I am in London on business this week. It is grey and humid. I am in back to backs for most workdays. I take solace on the roof top terrace of my Soho club with good friends. The cocktails are world class and I enjoy a Marly Light under the veiled grey sky.
The talk is of the Olympic closing ceremonies. I did not see them. I am told the scene depicted a typical London street. Cyclists ride by. A double-decker bus pulls up to a stop in perfect time for the roof top of the bus to open up. Jimmy Page is wailing ‘Whole Lotta Love’ on guitar.
This is surely fantasy land and does not depict typical London street life. In London, you wait for ever for a bus and two come at the same time. One is likely to hit a cyclist on the way into the stop. The last time a roof top opened on a bus was the result of explosives and Jimmy Page wasn’t playing guitar.
Interesting choice of tunes London. Whole Lotta Love is about a guy who intends to fuck the object of his desire senseless. The lyrics were penned by Jimmy’s partner Robert Plant. It is alleged he stuffed a sock down his hip hugging trousers for shows. His conquests testified that he was hung like a prize horse.
The talk strays to hip hugging fashions. A friend tells of his frustration that his wife is trying to get him to upgrade his wardrobe and into designer labels. He asks the table what we think. I couldn’t possibly comment sitting in 7 jeans, a Michael Kors shirt, Marc Jacobs jacket and Prada leather sandals.
I explain that my personal stylist, aka Mrs. Beaverboosh, dresses me. The truth of the matter is that when we met, Mrs BB immediately disposed of my casual wardrobe and replaced it with urban chic items. I missed my plus fours and frilly shirts for a few weeks but am over it now.
He continues. His wife wishes for him to see a tailor and give up his off the rack suits. He again solicits opine. I could not agree with her more. His ill fitting Italian off the racks have the shine of a cheap street criminal.
I recommend my tailor in Saville Row but warn the time to purchase is now during the summer month discounts. In fact, I am off the next day for my yearly fitting.
“Mr. Beaverboosh sir, may I suggest that we reconfirm the measurements we have on file,” asks my tailor, his sights fixed on my small but perfectly developing love handles.
“Chop chop man, I have important appointments and do not have much time,” says me in a testosterone pulsing hungover haze.
“Mr. Beaverboosh sir, it would seem that the girth of your midriff has expanded slightly. Should you wish, I know an excellent doctor on Harley Street that can sort these sorts of things out.”
He is a very cheeky tailor.
He re-checks the measurement of my inside trouser leg. I gently pass wind and ignore him.
Surprisingly, he makes no comment on the girth of the large sausage I have stuffed in my briefs.