MORNING!
That felt like a long break.
This blog was last published just over a month ago and the past four weeks have included a holiday driving through France to stay with friends in Provence, catching up with old pals, watching Derby County win in the Championship (these rare pleasures must be savoured) and even taking in the ‘Yorkshire Season’ with trips to the Ebor meeting at York Racecourse and the Scarborough Cricket Festival.
I even managed to fit in a bit of work too.
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THE quality of racing was the usual high standard at York.
The way many men dressed to attend the race meeting did not reach similar giddy heights.
Many of the women who attend the racing at York go to town with brightly coloured outfits topped off with hats and fascinators.
The men however definitely didn’t match them when it came to sartorial splendour.
As I walked from York railway station to the racecourse I felt compelled to take a photograph of male racegoers to send to Yorkshire tailor James Michelsberg.
There were two well built fellas striding along the pavement in front of me.
One sported scuffed, untied shoes while the other was squeezed into a grey jacket with sleeves that reached his fingertips.
I know I’m a sartorial snob, but James Michelsberg goes further and believes prison is the only way to remedy such crimes against tailoring.
Fortunately when I got to the Ebor restaurant at the course where my colleague Andrea Munt and I were being hosted by Jessica MacGregor of event caterers CGC, the sartorial stakes had been raised somewhat.
Also on our table were Chris Driver-Ayre and his husband Ryan from the Leeds-based audio-visual company we use, Ayre Event Solutions.
Chris was wearing a denim patchwork jacket while Ryan looked much more soberly dressed in a grey Prince of Wales check double breasted suit.
Until he turned slightly and I noticed the suit was pink all the way down one side.
When we all posed for a photo Ryan suggested I swapped places with him so the pink side of his suit could be displayed for the camera.
I was happy to comply and actually felt positively under-dressed for a change.
Now I wonder if Michelsberg can add some sequins to the lapels and sleeves of my next commission?
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I FEAR I may have blotted my copybook at Scarborough Cricket Club.
The iconic sporting venue on the coast hosts its annual cricket festival every August where Yorkshire County Cricket Club plays a county match.
I was invited to join a table hosted by Shaun Watts of Hull-based fit-out specialist Chameleon Business Interiors.
As usual, Shaun invited a lively group of guests including deputy lieutenant Jas Athwal who always has plenty of stories worth hearing.
As we queued at the turnstiles to enter the ground we heard the teams announced on the pitch and before we had entered the ground the players were making a dash for the pavilion as heavy rain lashed down.
We took refuge in the sponsors’ marquee and emerged after lunch to watch the cricket and chat and I decided that the conversation was more interesting than the cricket so turned my deckchair around so I had my back to the play.
A group of us sat in a circle swapping stories until a woman walked up to us, looked at us suspiciously and said: “Are you all part of a secret society?”
I said that even if we wanted to be, they probably wouldn’t want us.
Suitably chastened, we retired back to the marquee to enjoy afternoon tea while Shaun enthusiastically explained that one of his guests, his old friend and business contact Ian Narramore, was an accomplished musician.
I prepared myself to witness a virtuoso performance from Ian.
He shot his sleeves out like a pianist preparing for a concert, asked the waitress for cutlery, played a Chas n Dave song on YouTube on his phone and accompanied it on the spoons.
We showed our appreciation of his musical prowess with enthusiasm, which, if it did nothing else, probably convinced the lady that we weren’t part of some shady, sinister, secret society.
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AS part of our driving holiday in France we took in a visit to Epernay to taste champagne and a couple of days in Burgundy to sample the incredible wines.
We stayed in the town of Beaune and wandered out on a warm evening to try and find a place for dinner.
Most of the restaurants were busy but as we waited to see if one, in an historic building in the centre of the town, had a table free, another couple walked up to the waitress and told her that they had a table booked for dinner.
“It’s in the name of Bond, James Bond,” they said..
I spun around immediately but was not confronted with a vision of Sean Connery or Daniel Craig but a tall, lean American with a small beard and more of a resemblance to Abraham Lincoln than the world’s most famous secret agent.
The chap’s wife had clearly clocked my surprise and leaned forward conspiratorially.
“That’s not our real name. His name is James but no one can spell our last name so we just say Bond to make it easier,” she said.
We laughed, wished them a pleasant dinner and then were told that the restaurant did indeed have a table for us.
It turned out to be next to the ‘Bond’ couple who clearly knew their food and wine and as we chatted it turned out James was a retired US diplomat who had worked across Africa and Asia before taking a job at the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) in Paris so his wife could achieve her ambition of opening a cookery school.
Teaching the French about cooking? That takes some moxie.
James’ wife Samira had that in spades.
She grew up in Jordan, was educated in England, has a doctorate from George Washington University, ran a restaurant in Washington DC, has written a popular cookery book and her ‘Food Unites the World Cooking School’ was indeed a great success in Paris.
James and Samira now live in Naples, Florida where she takes great delight in wearing a Kamala Harris T-shirt to her local golf club to wind up the other ladies, who could be described as Trumpettes.
I rarely engage in conversation with other diners in restaurants.
But on this occasion I’m so glad I did.
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IN an attempt to predict how Boris Johnson would fare in the role of Prime Minister, his former boss at the Daily Telegraph, Max Hastings, came out with a memorable quote.
“He supposes himself to be Winston Churchill, while in reality being closer to Alan Partridge,” proclaimed Hastings presciently back in 2019.
Reading extracts from Professor Sir Anthony Seldon’s new book about Liz Truss’ short spell as Prime Minister, you get the impression that BoJo’s successor at No.10 also had similar delusions about her greatness.
She thought she was Margaret Thatcher but was more like Peggy Ollerenshaw from Hi-de-Hi!
Although the difference is that chalet maid Peggy did actually achieve her ultimate ambition of becoming a yellow coat, whereas when Liz made it to the top of the greasy pole she slid back down 49 days later.
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HAVE you witnessed the new phenomenon that is obsessing and frustrating middle-aged men?
Now don’t get me wrong, I know middle-aged men have been frustrated for many years about a variety of issues.
But add to the list a new one – the inability to acquire tickets to see the Oasis reunion concerts.
Social media has been clogged up this past week or so with the rantings of 40 and 50-something men who have spent hours sitting staring at their laptops and phones queuing to try and get tickets for the Gallagher brothers’ gigs next year.
And then if they do get success they then start a rant about “surge pricing”.
To be honest, when you reach middle age I’d say achieving any kind of surge is a bonus.
Don’t ask, mother.
Seeing all this time, effort and money being spent to witness a couple of morose Mancunian brothers plaintively wailing makes me pleased that I spent my twenties listening to Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack rather than immersing myself in the music and cultural scene known as Madchester.
Have a great weekend.