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