Give Blood, Play Rugby

Reichskanzler

Old England Paris

Bearded Weirdies

As you know, I'm generally not the kind of chap who would turn his nose up at a hairy puss. Not when the beard in question belongs to an angry Viking or mountain sage. Or HRH Prince Michael of Kent (at left), whose beard looks entirely proper and appropriate. I myself have been known to grow wild whiskers in blonde and red. But when carefully-cultivated facial hair starts showing up on the smug mugs of young middle-class professionals--well, even I have second thoughts. In recent months I have noticed an increase in young beards in the local community, including the office. It almost goes without saying there are some chaps who simply shouldn't even try, such as a certain short, weedy 59-year old senior tutor with curly hair, thick specs, and a rangy beard with bits of Weetabix stuck in it, who is inadvertently caught down the pub skipping his lecture. But I can't explain the latest trend. There's something suspicious about it. It screams "trying too hard". Are young men following the dictates of some pop icon or fashion guru? Are they trying to showcase their masculinity, or hide a chubby face? It's bad enough that they are young. Why must they be scruffy, too?

Savile Row

Jeeves on Emblematic Ties

[Jeeves is in the kitchen recovering from a momentary panic attack]

Bertie Wooster: What on earth's the matter, Jeeves? Jeeves?

Jeeves: I apologise, sir. It was unforgivable of me. I shall be better directly. It's just...Mr. Little's tie, sir. It has...little horseshoes on it, sir.

Bertie Wooster: Oh yes, yes, I noticed that.

Jeeves: It's sometimes difficult just to shrug these things off, sir.

"Jeeves the Matchmaker", Jeeves and Wooster, 19 May 1991

Floris London

Mensur

Beautiful Ones (Suede)

On Charity

Recently I have noticed individuals of mostly African extraction sitting at tiny makeshift tables in front of certain stores. In a manner both friendly and menacing they solicit donations from passing shoppers, most of whom are affluent European Americans.

It is a scene familiar to most of us. Perhaps we should not blame them personally; they are what they are. No, my disgust is with my own. There is something distasteful to me in the public way Europeans invariably hand over money to these individuals, often stopping to engage in not-very-convincing banter as if they were old friends.

These public acts of charity, I think, are designed to enhance the Westerner's moral status in the eyes of his community. More importantly, it is a clear exchange: in return for cash, the white man is absolved of the nasty thoughts and deeds of which by virtue of his genetic heritage he is assumed to be guilty. It is rather analogous to the selling and granting of indulgences by the Church.

It is a telling measure of my alienation, one could argue, that I feel no such charitable urge towards The Other. Absolutely none. Nor do I suffer from guilt or shame for not partaking in the bizarre ritual, whether it be surrendering cash to African beggars on our streets, building houses in Central America, adopting Mongolian babies, or sending money to grossly overpopulated African countries. I just do not feel it. In fact, it strikes me as unreasonable, harmful, and immoral to hand over one's resources. On a purely biological level, it is an arrant violation of our genetic interests.

I am of course not without altruistic instincts--a quality for which our race is known--but my loyalty is to my own. Charity, after all, begins at home, as the Bible affirms in 1 Tim 5:8: "But if anyone does not provide for his own, and especially for those of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever." Let me be clear: for ourselves and ourselves alone.

It is imperative we pull together. The world continues to fracture in ways still unacknowledged by most. New conflicts are emerging over issues of cultural difference, ethnic dominance, and resource scarcity. Primal loyalties are resurfacing. Old scores are being settled. There is no avoiding it. We must not allow altruism to supersede our instinct for self-preservation. Choose life.

So there you have it. Should you be in Laguna Beach this weekend, do look me up. I will be the tall handsome chap in polo shirt, red shorts, and boat shoes, giving a donation to a group of little blonde Boy Scouts and their beaming fathers. We can discuss the matter in more detail, and perhaps buy each other a cocktail.

The East India Club

Bestetti

Nationalist Insignia

Some of the first Condor Legion Junkers Ju-87 dive bombers, or 'Stukas' (Sturzkampfflugzeug), sent to Spain in 1936 to aid the Nationalist cause displayed an emblem comprising a bowler hat pierced by an umbrella. This apparently referred to the civilian nature of the mission--the volunteers of the Condor Legion were considered civilians (during the transfer from Germany by ship, personnel wore civilian clothes), despite taking part in acts of war. In the event the emblem in question did not satisfy the German High Command who ordered its removal.

Jeeves: Ties Matter

Jeeves: The tie, if I might suggest it, sir, a shade more tightly knotted. One aims at the perfect butterfly effect. If you will permit me--

Bertie Wooster: What do ties matter, Jeeves, at a time like this?

Jeeves: There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter.

P.G. Wodehouse, Jeeves and the Impending Doom (1926)

Paleo Magazine

Friday Caption Contest

The Supermen (Bowie)

Am I A Chap? (Gustav Temple)

If you have to ask...

From The Chap:

Am I A Chap? by Gustav Temple is published by Beautiful Books. This comprehensive tome seeks to classify every species and sub-species of the English gentleman that one may observe throughout the seasons, from the flamboyant young fop to the crusty old duffer. Looking at the origins of the "Chap" genus, in figures such as Edward VII and Ian Carmichael, and their caddish counterparts such as Terry-Thomas and Bunny Roger, the book takes us up to the present day with contemporary types such as the Bohemian Chap and the Hip Chap.

The book includes a selection of the photographs sent into the magazine's "Am I Chap?" section, along with their vigorous, uncompromising but ultimately helpful sartorial critiques. Elsewhere you will find detailed histories of the essential accoutrements for a gentleman's wardrobe, from brogues to trilbies to Fair Isle sweaters; pen-portraits of those who seem to be carrying the Chappist ensign as they go about their daily business - familiar characters such as Atters, Albion and Billy Childish.

With 192 full colour pages, concluding with a definitive directory of Britain's finest emporia of gentlemanly raiment, including new, vintage and bespoke, Am I A Chap? is an essential tome for any budding Chap-about-Town, fitting snugly into the poacher's pocket of a good Hacking jacket; it will also serve as a stylish and useful compendium for those with a desire to go "Chap Spotting".

The Cleverley Shape

A pair of G.J. Cleverley bespoke brogues
and copy of Baily's Hunting Directory from my
beagling days

From Savile Row Style Magazine, Spring 2010 Edition:

As for a defining house style, the so-called ‘Cleverley Shape’ has graced the feet of many through the past half century or so.

Glasgow explains. “When Cleverley was alive, he’d say his shoes were ‘suspiciously square’. That was his terminology. His toe-shape was unique to him. He used to cut the corner off a bit, just a shade.”

What Cleverley’s shoes have also become renowned for is their longevity. Looked after properly, there is no reason why a handmade pair of their bespoke shoes shouldn’t last a man through his working life.

Indeed, Glasgow mentions that ‘it is not uncommon’ for a pair to be brought back for a little care and attention some 25 years after they were made. Shoe trees, diligent polishing and shoe repairs are the requirements to ensure their long life, he adds.

Moustache Identification Guide

How Does This Happen?

RAF Airmen Chat Up Some Hotties (Armstrong and Miller)

Viyella: Woven in England

Dashing Tweed

Huntsman house check

Young Fogey Haiku

Blew out a Lobb brogue
On a fallen French cruller
Jeremy's crying

Gentleman's Closet

Blue & Scarlet (J.N.P. Watson)

Françoise

Downton Abbey (Season Two)

Gardens at Stonyhurst

The Last Colonial (Christopher Ondaatje)

'Christopher Ondaatje is a true child of the British Empire. Born in Ceylon in 1933 and brought up on a tea plantation, he was sent as a teenager to boarding school in England. But soon after Ceylon was granted its independence in 1948, his family found themselves destitute, and the young Ondaatje left school and got a job. In 1956 he made his way to Canada with just thirteen dollars in his pocket. From this improbable beginning there followed a series of commercial triumphs until 1988 when he abruptly abandoned high finance at the peak of his career and reinvented himself as an explorer and author, focusing mainly on the colonial period. It is the curious encounters behind these often precarious adventures that make up The Last Colonial. The stories tell of Ondaatje’s childhood days in Ceylon, his early life in Canada, his fascination with inexplicable events and local superstitions, and his sometimes perilous travels researching biographies of Ernest Hemingway in Africa, Leonard Woolf in Ceylon, and Sir Richard Burton in India and Africa. Illustrated throughout with original images by Ana Maria Pacheco, The Last Colonial lives up to the romance of its tantalizing title.'

The Last Colonial, Christopher Ondaatje (2011)

Kill Your TV !

G.J. Cleverley: Bespoke Black Brogues

Black brogues, black heart

I have a thing for fine shoes, if you haven't noticed. The photographic image (at left) shows a pair of bespoke black full brogues from G.J. Cleverley in London. I received them last year. Note the aggressive broguing and fine chisel toe. They sit next to a Brooks Brothers lightweight sack suit in grey pinstripe with a 3/2 roll. The shoes are in pre-polish mode; I let them out of their cage so the Saphir Médaille d'Or Renovateur cleaner and conditioner could soak in. In my own personal Shoe Pyramid, on which I shall expound at a later date, black and burgundy shoes are at the top. Chestnut shoes are nice--don't get me wrong--but in my view they have become a sign of the sartorial amateur, particularly in business settings. Black shoes are ideal for City wear and mark the owner as a man of serious intentions and a 'no-nonsense' approach to things. Which make them perfect camouflage for superfluous chaps like moi.

A Guide to Beard-Watching (1)

Travelling Cocktail Set

Terry-Thomas in "How To Murder Your Wife" (1965)

Emile Cioran: combinards

“Quelle malédiction a frappé l’Occident pour qu’au terme de son essor il ne produise que ces hommes d’affaires, ces épiciers, ces combinards aux regards nuls et aux sourires atrophiés, que l’on rencontre partout, en Italie comme en France, en Angleterre de même qu’en Allemagne? Est-ce à cette vermine que devait aboutir une civilisation aussi délicate, aussi complexe? Peut-être fallait-il en passer par là, par l’abjection, pour pouvoir imaginer un autre genre d’hommes.”

Emile Cioran, Histoire et utopie (1960)

Skullion: On Attire For A Gentleman

"Skullion had little use for contraceptives at the best of times. Unnatural, he called them, and placed them in the lower social category of things along with elastic-sided boots and made-up bow ties. Not the sort of attire for a gentleman."

Tom Sharpe, Porterhouse Blue (1974)

Endless Summer

John Lobb: Brogued Slip-Ons

John Lobb: Brogued slip-ons, from the collection of
Sir M. L., 11th Baron of W.
© Classic Shoes For Men

Target Practice (The Day of the Jackal)

No Sideburns !

Face the Sun

Qué raro hablar así en medio de tanta abundancia! Durante los últimos dieciocho meses he estado viviendo en y fuera de tono, un vagabundo en el borde del apocalipsis. He pasado las horas en el desapego contemplativo poco a poco recortar distancia aburrimiento y la desesperación y la escultura de una nueva conciencia, en este, el acto final del Kali Yuga. Como ustedes saben, tuve un presentimiento de que las tormentas de los últimos tres años y, en consecuencia hecho los arreglos financieros necesarios, evitando los efectos devastadores que afectó a algunos de mis compañeros. Pero hubo otros eventos que ocurren en ángulos oblicuos y venir en ayunas, para lo cual confieso que no estaba preparado, me llaman de lado a la orilla. Hundí la cara en el abismo para ver si podía determinar la profundidad, para alejarse con convicción transformada y renovada fuerza. Incluso los dioses se aprobaría el curso de acción a la que se decidió y que no llega a realizarse aquí, a pesar de los cultos de Apolo. Louis-Ferdinand Céline, dijo estar solo es la preparación para la muerte. Tal vez se exagera un poco, pero seguramente él tenía razón. A medida que avanzamos hacia ciertas verdades que espiritualmente aislados de nuestros semejantes y con ello lograr una "muerte en vida". Pero hay que mirarlo desde una perspectiva diferente. ¿No es una liberación? ¿No es un tipo de libertad, para penetrar en las fronteras e ir más allá? Nos convertimos en los ciber-hoplitas de exploración a lo largo de la frontera, pioneros en las fronteras del mundo. Seguimos adelante. La muerte puede llegar en cualquier momento. No hay ninguna razón para tener miedo. Ponerse de pie. Cara al sol. Una pelea!

Как странно говорить, как это в самый разгар такого изобилия! За последние полтора года я живу в и из мелодии, странник на краю апокалипсиса. Я провел часы в созерцательной отряд постепенно кожура от скуки и отчаяния и скульптуры новое сознание, в этом, заключительном акте Кали-юги. Как вы знаете, у меня было предчувствие бури за последние три года и, соответственно, сделали необходимые финансовые меры, избегая разрушительные экономические последствия, выпавшие на долю некоторых из моих товарищей. Но были и другие события, происходящие в косых углов и грядущего на быстро, за что я признаюсь, я был не готов, сбивая меня боком к краю. Я погрузил лицо в пропасть, чтобы увидеть, если бы я мог определить глубину, только чтобы вырваться с преобразованным убеждения и возобновления сил. Даже сами боги будут лице курс действий, на которые я тогда решил и которая остается нереализованной здесь, несмотря на аполлонического культа. Луи-Фердинанд Селин сказал одиночества является подготовка к смерти. Возможно, он завышает ее немного, но ведь он был прав. По мере продвижения к некоторым истинам, мы становимся духовно изолированным от наших товарищей и таким образом достичь "живой смерти". Но мы должны посмотреть на это с другой точки зрения. Разве это не релиз? Разве это не такая свобода, проникнуть границы и выходить за рамки? Мы становимся кибер-гоплитов разведку вдоль границы, следопытов на границах мира. Жмем далее. Смерть может прийти в любой момент. Существует никаких оснований бояться. Встаньте. Лицом к солнцу. Выберите бой!

Savile Row Collins

Ten Years Ago

Just over ten years ago I moved back to Greenwich, Connecticut. I lived in a one-bedroom flat in central Greenwich with a hot little Brazilian girl with green eyes, jet-black hair, and an insatiable sex drive. It was a couple of blocks from Greenwich Avenue, within walking distance of Richards, JCrew, Starbucks, the tobacconist, and a variety of restaurants and bars. As you know, it was familiar territory: I lived for many years in that part of Connecticut and still had family there.

I had spent the preceding three years on a sojourn in England and South Africa, taking time off from a NYC banking career to travel. In London I renewed ties with Tory and Nationalist contacts and fell in with a group of consultants and journalists specialising in security affairs, counter-terrorism, and political risk assessment. I supported the Serbian campaign against Albanian insurgents in Kosovo, and, when US-NATO forces retaliated against Serbia in 1999, I volunteered with Serbian activists in London. Fighting terrorism was very much on everyone's mind in the late 1990s, but no one, it seems, was prepared to consider they were supporting the wrong side. But more on that later.

I worked at an international bank in Stamford. On the morning of the attacks in Manhattan one of my colleagues stumbled into my office, wide-eyed and upset, and said: "We're being attacked!" The news programmes showed the second jet hitting a tower. From the office windows we could just about see the plumes of smoke rising over lower Manhattan. After a short while we were told to go home. Driving south on I-95 over the Mianus River Bridge I caught up with a dark young man of Indian or Middle Eastern appearance driving an old car and shot him a look that must have said "I'm going to fucking kill you!", because he looked terrified and quickly switched lanes to avoid me. I would have done, at that moment.

Once home I changed and met up with some friends at Mackenzie's in Old Greenwich. It was crowded and the television sets were on. The regulars were already there. Soon a stream of New York commuters filled the bar, covered in ash, horrified and quiet, tear-stains on their face, asking for and receiving drinks. It was a solemn spectacle. I spent the rest of the evening with friends at Sundown Saloon on Greenwich Avenue. Over and over again footage of planes hitting the towers filled the screens. Later that night the Greenwich firefighters, paramedics, and cops who had gone to Manhattan that morning returned to town, groups of big silent men moving through the streets.

Ten years later, the situation is badly eroded. Introducing a host of authoritarian measures in the name of 'the war on terror', the governing authorities have transformed America into a police state. American forces remain in Iraq and Afghanistan waging unjust, unwinnable wars and slaughtering innocents. The US foreign policy establishment, firmly in the grip of its Levantine masters, is quietly gearing up for war with Syria and Iran, even as the central government is on the edge of bankruptcy. Borders remain wide open. American communities are filling up with the dregs of the third world, unwanted and unasked for. The barbarians are not only inside the gates, they are beginning to make demands. Muslim immigration has increased, and, with it, more incidents of Muslim terrorism. African 'flash mobs' continue to terrorise Euro Americans with impunity, as a low-level race war simmers and threatens at any moment to boil over. Incredibly, the MultiKult, wasting no opportunity to tighten its stranglehold on the majority population, portrays ordinary Americans as 'terrorists' and issues threats of violence against them.

What began as chest-thumping farce has turned into a serious case of treason and betrayal.

The Ernstfall is upon us.

Sebastião de Portugal

The Class of '87: The Challenging Skippers

Holmes and Watson (Armstrong and Miller)

Kerouac: A Truer Darkness

Kerouac: sensible haircut and OCBD

"I began to understand that the city intellectuals of the world were divorced from the folkbody blood of the land and were just rootless fools, the permissible fools, who really didn’t know how to go on living. I began to get a new vision of my own of a truer darkness which just overshadowed all this overlaid mental garbage of ‘existentialism’ and ‘hipsterism’ and ‘bourgeois decadence’ and whatever names you want to give it."

Jack Kerouac, Vanity of Duluoz (1968)

Bonora Shoes

Surfing's Greatest Legend: Bunker Spreckels

The tale of Bunker Spreckels (1949-1977) reads like a pitch for a movie to rival Boogie Nights: The stepson of Clark Gable is a privileged Los Angeles party boy who is heir to a multimillion dollar fortune; passionate about surfing, martial arts, guns, and women, he lives the life of a debauched international jet-setter before succumbing to drug-fuelled excesses at the tender age of 27. Born Adolph B Spreckels III--great-grandson of German-born sugar baron, railway tycoon and publisher, Claus Spreckels, and heir to the Spreckels sugar fortune--Bunker became a famous surfer as a teenager, but after his inheritance came along, he began to slip into a life of pomp and excess where surfing took a back seat to drugs, sex, and wild road trips. So remarkable was his lifestyle that he created an alter-ego who invited photographers and documentarians to trail him, piecing together a tell-all epic of his own rise to fame and fortune finally published as Bunker Spreckels: Surfing's Divine Prince of Decadence by Art Brewer in 2007.

Old England: rentrée des classes

End of Summer Spectators

The Southern California tourist season is almost over, but some spectators linger. The exclusive photograph (at left) shows a pair of Peal & Co. spectator or co-respondent shoes at full velocity. Note solid gold cuff action and tanned ankles. As you know co-respondents have a somewhat dodgy reputation, the name itself originally intended to refer to the type of shoes only a rogue male getting up to no good with a married woman would wear. I am not so sure the term applies to yours truly, at least not now. But more on that later. Today I like to think spectators have a bit of Old Hollywood cachet and I wear them accordingly. In the photo I am no doubt discussing Heidegger's theory of being and drinking J&B whisky, and plotting my sartorial conquests for next summer. Stay tuned.

Baja Spearfishing

Locals Only !

Parsifal: Prelude to Act 1 (Wagner)

Beach-Going

German Nationalist Style

Danke Thilo!

Thilo Sarrazin: German bureaucrat, former director of the Bundesbank, and author of best-selling book Deutschland schafft sich ab (Germany Abolishes Itself), a devastating critique of immigration and cultural policies undertaken by the post-war regime. Note the dark worsted suit, sky blue dress shirt, horn-rimmed specs, and what looks like a reverse Brooks Brothers 'mini' BB#1 repp tie. I am particularly enthralled by Herr Sarrazin's sensible haircut and the curves of his shirt collar. Most exquisite. It does not get much better than this. Perfection.

Birdwell Beach Britches

A New Career In A New Town (Bowie)