressing room with a spy hole drilled in the door, so bring only your lungi and titfer.

After all old chap, when in Rome.

Yours with a drink to one side and ankles askew,

S

Posted by S at 10:28 PM | Permalink

I am of the opinion that a man’s dress may be said to be ‘in fashion’ whereas only a lady’s can be ‘fashionable’. In case that semantic distinction troubles your gin-compromised brain, let me explain. A man’s clothes should always be either rigorously fit for purpose or have been so at some point in history.

The modern chap’s dress comprises items that have been tested on the sports field, by the military or by working men. They can, at various times be ‘in fashion’ but they have no quality, in and of themselves, of ‘fashionableness’.

I sit, dear boy, on a glorious English summer’s in the garden (aah, the blessing of wireless broadband), Mendelssohn tinkling in the background, the wind rustling the bamboo and a milspec Pimms to hand. I’m even in that state of losership most comfortable to an Englishman having lost the football, the tennis and looking set to get thrashed in the Northern Hemisphere semis of the World “Finding-Your-Own-Arse-With-Two-Hands,- A-Map-And-A-Flashlight” Competition.

All should be well with the world, yet, as always seems to happen at perfect moments like these, something dark looms. Something muddies the waters like a Brandy Alexander spilled while bathing. It is (isn’t it always?) a matter of fashion which troubles me most.

I am of the opinion that a man’s dress may be said to be ‘in fashion’ whereas only a lady’s can be ‘fashionable’. In case that semantic distinction troubles your gin-compromised brain, let me explain. A man’s clothes should always be either rigorously fit for purpose or have been so at some point in history.

The modern chap’s dress comprises items that have been tested on the sports field, by the military or by working men. They can, at various times be ‘in fashion’ but they have no quality, in and of themselves, of ‘fashionableness’.

The shoes I am wearing are hybrid descendants of the hiking and the tennis shoe. My socks are a short version of those we wore for rugger at school. My denim trousers (No…. I still can’t utter the word) were designed for cowhands or sailors, my T-shirt for Marines, my chambray shirt for horny-handed sons of toil and my watch for a diver. Of course, our readers may opine, we expected nothing less in the casual wear of our rugged and manly correspondent but what of his more formal working attire?

Here, dear friend, I borrow your mantle as fashion maven to point out that my brogues descend from the self-draining footwear of ghillies and my trousers are cut to the lines originally designed to give gentleman sportsmen more freedom than breeches. My shirt derives from the linen undergarment intended to absorb the sweat of a flustered aristocrat and my suit coat has the body of a riding tunic and sleeves designed for surgeons. Even my tie is a direct descendant of military colours or the favour worn by a knight.

Though a lady may freely wear ‘fashionable’ items with no more purpose than the enhancement of her beauty, any item in which a gentleman can feel comfortable has to have this historical functionality - this ‘form follows function’ intrinsic-ness. From this solid base a man can be as dandy as his valet will permit in his variations from the basic theme but he never loses the sheet anchor of purpose.

So….

What the fuck are three-quarter length trousers all about?

Why are half the male population of London, mincing the streets of Soho in truncated bloody pyjamas? Shorts, I can sort of deal with. I mean, there are swimming trunks and the admirably modest British Army Short and a variety of sporting garments in between. But even at their most ludicrous, the Army never permitted shorts below the knee. Why? If you need the knee covered, wear trousers. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a single pair of shorts in either of our recent desert wars. If the military have seen fit to do away with shorts so should we (Please see entirely separate rant concerning civilians who wear DPM fatigues for the challenging battle zones of Starbucks).

I’m racking my brains for anything even remotely resembling a precedent for these half-cocked disasters and have been able to find only three possibilities.

a) The Plus-Four. Below the knee breeches worn by unbearably inbred Englishmen in winter. Enjoyed a brief flowering in the 1920s when the wearing of a pair was considered such a blatantly classist affectation that it could provoke riots or beatings from justifiably enraged commoners. Two World wars and a general strike have ensured that even the most bloated plutocrat will only wear plus-fours in the safety of his Land Rover or on his own land.

b) The South East Asian fisherman’s trouser. Brought back from a gap year in Thailand or Viet Nam, the trousers of a short, malnourished third world peasant must have seemed amusing to the Trustafarian. They are occasionally worn by people called Jeremy for the 187 metres between the door of the Qantas Jumbo and the first gents in baggage reclaim. We can only hope that in a small, squid-reeking village just North of Num Duc Tro there’s a four foot high, eighty-five year old, entirely toothless fisherman wearing a £500 pair of hip slung, dropped-pocket, twisted seam, vintage selvage jeans with positively enormous turn-ups.

c) The trousers of very poor people, mad people or tramps. People who, through no fault of their own are forced to rely on the charity of others to provide their trousers sometimes customise them with irregularly ripped legs and a strong smell of wee.

So when I see some grotesquely overpaid ad agency creative lurking outside a Notting Hill boite, his tragic, adultescent, sagging arse encased in calf-revealing, bepocketted twat-pants, his phosphorescent, etiolated shins disappearing into a pair of ‘technical’ sandals - a human tone poem in breathable beige GoreTex, velcro tabs and self-delusion - who am I to imagine he’s emulating?

I think I’d feel more at ease wearing pointed shoes with bells, a whittled wooden cock-sheath and one of those shapeless, brimless felt cloches worn by drooling village idiots in Breughel paintings.

Your in Christ

T

Posted by T at 10:22 PM | Permalink