French dinner scene (Apocalypse Now)

I

II

Goodbye Mr. Chips (1939)

Classic end.

Musée de la Boule

Sailing Rig

In this exclusive photo I offer you a selection of my current sailing kit. Yes, it looks worn. That is because it is. Unlike some columnists, I actually use on a regular basis the clothing that I discuss.

I started sailing in small boats when I was a young man in England, Connecticut, New York, and the Caribbean. My family once owned a 42' sailboat moored in La Paz, Baja, Mexico, on which we cruised up and down the coast. My sailing activities today, however, are limited to occasional forays in a Harbor 20 in local waters.

I never caught the sailing 'bug'; sailing for us was simply one activity out of many. I find people who are sailing enthusiasts, like any enthusiasts, rather dull. By all means go sailing--but don't get boring about it! After all there are other reasons to mess about in boats. Yacht clubs, as you know, are a great excuse to gather with like-minded people and drink and be happy, and for me that is purpose enough.

(1) Navy fleece zipper vest from Pacific Fleece company. Gift from iShares wholesaler. Also used for tennis matches on winter days. Despised by family and friends.

(2) Red shorts from J.Crew. Heavily faded from regular use. Rottweiler teeth puncture marks on thigh area below rear pocket. Repaired.

(3) Sperry Topsider boat shoes. Acquired early 2000s and worn around the world. Regularly washed in salt water. Used for sailing, local errands, and romantic walks along the beach.

(4) Surcingle belt with sailfish motif from Leather Man Ltd.. Acquired in 2003 to commemorate large sailfish caught off East Cape, Baja, Mexico.

(5) Lacoste polo shirt purchased in 2007 in El Salvador en route to Peru. Heavily faded. Also used for squash and tennis.

(6) White visor with Seychelles motif. Acquired in Seychelles in 2008. Also worn for tennis matches.

Beards I Like

Tartan Tuesday

To understand all is to forgive all (Brideshead Revisited)

Against Sideburns

As I have previously disclosed in this column, there are few things that drive me to anger more than the sight of sideburns. Now normally I am a friendly sort of chap: chummy, affable, incredibly good-looking, the kind of guy you think you would enjoy having a drink with (that is, until the conversation reveals we have absolutely nothing in common). It is rare that I lose my prep cool in a way that would make Greenwich debutantes run for cover. But temptation does approach me, frequently in the form of sideburns on the face of a smarmy hipster or perfumed player in denim. Sideburns on a man, I believe, are a red flag, a provocative act, a declaration of war, and as such an occasion for us to judge and condemn. They are a serious failure of good taste for which forgiveness can rarely be offered. Sideburns, in short, leave me hot under the collar of my Brooks Brothers OCBD. Am I being unjustifiably harsh? Perhaps. But it is for your own good. Sideburns are a leading cause of impotence and low sperm count. So avoid them. Your future depends on it.

Give Blood, Play Rugby

I don't know which rugby video makes me laugh more, this one:



Or this one:

La plus belle aventure du monde, c’est la nôtre !

Happy Easter 2010

The Kenya Hunt

la bibliothèque de Nicolás Gómez Dávila

Mensur

Hunt Cup Style

Eton Fives at Mill Hill

Eric Chase Anderson

Fashion (David Bowie)

Florally Yours

In the spirit of Easter and the vernal season, my crack photographic team managed to capture an image (see photo at left) of my floral tie in action at the office. It is a 100% cotton Brooks Brothers model. Made in the USA. From the 1980s, I think. It arrived in a parcel from my uncle in Connecticut, along with several other neck ties that have remained under wraps for 15 to 20 years. More on those later. I have received exactly three enthusiastic compliments on it thus far, and if this keeps up I shall wear it more often. If you spot me at a garden party wearing a khaki suit and holding a G&T, and surrounded by a pack of mature ladies, I might be sporting this tie. You saw it here first.

Cleverley Cameo

The word on the street is that I shall be visiting Beverly Hills, CA in late April to meet with the kind chaps at G.J. Cleverley & Co. Ltd.. I have my deep sapphire blue eye on a black calf semi-brogue with chiselled toe and wanton curve. Perhaps I will do, if I can rearrange my schedule and if fellow members allow me to shirk for just a few hours the responsibilities incumbent upon me as co-founder and chief cocktail inspector of the Exiles Dining Society (TEDS). Needless to say I am rather excited about the prospect of a day-trip, as I am currently revamping my entire business shoe collection, and plus, I have not visited Northern California in absolute ages. (Do they still speak English up there? We shall soon find out). Say a prayer for me and keep your jewel-bedecked fingers crossed that my antiquated motor car (the 'S' in S-Class stands for shite) does not suffer a smash-up on the way.

Book Lovers Never Go to Bed Alone

Terrier Man

The Last Leopard

Conducting a spring inventory of my library, clad in robe and skull-and-crossbone slippers, I recently discovered two copies of the book, The Last Leopard: A Life of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, acquired sometime in the early 1990s. It must have affected me significantly in some way. So I am submitting this post in the hope that you, too, will find the subject, Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa (1896-1957), author of The Leopard and The Professor and the Siren, of some interest. Here is a published description:

At age 47 Giuseppe Tomasi, prince of Lampedusa, still slept in the bedrom where he had been born. The abnormally taciturn recluse, who mined the history of his Sicilian aristocratic family in its ruinous decline for his classic novel The Leopard, had a "vexatious, disappointing and often pathetic life." His arrogant, sharp-tongued father, fueled by a ridiculous sense of pride, spent much of his life quarreling with relatives over money. Lampedusa's domineering mother nearly wrecked her son's marriage to psychoanalyst Beatrice Mastrogiovanni, a largely epistolary relationship for years at a stretch. In this elegant, sprightly biography, Gilmour draws an incisive portrait of a curious modernist outsider deeply skeptical of all human motives. Lampedusa's fictional counterpart, Don Fabrizio, The Leopard's protagonist, likewise seems a contemporary figure swinging from hedonistic pursuits to the contemplation of eternity without a personal God.

Dreamhome

And yet there are signs of hope. Even as he wrote, he was aware of a striving for a new frontier in human existence. In its ignorance and self-satisfaction, in its pleasure-numbed idleness, the modern mind is ripe for colonisation. The modern mind is tabula rasa. Virgin territory. The soul has its own irrepressible yearnings that will never be extinguished by the consumer goods and mental distractions of the modern age. A remnant exists, nurtured by its own nobility and discontent. And make no mistake: discontent has its own dynamics. If we accept that, then I suspect we are not at the end of history, we are at the beginning. The revolution is at hand.

Squash: A Different Perspective

The Bolter (Frances Osborne)

White Mischief (1987)

Tartan Tuesday

Avec Julien Green

So Many Cocktails, So Little Time