By 1999, I had achieved a successful Wall Street career in the mortgage-backed securities (MBS) market. But I wanted a break. So I went to South Africa, a move I had been intending to make for years. I went in part to write, to conduct academic research, and to pursue paramilitary training. And, to be perfectly honest, to look for adventure. South Africa was then, as it is now, undergoing a process of black-on-white crime and ethnic cleansing, and I thought I could play a part in addressing it. Shortly before I arrived in the country, a white Namibian female student at the University of Pretoria had been abducted and raped by a dozen or so local blacks. It was horrific events such as this that, to me, called out for a direct response.
I settled in Pretoria. Through some contacts in Afrikaner political circles, I rented a large villa in Hatfield, a Pretoria suburb. I traded in my Brooks Brothers shirts, J.Press suits, and Alfred Sargent brogues for khaki bush shirts, fatigues, moleskin jeans, and Veldschoen. I grew my hair long and stopped shaving. I tanned and my hair became blonder in the African sun. I took Afrikaans lessons from pretty blonde girls at the University of Pretoria, where I also attended seminars at the Institute for Strategic Studies.
A short walk away was McGinty's, a bar popular with local residents and University of Pretoria students. There I got to know the bartender, a short, muscular white guy with a thin moustache. He had once worked in the mines, he told me, where he had led a mine gang. He said his blacks were lazy workers with a
mañana attitude and constantly complained about racism. Tending bar was a better job. One afternoon, as a group of rowdy students was making noise and irritating customers at the bar, I saw him calmly walk up to the biggest, tallest student in the group and lay him out flat on the ground with a right hook to the nose. Blood and broken glass were scattered about the floor. I was impressed.
At McGinty's I met a short, well-built, shaven-headed Irishman in a short-sleeved shirt and brown boots. He said he was an ex-soldier. He looked it. He had moved to South Africa as a young boy in the mid-1980s with his parents, who had wanted to escape the Irish troubles. They must have realised later, I thought to myself, that things were much worse in South Africa. He had served in an artillery unit in the SADF and had seen fighting in the border war in Namibia and Angola. He sounded bitter. He asked me what tourist sites I had visited and I told him most of them. He said I should visit some of the farms east of the city. "Right-wingers are storing nuclear weapons in underground silos on those farms," he told me.
Note how the top buttonhole on this three-button Southwick sack suit above is partly obscured by the high lapel roll. In fact, it is barely visible. This Southwick jacket, therefore, to my mind, is rendered indistinguishable from any number of common three-button monstrosities found in mall stores, and would look entirely appropriate with a stripey shirt and a pair of Kenneth Cole square-toed shoes.
The top buttonhole on this three-button, flannel Samuelsohn suit jacket above is distinctive and bold. The traditional lapel, rolled to the second button, exposes the top buttonhole and allows it to shine in all its glory. And yet, we should remind ourselves, it is superfluous, which is not a bad thing. I happen to like this look, to the extent that I am considering acquiring a three-button suit, blazer, or odd jacket with a similar buttonhole arrangement.
A recent action pic of my pair of pirate slippers from Stubbs & Wootton. These are the slippers of which slipper dreams are made. Featuring a high vamp design, these handcrafted, leather-soled gems were made in Northampton, England, and took 3 months to complete. I have to say, they were well worth the wait. I mostly wear them in the evenings with a Viyella robe whilst enjoying a glass of Dewar's and an Avo Robusto. They are equally suited to intimate cocktail gatherings, where I combine them with a blue BB OCBD, v-neck sweater in navy cashmere, and chestnut cords. Without socks, of course. Decadence defined.
I like a good Fez just as much as the next chap. The Fez originated not in the Muslim world, as some would have it, but in ancient Greece. The Byzantine Greeks, of whom Robert Byron wrote so eloquently and passionately in The Byzantine Achievement (1929), were devoted to the Fez. The Ottoman Turks appropriated the style during their conquest of the Balkans in the 19th Century, and it is the Turks with whom the Fez is most commonly associated. The Fez has long been worn by certain military units, especially those recruited from colonial populations in Africa, the Near East, and India. Today the Fez remains an underappreciated item of headgear, and, sadly, is used in popular entertainment to ridiculous effect to indicate a comic character or situation. Should you wish to purchase your own Fez, inquire with your local haberdashery. I acquired my first Fez as a gift from a young Syrian Muslim woman with whom I was once romantically involved. Pair your Fez with facial hair accessories, as in the photo above, or with tobacco accoutrements such as a pipe or cigar. I like to wear my Fez whilst sporting a Viyella robe and pirate slippers from Stubbs & Wootton.
One of my correspondents, a Laguna Beach-based private banker, recently attended a luncheon for high net worth investors featuring a talk given by Dr. Abidi, an economic forecaster based at a local university. There were several dozen people in attendance, including a few celebrities, while the majority consisted of investors, private bankers, investment professionals, and real estate developers.
