Two Chaps Talking

Dear Boy,

When we spoke at the mobile telephone the other day, you were somewhat ribald in your comments vis a vis the boots I had just purchased. I was wounded deeply by your assertion that motorcycle boots should only be worn by 20 year old podium dancers at clubs called 'The Fudge Tunnel' and then only with a white jock-strap and a light basting of oil and sweat. I retired to my study to consider the path my life has taken in re footwear and, by way of mitigation, I now share with you my recollections.

I am told that, as an infant, I wore bootees knitted by doting relatives and soon graduated to Start-Rite T-bar sandals. Time has drawn a felicitous veil over these things but, if my Mother is to be trusted, I was adorable in both.

The first time I became involved in what marketing Johnnies refer to as a 'Purchasing Decision' was at junior school when peer pressure made it imperative that I wore Clarks Commandos. I'm not sure if you remember them but in a world where school uniform shoes were governed by a proscriptive legal framework, Clarks found a way to introduce concealed distinction to those lucky kids who could afford them. An impossibly exciting motif of animal tracks was moulded onto the soles and, concealed beneath the lining of the heel, was a small, working compass.

No matter how bored I have been on aircraft, I have never succumbed to reading Andy McNab, Tom Clancy or any other species of Special Forces Porn. I am thus on somewhat shaky ground when I opine that no SAS trooper or Delta operative, after six weeks living in a hole in the ground, pooing into a Ziploc bag and drinking his own sweat, ever set his bearings for a four-day forced march by checking under the heel of a size 5 3/4, width fitting F, black lace-up school shoe.

At the age of eight though, I believed it. In fact, this was the origin of my compulsive superstitions about footwear. I've never liked shoes that, aside from covering the foot, are designed solely for fashion. Mine must always have a rigidly defined function and preferably associated with some immensely butch profession. The shiny, low-vamp loafer is an abomination (unless you consider driving a Taxi in Lagos to be an enviable calling), whereas the climbing/diving/hunting/fire-fighting/trawling/flying boot confers upon the wearer some of the stature of the men for whom they were originally designed. The slim-fitting office brogue, no matter how spit-shone, looks like the slipper of an effete Regency dancing master and, even when worn by the most terrifying captain of industry, speaks only of bald shins and calf length black lisle socks.

I'm sure I would have eventually come to realise that my Clarks Commandos had a more spurious military pedigree than Prince Edward and this would probably have cured my fetish - but I was never to have that chance. Mum said she couldn't afford them anyway and so, to my everlasting shame, I was sent to school wearing something in a duck shaped two-tone with a crepe sole. Maybe they looked great on Showaddywaddy but they made me want to open my veins.

From that point on my life has been measured out, not in Prufrockian coffee spoons but enormous boots.

In the sixth form, people went big on pixie boots. Adam Ant had a pair and I figured that piracy was a manly profession but the grey suede pair I got from Freeman Hardy and Willis turned out to be a fashion error of staggering proportions. Far from the raping, plundering terror of the Spanish Main I looked like a malnourished Disneyland elf. Fortunately, as it transpired, they were also very expensive leaving me only £7.50 to pick up a pair of pre-worn, Belgian paratrooper's jump boots from Millets'. They curled up at the toes, took two pairs of socks to stop my feet sliding around inside and looked like they'd seen about fifty years of active service in a swamp.

They also smelled, from the day I bought them, like the feet of a conscripted agricultural worker from a town just outside Bruges with no running water and quarantined for epidemic Tinea Pedis. But they were beautiful. Tied up fully, with a double twist of lace around the ankle they fitted under uniform trousers giving off just enough 'Fuck You' attitude to convince the Lower School that you were a tasty punk at the weekends but not so much that you'd get sent home. (In hindsight, I may have given off mixed messages. The boots might have said 'Teenage Kicks' but the long hair, the slim volume of Shelley and the plaster covering the earring disagreed.)

The boots took me through summer working as a cook in a sweaty hotel kitchen and, on the first day at art college finally came into their own - half laced with shredded jeans tucked into the top like the Annie Leibovitz portrait of Matt Dillon.

They lasted another six months. This was felicitous as it took me seven months to persuade anyone to undress me. The boots rotted away and girls appeared. Could these things have been related?

My next pair was bought in a general store somewhere in the Appalachians. Other people had discovered Timberlands so it was important to find something distinctive. The fact that they were called 'Logger' boots was a good start. The fact that the tongue contained carbon fibre strands designed to jam your chainsaw blade before it bit into your shin was a real deal-closer. I walked out of the store a clear inch and a half taller, several hundred dollars poorer and hobbling in pain. Maybe, if I'd actually spent six months clear-cutting in the Ozarks I may have been man enough to break them in. Instead, I just suffered them for three years and four hundred and seventy yards of fabric plaster. I finally gave them to a bum in Charleston who couldn't believe his luck.

"Whoa! Thanks Buddy"
"No, really. It's me who should be thanking you"
"Whatever"

He's probably in a wheelchair by now.

There was a brief affair with a pair of cowboy-style lineman's boots. I was swayed by the soles; guaranteed to earth me completely, at 40,000 volts, when wet. I was not prepared for the fact that they made me look like a Bon Jovi fan before such things were ironic or amusing. I also learned that cowboy boots say 'I'm a sexually inadequate short bloke trying to look taller' even when you're 6'1".

Moving back to England required something more urban for which a quiet pair of ankle length Caterpillar boots sufficed. Soon, though, I graduated to jobs that required suits. At first, with tweeds, I affected ghillie boots mail ordered from Scotland followed by Mssrs Tricker's gingerest brogues, customised, at great expense, with a specialist Vibram(tm) cleated sole. Killing things in the country is butch enough, I think. When tweeds were out of season, R M Williams boots, though poleaxingly expensive, retained enough Jackaroo credibility to meet my exacting standards and I went through two pairs.

Eventually, though, I was beaten down. A couple of years ago, circumstances forced me into a complex act of sophistry and I convinced myself that the suit wearing professions had a certain rugged chic of their own. This enabled me to purchase 'Chukka' boots from Church's in black leather and brown suede that lasted me as long as the suits required them.

Now I don't have to turn up at the office any more. My suits hang in the wardrobe like the sloughed skins of a corporate vampire only to be revived for meetings where I have to demand money with menaces. My Church's boots live on trees, in bags, and are seldom bothered as I have comfortably reverted to type. I feel I deserve my Chippewa(tm), steel toecap, oiled leather, Vibram(tm) soled, motorcycle boots. They're comfortable, warm, functional and bikers are, after all, icons of practical, no-nonsense masculinity. Granted, I don't have a motorcycle - I think I had my mid-life crisis while I was still on a provisional licence - but the queeny Dutch guy at the leather shop assured me this wouldn't be an issue. As he pointed out with a predatory twinkle in his eye,

'These days, most of us just take taxis to the club'.

Posted by T at 10:46 AM | Permalink

Dear Boy,

GO AWAY, DAMN YOU. AVAUNT. BEGONE. YES, I KNOW. NOW JUST FARK OFF!!!!!!

(Apologies. I've just done the computer equivalent of embracing Rome in latter years and bought a Macintosh. As I have yet to work out how to turn off the STUPID PAPERCLIP, it keeps popping up and telling me that it looks like I'm writing a letter. Do you reckon St Paul had this problem? No wonder he was so bloody snippy with the Corinthians if he had a helpful animated paperfastener trying to reformat his scroll every third line).

At any rate, Christmas is finally over and your perfectly timed missive finds me in an abominable mood.

Perhaps I'm getting old. In my youth, if I'd spent nine days doing appalling, tacky, demeaning things with strange people and bloating my body with meaningless excess I'd at least have had the amusing prospect of rashes and genital livestock. These days I just feel the like Herod did a few weeks after the birth of the LBJ. Unreasonable, liable to wax wrath and quite possibly capable of the slaughter of innocents.

In the spirit of avoiding it all next year, here are a few random observations. Please excuse me if I vent spleen. It's the only thing preventing me releasing a sack of starved rats into the sale department at John Lewis and picking off the fleeing provincials with a sniper rifle.

Carols:

Let's face it, carols are rubbish. Both of us have been known to carry a fair tune, one in a real choir and one in front of a splendid band and both of us love a good sing song, which makes it all the more galling that it's no longer possible to sing carols successfully at Christmas. There are several reasons...

1. They changed all the tunes. When we were at school, the tunes were designed to literally put the fear of God into children, the working classes and subjugate peoples. As a consequence, tunes tended to be bright, simple, memorable and have a faintly militaristic swing. They were designed to be sung when only a monsoon shattered harmonium or a lone bugler survived as accompaniment and could be carried aloft by a small band of singers inspired by enthusiasm, patriotism and sheer terror rather than any innate musicality. By around the fifth form, the dread hand of 'diversity' had crept over the music room and we had to suffer 'upbeat modern Christian musical praise' and, on one memorable occasion, the boy sopranos of New College Choir attempting Jamaican patois.

Most Children today can only recognise carols arranged by Phil Spector, out of date charity records and the sound of cash registers as seasonal music

2. Carols are always sung in the key of J Min. No matter how they're pitched, you find yourself sliding up and down the scale like a greased pole-dancer unable to get a grip anywhere. The only people in the congregation who are happy are the elderly Welshmen who bang out a beautiful, penetrating baritone in a key entirely of their own and the falsetto singing ladies who sound for all the world like amateurish transsexuals impersonating the Queen impersonating Aled Jones.

3. No one remembers the second verse. Well they don't do they? Mainly they hum or shuffle embarrassedly while the three regular churchgoers smugly belt out the interminable extra verses they've learned for the occasion including the four suppressed since the C16th which incite us to celebrate the festive season by 'Puttyng out the eyyes of a Frenchman and crufhing the rebellious Welsh'. This gets worse at New Year...

'Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind... Um...

Tum tee tum tum tee tum tum...'

As far as carol singing is concerned, restrict yourself to the bath

Office Parties:

There is a swear word beloved of American rappers and teenagers which relies for its power to shock on the simple juxtaposition of an action and the single other human being with whom that act would be most taboo and distasteful.

If the word 'm0th3rfarker' makes you feel faintly queasy, consider this - 'Office Party'.

We are all for partying: jollity, drunkenness, fun and games. Any gathering involving drink and conviviality with charming people is to be lauded. Yet, and herein lies the knotty problem, why on earth would one risk one's job, dignity, reputation and sexual health by entering the lists with the people with whom one works?

We are not prudes. We are heartily pro the furtive bunk-up in the stationery cupboard, the magnificently pornographic public coupling with the Head of Personnel over the boardroom table and the photocopying of pudenda; just not with the R's Holes we have to spend every working day with.

With this in mind, the Chaps have decided to launch, in time for Christmas 2005, The Greatest Office Party Ever. A complex, web-based randomising engine will ensure that the staff of each participating company are separated by sexual preference and traded with members of another suitable organisation.

We, of course, are getting the female half of the Royal Ballet while you will probably receive the arse-end of Microsoft's accountancy software development division's helpdesk but... hey! - The privileges of power.

Presents:

When a man is within striking distance of his forties and of comfortable means, present buying becomes pointless. If I want something I've already bought it. I probably enjoyed the experience of finding it and buying it and now it's mine. Your attempt has been charming but, unless you can find a brand I aspire to but cannot afford or, indeed have located something I currently lack the discernment to desire, you can add nothing to my life but clutter. Give up. All those articles about 'What To Buy The Man Who Has Everything' will not help.

Just occasionally, the Two Chaps manage to momentarily gain enough of an edge to buy each other something unanticipated and special ­ but not often. Most of the time we don't bother. And, damn it, we're experts.

Christmas Cards:

Irrespective of the size of your circle of family, friends and acquaintances, if you have carefully failed to send them a Christmas card for the first 23 Christmases of your life then the chances of them sending you one become statistically irrelevant.

Most middle-class English people feel guilty if they don't send Christmas cards - Mummy/God/the Housemaster/Nanny will know and disapprove. They therefore draw up an agonisingly complete list of everyone who might possibly be offended and send them all cards because crossing anyone off would make them feel guilty.

Because children are starving in Africa, however, they feel guilty about spending money on something so utterly pointless so they buy really appalling cards, in bulk, from charity shops and send them second class ­ always guiltily worried that they might miss the last post because they have been so slack and left things to the last minute.

At Christmas, thousands of cards arrive from people that they can't remember knowing. If they receive a card from someone they didn't send one to they feel guilty.

If they receive a card more expensive than the one they sent they feel guilty.

If they receive a card more charitably poor than theirs they feel guilty.

If they receive a card from a more obscure or deserving charity shop they feel guilty.

As the cards have taken everybody so much begrudging effort, time and money, they scribble appallingly curt and formulaic greetings. Reading these en masse makes everyone feel guilty so they resolve never to send another card ­ until slightly too late next year.

This is a season of goodwill, fellowship and peace to all men. Save millions of middle class people from the dreadful burden of guilt by giving fifty quid to the next frozen bum you see and never, ever sending another Christmas card.

The Round Robin or Family Christmas Letter

Many families on both sides of the Atlantic send out a letter to update everyone on the family news of the year. An older family member who is heavily burdened with parental pride and usually a little light on contact with reality usually writes it. The result is an unreadably boastful and unintentionally hilarious list of the family's achievements, holidays, car and property acquisitions, births deaths and marriages. Imagine getting your Mother to write your resume ­ this is worse because she is also using it as the annual opportunity to stuff one to her pikey sister who was no better than she should be, dropped out of school and married that dreadful plumber.

Christmas Dinner

Occasionally, as I drive past the supermarket at Christmas, I catch sight of the legs of a poor person. The rest of the individual is concealed behind what appears to be the bleached, hairless, deep-frozen, shrink-wrapped scrotal sac of a 70' high amphibian. What on Earth can be the motivation behind the purchase of the annual monster bird? Is there a collective delusion of kindly Old Scrooge finally coming good with a superabundance of poultry for the starving Cratchitts? Or could it be just like the Doberman and the widescreen telly ­ steroid-pumped size is all that really matters.

Though I'm prepared to undertake all manner of festive foolishness in the name of tradition, I refuse to consume poultry more genetically modified than the Governor of California. I've no idea how Maria Shriver feels about sinking her teeth into his bronzed and succulent breast but I couldn't do it. Not even if they let me shove an onion up his Parson's nose and baste him in boiling fat.

Merry farking Kwanzaa

T

Posted by T at 11:54 PM | Permalink

Mon Vieux,

‘Tis a Chap’s duty to attend any gathering of human beings
where electric soup is to be doled out. Ah yes, but what of gatherings
at Soho House? Or those guaranteed to be attended by readers of the Daily
Mail? Or the so-called President’s inauguration? Clearly festering
dung heaps like these should be sped past with the first-and-second fingers
of the left hand holding one’s nose and the first-and-second fingers
of the right hand offering a festive Christmas gesture.

Fair enough but what of the correct form for getting out of attending
these foetid orgies of crassness without causing offence to the innocent?
Ah well, those who paid attention to the words of wisdom that concluded
a recent Fortnightly Gazette will need no further instruction, but for
those of us who ‘read’ by skimming through looking for bold
headlines and pictures of scantily-clad fillies here’re some tips.

First, question who it is that would ask you to such a gathering (perhaps
some social pruning is in order?). Second, take a crayon and a flattened
cereal box (you may need help from an adult for this) and scrawl upon
it the words ‘Yew kno ware yew kan stik yore partie’.
Third, have your be-wigged and powdered footman deliver the message on
a silver filigreed salver, not because these miscreants deserve such quality
attention, but because you are a gentleman and it is the way things are
done.

Anyroad, moving on it is a Chap’s sworn duty as scion of the Empire
to attend any and all other gatherings where the right stuff can be got
outside of. He has after all a reputation to consider both as an Englishman
and a Gentleman. Accordingly he will need to pre-arrange a full blood
change for the first week of January, preferably drawn from a troop of
virgin Bob-a-Job boy scouts in Lucerne, Dib, Dib, Dib, as it were.

So (and here we freely misquote from the sainted PGW) with his hat, his
whangee and his yellowest gloves a Chap may sally forth unto the melee.

When attending parties a Chap should of course always be the best dressed
man in the room. Not particularly difficult in the New World though a
pre-season trip down Jermyn Street avoiding anything nouveau
or on sale is never wasted. However if oceans or suburban bargain hunters
prevent this then any old thing from his extensive wardrobe will still
stand him in excellent stead amongst the great unwashed. We find a claret
velvet smoking jacket (with frogged buttons natch), one’s grandfather’s
T&A starched front spread collar and a slightly faded fez usually
serve us well.

It least been my great pleasure to attend not one but two masquerade
balls this festive season. Imagine if you will my racing heart at the
thought of a bit of liaisons dangereux and some furtive festive
frottage with masks on and identities hidden. All under the watchful eye
of the Mem of course. Social ranks might be forgotten for the night, maids
might cavort with kings, knaves with Duchesses, stable boys with sainted
aunts. Though of course no one’ll go anywhere near Republicans because
they smell too bad.

All this is true and good. Couplings certainly did take place and there
is nothing to suggest that they didn’t concern those who under normal
circ’s wouldn’t have exchanged business cards, let alone fluids.
Furthermore in the spirit of goodwill there is a chance that a member
of Soho House may have crept into one of these gatherings: a man was seen
with his trousers round his ankles, his shirt on his head and truffled
pate de canard spread liberally across his hairless chest. Apparently
he was something called a ‘Charter Member’. We had our word
for him.

While assuming a pose of languid insouciance on the balcony at the latter
of these shindigs I was struck by some thoughts that might help steer
the less informed but still socially conscientious through the troubled
maze of festive etiquette. Allow me to share some of them with you.

Goosing:

A gentleman should hope to be goosed often if only to remind him of his
glory days in the lower fifth. That it isn’t now followed by half-an-hour
in the sixth form copse shows how far he’s come.

In addition it is incumbent upon a gentleman to goose ladies regularly
to show that though they may never know the love that dare not speak its
name they are still jolly fine, if a little odd, chaps and we’d
be sunk without ‘em.

Parties are a splendid place for the giving and receiving of gooses.
These should be administered in fully lighted places with plenty of people
around to avoid any suggestion of subsequent actions. The gooser should
ensure that the target area is far from any delicate bits. The goosee
should at most raise an eyebrow and feign ignorance of the gooser. Thus
the exchange will pass in the correct spirit.

Advances:

Let’s be frank here; mere mortals such as (believe it or not) the
Two Chaps do not get propositioned anywhere nearly as often as one would
expect. We won’t deny it has happened, but that may have been a
Russian circus tumbler after a night of absinthe slammers in Constantinople.
Anyway people do make and receive advances during the Christmas period,
not least when caught under the mistletoe, and this is to be enjoyed.

While under the mistletoe a chap may get slobbered over by a minger,
to use current parlance, which is devoutly to be avoided. Or he may get
some prime totty wrapping herself around him (fat chance) which is a delight
to all concerned. But he’d better make sure his face remains impassive
throughout in case the OB&C spies him. The key here is plausible deniability.
Otherwise there’ll be blood on the moon. Or at least on his brogues.

Travel:

A Gentleman would never ever drink the necessary life-giving nectar and
then grapple with the stick of his spitfire (this is not intended as a
double-entendre as he might well want some Dutch courage to grapple
with the stick of his Spitfire). Well actually come to think of it if
he was going to be actually piloting a Spitfire he probably would want
a bracer or two, so perhaps it was fine as a d-e after all. But I digress.
The point is that if all he was doing was heading homewards in Cov’s
Finest for nature’s sweet restorer and a change of apparel then
he certainly should eschew any business with the front end of the vehicle.
The easiest way to do this is simply to vow only to travel in the back
after the first cup. If there’s someone sober enough to drive then
all well and good. Otherwise he can sleep off the effects of the current
payload, grapple with the stick of his Spitfire, and then resume command
in the morning.

Giving Presents to One’s Boss:

Many things should be given to one’s boss and it ill becomes a
chap to wait for a national holiday to start the ball rolling.

Initially hand signals should be offered to his or her retreating back.
We find the universal two-fingered salute or indeed the undulating cupped
hand are great for starters.

Many look down on the drawing-pin-on-chair or bag-of-flour-above-door
gifts. We do not.

And if one’s boss has incurred our displeasure then we find horse’s
backsides a great supplier of ‘gift items’ for the offender’s
coat pockets. The response can be quite gratifying when one hears of one’s
boss furtively searching for their keys in a little-used pocket while
in the rain outside their house.

Giving Presents to One’s Actual Boss aka She Who Must Be
Obeyed, The Fragrant One, The Old Ball and Chain, The Memsahib, and of
course The Boss:

Without them we would be nothing but immaculately-dressed Flaneurs
with a fondness for the very best in life. With them we are immaculately-dressed
Flaneurs with a fondness for the very best in life and a variable detachable
conscience.

As small boys, when learning how to play cricket much was made of ‘walking’.
A timely lesson in deception it would, we were told, show the umpire that
you played off a straight bat and should be trusted in matters of judgement.

The same is true of one’s nearest and dearest. If, or rather when,
you fail, err, or bugger something up be the first to admit it. Loudly
call yourself all the names under the sun and don’t take no for
an answer in the matter of who’s the world’s biggest idiot.
Thus when you inevitably fail miserably to find anything that The Boss
would even want to be seen returning to the shop she will look upon you
with a benevolent eye and say something along the lines of ‘at least
you tried’. You can then offer to accompany her on a shopping expedition
to find something she actually wants. Which with any luck will see you
in the ladies’ under-things section of Saks or Selfridges for the
afternoon. Thus you are both the provider of quality gifts and the kind
of chap who’s not afraid to go shopping with the gentler sex when
required.

Carol singers: being one or dealing with them if you’re
not:

Chap knows what it’s like when he’s young, looking for love
and short of the necessaries to provide Lucky Jims with which to encourage
co-operation from the fairer sex. What to do? With card sharps, pan handlers
and costermongers already in plentiful supply there’s little else
left but Carol Singing.

In short; gather together a motley crew of heavies and comely maids,
distribute a smattering of the words to Silent Night, and bang on rich
peoples’ front doors thence to threaten their ear drums and more
if they don’t come across with the readies, and pretty sharpish,
if they get your drift.

If the right houses are chosen funds will immediately pour forth and
pubs can be adjourned to for well-deserved Christmas cheer restoratives.

On the other hand…

Upon perceiving the sound of strangled felines in one’s front garden
throw open the door, stare over the miscreants’ heads and say coldly
and sotto voce ‘Do you have any farking idea who lives
here?’ If the correct amount of menace is used then the crowd will
immediately fall silent and quite possibly sweep your lawn with doffed
caps upon their retreat.

Or else they’ll say, ‘We’ve got your number kind Sir.
Pay up. Or in the spirit of this festive season verily we will do you.’

Which means they have. So you should. Or they will.

Correct Greetings at This Time Of Year

We may offend some people here and for that we offer a hearty raspberry.
For you see some people need shaking out of the very worrying stupor into
which they have fallen.

Let’s start at the beginning. For as long as the Two Chaps can
remember Christmas Day has been on the twenty-fifth of December. Closely
followed by Boxing Day which falls on the twenty-sixth. Accordingly when
standing beneath a twinkly-lighted Christmas tree and having one’s
picture taken alongside a man dressed in a fur-trimmed red suit one should
offer the traditional greeting; Merry Christmas. Simple. One would not
dream of saying Happy Easter. Or Happy Saint Patrick’s Day. Or Happy
any-other-bloody-Day. It is Christmas.

Now we at Two Chaps Talking do not choose to burden our readers with
the type of temple to which we tip our caps (actually it would be a bar
and a particular cocktail but we digress). Furthermore we care not a tinker’s
cuss for that to which our dear readers raise theirs. Which is to say
we are equal opportunity Flaneurs and our church embraces all.

Thus at a particular time of year if we are greeted by Happy Diwali then
we show our delight by returning that same greeting. It doesn’t
make us Hindus, just polite. Similarly if such a thing were said wishing
someone a happy Ramadan would not make us Moslems.

And so when we choose to offer a hearty Merry Christmas we cordially
expect to be replied to in kind. What we do not expect is the non-religious,
non-specific, non-exclusive utterly generic piece of politically correct
b0110cks that is Happy Holidays!

You see Monday is Monday, Tuesday is Tuesday and Christmas Day is Christmas
Day. To say Happy Holidays is to wish a person a good two weeks in Majorca.

Saying Happy Christmas does not imply one dresses to the left or right,
it is simply to acknowledge the bloody calendar. Enough said.

And on that cheerful note my Dear Friend let me wish you and yours a very
Merry Christmas and a thoroughly splendid New Year during which we shall
mix freely, drink heartily and err, move to Hong Kong.

Yours in a pirate mask, expectant, under the mistletoe,

S

Posted by S at 01:52 PM | Permalink