Stripes

Domenico Vacca



This is Sparta !

Rearview

Southern Rock

The English Gentleman: National Colours

Cuff Undone

I do not usually go around with a suit cuff button undone, but occasionally I unfasten one just to see what would happen. The sun, as expected, continues to shine and the earth continues to spin on its axis. Of course no one apart from fellow fogeys, clothing aficionados, and iGents would even notice such a detail. The Trads and iGents, were they to spot it, would likely erupt in a fit of priggish rage and demand I button it up at once. To which I have my own unique reply. It is important to have a bit of fun and to maintain a spirit of mischief, a crucial posture under present circumstances. Because there are more than enough other things to turn up the heat under one's collar.

Sent from my iPhone

Genuine Housewifing

http://dixerwear.com/

Tartan Tuesday

Game On

A brace of pheasants napping

grandes choses

"Donnez-nous de grands hommes et de grandes actions pour que nous retrouvions le sens de grandes choses."

- Pierre Drieu La Rochelle (1893-1945)

Vic Loves Harris

Beagling

Brasserie Encounter

On my way home from the office last night, I stopped by a local brasserie for a cocktail. A G&T, to be precise. The bartenders are all friends of a friend and know exactly the way I like it.

I stood at the bar and calmly surveyed the talent, downing three drinks in 15 minutes. The place held a smattering of office workers, couples, Persian players, cougars, and escorts.

It was only then I noticed the people sitting next to me.

Tall, tanned, blonde, bloated, affluent-looking, the sort that probably attended USC and get annoyed when I pointedly assume they spent their college years in South Carolina.

"Oh, you went to the other USC..."

These people were staring at me with the same bemused, stupid, smug incomprehension the Indians must have had when the Spaniards landed upon these shores.

The head douchebag, an older man with red face, untucked stripey shirt, and denim, smiled at me and said: "Why are you wearing a tie?"

I turned and slowly looked him up and down.

"So I don't look like you people".

One of the advantages of being a tall muscled chap is that I can say such things and get away with it.

A younger guy wearing a baseball cap immediately stepped in, introducing himself as John, and offered to buy me a drink, which I accepted.

The evening ended without violent incident.

A History of English Food

From the publisher:

'In this major new history of English food, Clarissa Dickson Wright takes the reader on a journey from the time of the Second Crusade and the feasts of medieval kings to the cuisine--both good and bad--of the present day. She looks at the shifting influences on the national diet as new ideas and ingredients have arrived, and as immigrant communities have made their contribution to the life of the country. She evokes lost worlds of open fires and ice houses, of constant pickling and preserving, and of manchet loaves and curly-coated pigs. And she tells the stories of the chefs, cookery book writers, gourmets and gluttons who have shaped public taste, from the salad-loving Catherine of Aragon to the foodies of today. Above all, she gives a vivid sense of what it was like to sit down to the meals of previous ages, whether an eighteenth-century labourer's breakfast or a twelve-course Victorian banquet or a lunch out during the Second World War. Insightful and entertaining by turns, this is a magnificent tour of nearly a thousand years of English cuisine, peppered with surprises and seasoned with Clarissa Dickson Wright's characteristic wit.'

On Business Shirts

Dress shirts are disposable and should not be a significant feature of a man's wardrobe. They are background. Not for me, the modern fashion for shirts in loud colours and curious checked patterns. A recent quantitative analysis of my business shirts revealed approximately 67% are strong white, with smaller percentages devoted to ivory, ecru, blue, pink, and various stripes. I have two striped shirts with a white collar (never with white cuffs!). I have a few checked shirts, too, but I tend to avoid them for office wear. Here is what Boyer says on the matter:

'Business shirts are traditionally restricted to light colours or plain white (historically, a white shirt indicated that the wearer was above manual labour and had the wherewithall to maintain a delicate wardrobe) and simple patterns. White and pale blue are the safest, with ivory and pale grey following in favour. Pale pink is not unacceptable, nor are shirts with white collars and cuffs and coloured bodies. The latter two categories, however, call for an added confidence and sense of colour coordination, since deviation from the tried-and-true hues always carries the double risk of appearing too studied and of clashing with the jacket and tie.'

Elegance, G. Bruce Boyer (1985)

Vintage Harris Tweed

Man in Pink

Earl of Arran

Candid Bespoke

Life is too short not to go bespoke. It's a directive around which I've ordered much of my adult life, and I think you should, too. The photo (at left) shows a recently delivered pair of bespoke slip-ons from London. I like to think they have a vaguely armoured look, like a dinosaur or armadillo, or the riveted plating of a Tiger I stalking Bolsheviks by moonlight in a Russian forest. Note the 2" cuffs on the dark grey worsted trousers. Most of my suits and shoes are in charcoal and black respectively, you will have noticed, as befits a chap who works in a financial orifice most of the day. I'll leave the peacocking to other men who need the attention.

A Soldier's Vision Of The World (Evola)

The first results of this view are an affirmative attitude with respect to the world and, at the same time, a certain freedom. He who is really a soldier is so by nature, and therefore because he wants to be so; in the missions and tasks which are given to him, consequently, he recognises himself, so to speak. Likewise, the one who conceives his existence as being that of a soldier in an army will be very far from considering the world as a vale of tears from which to flee, or as a circus of irrational events at which to throw himself blindly, or as a realm for which carpe diem constitutes the supreme wisdom. Though he is not unaware of the tragic and negative side of so many things, his way of reacting to them will be quite different from that of all other men. His feeling that this world is not his Fatherland, and that it does not represent his proper condition, so to speak--his feeling that, basically, he 'comes from afar'--will remain a fundamental element which will not give rise to mystical escapism and spiritual weakness, but rather will enable him to minimise, to relativise, to refer to higher concepts of measure and limit, all that can seem important and definitive to others, starting with death itself, and will confer on him calm force and breadth of vision.

Metaphysics of War, Julius Evola (Arktos, 2011)

Quilted Hackett

Safari Kit

Reds Don't Surf !

Rousanou

The Holy Monastery of Rousanou

Flashman: Plungers

I asked him what he meant by plunging.

'Oh,' he says, 'a plunger is a fellow who makes a great turnout, don't you know, and leaves cards at the best houses, and is sought by the mamas, and strolls in the Park very languid, and is just a hell of a swell generally. Sometimes they even condescend to soldier a little--when it doesn't interfere with their social life. Good-day, Mr Flashman.'

Flashman, George MacDonald Fraser (1969)

Fawkes

http://dixerwear.com/

Skin Diver

http://themindfuckofgoldenbirdies.tumblr.com/

China Landing

The Return of the Young Fogey

It has been suggested in certain quarters that the Young Fogey (YF) is 'gone for good'. I disagree. In the last 20 years YFs certainly went out of style and escaped underground. Still, if one investigated, one could find them within certain universities, Conservative constituencies, and parishes. The Countryside March through central London on 4 March 1998, in which I am pleased as punch to say I took part, attracted thousands of YFs. Bridge clubs in Kensington and Chelsea were positively bursting with them.

I daresay the YF has yet to hit his peak. His day is coming. For the impending wars will be over the issue of identity. The main conflict of our era is between globalists and particularists, that is to say, between the global MultiKult trying to genocide us into one big brown shit-pile of mass sub-humanity, and those loyal few who wish to keep alive particular attachments and specific loves. Love, of course, like evolution, is only possible in separation, or isolation. It prevents the spinning world from casting us into nothingness like random atoms.

The YF is nothing if not local. Are you local? The YF answers with a resolute Yes! YFs of the future will blend the best of the past with an eye to the future, with a hard edge and a confident and ruthless approach. They will defend neither values nor propositions, but actual flesh-and-blood human beings. They will stand up for our people, the living and the dead and the yet-to-be-born. In the past attempts to effect change were made through the Book of Common Prayer; tomorrow a side-by-side and RPG are used. An understanding of what must be done flows directly from the necessity for survival. It's inevitable.

The Young Fogey is the unique ethno-cultural expression of the English people. As long as there are English, there are fogeys. Race and culture are inseparable. The latter derives from the former, you see, like a flower blossoms from the soil. The Spirit dwells within the flesh. And the Tweed cometh.

Deutsche Panzer

The Hobbit (1977)