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Do-It-All were once purveyors of garden paraphernalia, they might still be for all we know
Home Depot do much the same thing in the New World
Both can comfortably be expected to sell hose pipes
We can say no more at this time
A thick slice of meat usually attached to a rib. Can be enjoyed in the Quality Chop House and other fine gaffs
Also; getting the chop - the act of being fired
Also; chop some out - the act of crushing and refining cocaine into lines for nasal inhalation
Also; karate chop - what little boys threaten to do before being swatted aside by bigger boys
OED - To introduce a thing forcibly
And we don't mean people breaking into your house
Designating a fine variety of cotton, Gossypium Barbadense, distinguished by long silky fibres.
Originally grown on islands off the coast of Georgia and South Carolina, Sea Island cotton was rushed to Jermyn Street for the making of Gentlemen's fine shirts and heliotrope striped pyjamas.
It has come to The Chaps' attention that some upstart clothing companies are claiming to use Sea Island cotton for something called ready-made.
Sea Island Cotton shirts come from Jermyn Street.
Anything else, from anywhere else, is just a bloody shirt.
A peculiar form of torture visited upon little boys by their school masters.
On only the coldest of winter days when show is falling and ice hangeth from stout oaks, little boys are forced to don skimpy shorts and singlets and run around rural areas until their fingers turn blue, drop off and are eaten by wolves.
The masters meanwhile sip tea and whisky from thermos flasks and threaten their charges with six of the best should they not put their all into the torture. Six of the best frequently being preferable to hypothermia young boys learn to look forward to the cane with eager anticipation.
On School Sports Day the route is lined by older boys and prefects who smoke, swear and misdirect the little lads while planning which of them they want to convert.
Like so many other English schoolboy activities cross country running plays havoc with the buttocks
Located at 268 East 10th Street in New York the Russian and Turkish Baths have Russian and Turkish rooms, a redwood sauna, a steam room, an ice cold plunge pool, a terrace for sun or snow exposure but interestingly, no baths
Nonetheless the Two Chaps heartily recommend the place
The colour of Jaguars, Bentleys, Mini Coopers and other British cars, particularly when competing in, and of course winning, motor races
The correct colour for a Gentleman's automobile or 'motor' as they are known amongst the Crombie wearing criminal classes
The Two Chaps both have motors of this hue.
OED - A condition characterised by a tendency to fall asleep in circumstances conducive to relaxation
The Chaps find this an essential skill during their brief periods of non-leisure, or wo** as it is rather coarsely termed
It can be brought on by even the briefest of exposure to: Tories, Daily Mail readers, Republicans, Golf fans, American television, the casually dressed &cet.
Narcolepsy is to be warmly welcomed as an alternative to any of the above
Deriving from the Yiddish term Nosh, meaning food, the Ur Nosherie is a bagel and salt beef emporium in Hatton Garden.
Habitat is a shop that specialises in well designed homewares at reasonable prices. Something of a phenomenon in the early seventies, it pioneered things like orange enamelled saucepans and avocado crockery.
For Englishmen of a certain age this reference summons up a pallette of such abiding ghastliness that he may break out in hives.
A sovereign remedy is to sit the victim in a room with a Royal Doulton tea service of a restrained floral motif until his BP has returned to below 160/95.
"It's a topping morning...
Spring and all that...
In the spring a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove...
Right-o! then. Bring me my whangee, my yellowest spats and the old green Homburg. I'm going into the park to do pastoral dances".
Bertram Wooster at his foppish best.
Ganymede was a Greek youth whose impossible beauty captivated Zeus.
The filthy old deity sent an eagle down to carry the boy to Olympus where he became cupbearer to the Gods and a cheeky bit of rump on the side for the Thunderer himself.
It is possibly his role as a personal servant rather than a sex slave that PG Wodehouse refers to so wittily in his Jeeves and Wooster books.
Jeeves is a member of a club for 'Gentlemen's personal Gentlemen' called 'The Junior Ganymede'.
On the other hand, perhaps PG was trying to tell us something about Bertie's relationship with his Man.
Ganymede is also the seventh and largest of Jupiter's known moons. Another classical witticism, the body was so named because 'it moons around Jupiter' (Jupiter being the Latin name of Zeus).
Can you imagine the delight of the aging, pederastic Don that came up with that one?
\Ren`tier"\ (r?N`ty?"), n. [Noun].
One who has a fixed income, as from property, lands, stocks, or the like.
First against the wall after revolution - well, first after Tories, freelance car clampers and child molesters.
What, according to Fleming, James Bond's socks were made of.
The Lurgy is the English equivalent of that perennial American playground favourite cooties.
For the uninitiated, the game is played thus.
A child, usually from a poor family, with nervous excema, a lazy eye, a faint smell of wee and glue ear, is singled out by the others.
It is announced loudly that 'X has the Lurgy'.
It is the rule that anyone who subsequently touches X will catch the Lurgy thus reinforcing their loneliness, mortification, self-loathing and alienation.
The taunting should be carried out over a period of several months. If the child is not found hanging in the gym he usually goes on to become a personal effectiveness coach, a traffic warden, a pederast or a Tory.
Christ alone knows.
I imagine it's something to do with football but, frankly, the details elude me.
I shall procure a schoolgirl and question her on the matter.
ADDENDUM
(Diligent research reveals that Offside is an 'infraction in which an offensive player does not have at least two defensive players between himself and the goal line when the ball is played forward by a member of the attacking team'.
There! Now you know.
My case comes up next week.
Carpet munching.
Bean flicking.
Yodelling in the canyon.
Wearing sensible shoes.
A practise beloved of husky gym mistresses in stout tweeds and the inhabitants of the Isle of Lesbos.
Oh for Heaven's Sake! Do I have to draw you a picture?
Actually, I think I have some Polaroids somewhere.
British television cook. Daughter of the repellent Nigel Lawson - Ex Tory Chancellor of the Exchequer and brother of Dominic Lawson - Editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
She is obviously famous and sucessful entirely because of her innate talent and can, by no means, be considered a product of rank nepotism.
She is married to Sir Charles Saatchi.
The Women's Royal Volunteer Service and the Navy, Army and Air Force Institute. Both organisations that serve food to the forces.
Both feature in British war movies as the habitat of homely women who dispensed the original 'Tea and Sympathy'
Devastatingly handsome young pilot in crumpled blues sits, head in hands over a large mug and two slices.
A homely woman enters with a large teapot.
Homely Woman: Cheer up dear, it may never happen
Handsome Young Pilot: I'm afraid I lost all my crew over the Ruhr
HW: Oh well, dear. Worse things happen at sea.
HYP: ...and my fiancee's ship was just torpedoed off Rockall and has gone down with all hands.
HW: Well, we've got to keep a stiff upper lip, havent we?
HYP: I lost my lips when my crate caught fire over Dresden.
HW: Here you are dear, have a nice cup of tea.
The Kop End is one of the stands at Liverpool Football Club's stadium at Anfield Rd.
On deeper research I discovered that other teams, including Wrexham and Norwich City also have Kop ends.
This us a bit like Athens Georgia having an Acropolis, but I digress.
The stand is named after Spion Kop, a mountain in Natal on the north side of the Tugela River, and 24 m. W.S.W. of Ladysmith. It is celebrated as the scene of a battle (Jan. 24, 1900) in the Transvaal War, in which the British forces under Sir Redvers Buller were defeated by the Boers. The Spion Kop incident led to much controversy; for an admirable elucidation of the facts see The Times History of tile l'Var in South Africa. The name itself (Dutch for "Look-out Hill") is fairly common as a place-name in South Africa.
It takes a peculiarly British sensibility to name part of a stadium after a heroic military defeat. Still, it gives the players the right idea.
If I ever have a son he's going to be called Redvers.
Ladies lavatory parts or downstairs.
An Idler.
One who walks the city streets doing nothing but luxuriate in his idleness.
A highly desirable state to be striven for, idly.
Not to be confused with a flannel.
Perhaps the most accomplished Flaneur was Gerard De Nerval who minced the streets of C19th Paris with a live lobster on a ribbon.
When asked why he did this he replied...
"Because it does not bark and it knows the secrets of the sea".
A man after our own hearts.
The road which encircles London.
Most people regard it as a useful means of speeding their commute to the office and bemoan, ad nauseam, it's long queues.
Gentlemen regard it, in the same way as the Thames and the Watford Gap, a useful geographical barrier.
The Watfortd gap is the first junction on the main motorway heading north from London.
Rule 1: NOTHING OF ANY IMPORTANCE HAPPENS NORTH OF THE WATFORD GAP.
The Thames, as even the most cursory perusal of the A to Z will reveal, separates North and South London.
Rule 2: NOTHING OF ANY IMPORTANCE HAPPENS SOUTH OF THE RIVER.
One of the Chaps refuses to visit his brother in Sydney because it counts as South of the River.
Finally, the M25 rings London giving rise to the final rule...
Rule 3: IF YOU HAVE REACHED THE M25 IT IS TIME TO TURN BACK.
These rules cover everything you need to know to survive a visit to England.
It is a remarkable fact that seemingly every town in the UK has several Chinese restaurants. They seem to be constantly open and be consistent in their menu in a way that makes McDonalds seem creative and fickle.
The term 'Chinkie' has become so ubiquitous a descriptor for these places as to surpass racist overtones.
Socks.
Black Lisle, three-quarter length with suspenders are acceptable under any circumstances except with tropical kit.
Some gentlemen favour bright colours - amputation is the only solution.
I favour a muted ecclesiatical purple silk from Whipple's and Watt's, the outfitters behind Westminster Abbey.
Dick Emery was one of our finest comedians, in his own way he ranks alongside Morcambe and Wise
Dressed as an old lady one of his most famous characters would accost young men with a view to their seduction. She/he would always end by saying 'You are awful' (she/he would hit them playfully at this point, knocking them down) 'But I like you'
He probably also said 'Hello sailor' but we can't remember
Anyway 'Hello Sailor' is comedic a term used to denote 'ladies' of the night introducing themselves to visiting sailors who have been starved of 'female' company while at sea
A friendly understanding arrived at by France and Britain in 1904
Don't see; various Little Unpleasantness'
Various Little Unpleasantness' during which our dear friends in Europe came a creditable second place
The London train terminal for people arriving from Paris via the Channel Tunnel is called Waterloo
This is not thought to be a deliberate snub to our cross channel cousins, it just happened to be convenient. Honestly.
As a rather perverse form of torture young English children are forced to eat over-cooked Brussels Sprouts from an early age. Naturally they rebel against this injustice and are often to be found sitting at the table 'until you've bloody eaten them'
At school this abuse is continued but it is here that young boys at least learn to fight back. A hearty portion of sprouts for lunch are an excellent aid to fiery flatulence and much sport can be had with this during an otherwise dull Double Maths.
It is wise to avoid naked flames after prodigious consumption of sprouts
See: Old Ball and Chain
The mother country's greatest sea Admiral
Commemorated by Nelson's Column at Trafalgar Square, where traditionally drunks try to grope unsuspecting women on New Years Eve
The eastern corner facing the Square is known as Lady Hamilton's corner, she being Lord N's OB&C and that corner providing a fine view of his, ahem, bulging cod-piece
(OED) Each of a series of cricket (or Rugby Union) matches between a touring country and the host nation
Sometimes these matches are played for the Ashes
In spite of involving things like googlies and silly-mid-offs cricket is irrefutably the sport of gentlemen
A pretty Victorian seaside town on the south coast of England, Bournemouth has some of the finest beaches in Europe, though it isn't always sunny.
In fact quite often it pisses down with rain
Very popular with pensioners, it is said people retire to Bournemouth to die then forget to.
Scousers also go to Bournemouth, to nick things and sell drugs, allegedly.
The Two Chaps both had a very pleasant time growing up in Bournemouth and along the way met some very nice old people, and some Scousers who didn't nick things or sell drugs, allegedly.
British sitcom from the seventies that centred around a troupe of soldier/actors who toured India during the Second Little Unpleasantness providing light relief for the troops
Much use was made of camp innuendoes with the only ostensibly straight character being the Sergeant Major, who in real life is a gay as a Bank Holiday. It is alleged.
The standard cooker in student flats.
Featuring three burners that, combined, make a Bic lighter look like a burning oilrig, an oven that incubates cockroaches perfectly and an all-over crust of congealed paleolithic soup.
The Aga... Aaaah, only in England.
I think it was Marx who observed that the English dwelt perpetually in a 'village in the mind'. It's hideously true. In spite of having the most exciting metropolis in the world at their fingertips each and every true Englishman, it seems, feels the need to retire as soon as he possibly can to some ridiculous facsimile of an idealised country cottage and live out his declining years in loud tutting contests with his neighbours.
New Yorkers - particularly those who only arrived from Ohio last month - are proud of themselves and their city. Woody Allen and Martin Scorcese make paeans. When a New Yorker leaves his apartment and walks through a malodorous urban dystopia he feels a warm glow that reminds him why he moved there. New York City's media reflect this intense local patriotism.
London, to it's shame, has the 'Evening Standard'. Why our only newspaper should reflect a tone of mid-suburban bigotry, none of us can quite understand. But there it is. People who read the Evening Standard work in London but really want to live in a cottage in Berkshire away from all the noise and dirt - which, of course, begs the question, why don't they just fuck off then and leave the city to those who can appreciate it?
The 'Village in the mind' manifests itself in many other ways, too horrible to contemplate at length. The wearing of green 'Hunter' Wellington boots while walking on Hampstead Heath. The keeping of Labradors and other gundogs 40 miles from the nearest game. The driving of tooth-tyred, mud bespattered Land Rovers around the adequately tarmacked rim of Clapham Common and... above all... the fucking Aga.
An Aga is a gigantic cast-iron kitchen range. It is made in some benighted part of Scandinavia where they have plenty of wood but are thousands of miles of tundra away from a gas supply. It has burners on the top that enable you to warm food to precisely the temperature at which bacteria best thrive or to incinerate it entirely. It has an oven in which you could probably park your bloody Land Rover but only if you didn't want it to get too warm.
An Aga weighs several tons and costs more than a car. It needs to be fitted by experts on to a specially reinforced floor and, once installed, will never cook as well or as efficiently as the cheapest domestic cooker.
An Aga is shite and an affront to any decent cook. Why, then, do the middle classes of England insist on them? Because it makes the kitchen feel like part of some dream farmhouse. The bloody labrador will curl up in front of it, you can dry your boots near it, you can lean your arse on the rail and thaw out after a long, bracing walk around the shopping mall.
Even though, every time I've seen a kitchen with an Aga, they've had to install a regular gas cooker next to it, it's still a selling point on a house. Go figure.
I'm struggling to find a way to explain this to a New Yorker but, try to imagine Carrie Bradshaw inviting a guy back to her apartment and showing him round...
'Wow, I love what you've done with this place'.
'Cool, huh?'
'Really homely and ... oh my God... That is just so perfect'.
'Yeah, I had it fitted last week. Cost me $45,000 but now I wouldn't be without it'.
'Such a beautiful, kind of rustic feel. Can I try it?'
'Go ahead. I'm the first apartment on the block with an earth closet'.
A debutante. A young woman who, having made her debut by being presented to the Queen, can enjoy her first social season.
Running through the heart of Mayfair, Jermyn Street is the spiritual home of the chaps.
Although Savile Row is the epicentre of bespoke tailoring, it is but a short jaunt through the Burlington Arcade and across Piccadilly to this souk of hosiers, bootmakers, barbers, shirtmaker's, shaving brush emporia, neckwearmongers and cufflinkieres.
The problem with Savile Row is that a chap has to be holding folding to the tune of several large if he intends to cross any threshold. In Jermyn Street one can browse for hours, assessing the thread count of a shirting here, fingering the bar tack on a tie there, before popping in to Quaglinos for a corrective Brandy Alexander.
Jermyn Street is at its best late in the late afternoon just before Christmas. In the damp gloaming, the windows shine like jewels and it is quite possible to spend simply hundreds of pounds without any appreciable effort.
One can also get there from Savile Row by cutting through the Albany. This is an arcade of flats, next to the Royal Academy, set up originally as chambers for single young gentlemen in town. Shelley wrote, in a letter to his Mother that he had recently occupied rooms and was pleased that, though they were small, there was just enough room for his books and his sabres. You don't see that sort of thing in the particulars of your average metropolitan yuppie hutch.
A children's television programme of our youth based on the narcotically inspired assumption that Wimbledon Common was inhabited, not by crack dealers and cruising homosexualists but rather by a race of small furry creatures who cleared up litter and spoke with the voice of Bernard Cribbins.
I sometimes wonder how we survived. Those were our most formative years. If we belived half what we saw on the Magic Roundabout, Mr Ben and Rhubarb and Custard we'd all be floridly psychotic by now.
And it's not just that the programmes were weird either. They were also crap. When, around my 5th year of existence, the BBC actually deigned to show programmes during the day (it had been banned up to this point for fear that it would ditract the working classes from honest labour - how right they were) they kicked off with appallingly dubbed Eastern European black and white garbage. Belle and bloody Sebastian, The Aeronauts and the bastard Singing Ringing Tree. I was scarred for life.
A nun's headgear.
I had a Church of England education. As long as one avoided the attentions of the choirmaster and had an endless capacity for tea and cake it was moderately congenial. I found the lack of rigid dogma agreeable, particularly the fact that a belief in God was not actually necessary.
Religious observance usually took the form of stirring story about triumph over adversity in a benighted colony or an entirely random parable followed by the observation...
" ...and that's very much like our Lord Jesus, isn't it"?
Then a link so tenuous and arcane that the congregation of schoolboys was reduced to patholigical boredom and breath holding contests. Occasionally there was an uplifting hymn but always sung to some appalling new tune which went heavy on tambourines but avoided any unseemly taint of high church.
So my experience of nuns was, perforce, limited.
Part of a boat. More particularly the top edge of the side. When the water reaches the gunwhales (pronounced gunnels) the situation may be characterised as dire.
I'm pretty sure this term comes from early military radio transmissions. Before the 'Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta' system was introduced there was a scheme of emphatic and distinctive pronunciation of letters. Pip Emma means PM, post meridian, the afternoon. But rather in the style of a cavalry officer, Circa 1917, inviting his batman to an ill advised assignation.
A Pantheon, as anyone with a smattering of the classics will know, is a temple to all the the Gods (Gk. All Gods). The best one is in Rome in the form of a huge rotunda with a central oculus. It is thus a suitable name for the the area where we offer our praises to those who inspire us
In the sort of touch that gladdens the heart of the Englishman, Pantheon is also the name given to the unique radiator grille of a Rolls Royce.
Sometimes it's not enough to have burr walnut on the dash and 75 layers of laquer handrubbed by the personal burnisher who's family have been buffing your family's coachwork since before William the Conqueror. Sometimes you just have to know that parts in the spares catalogue are named with obscure little classical jokes. It's the sort of thing that silently reaffirms that the people who designed it knew the sort of people who would be driving it.
It's things like this that explain why the English stopped really needing organised religion at around the time of Henry VIII.