“BEING
MIAMI RANGE THE
Proper Chaps Carry Proper Bags.
“One’s personal portmanteau should be selected, both upon purchase and for each day’s tasks, with as much care and attention as one’s suit of clothes.”
Gustav Temple, CHAP Spring 22
thechap@barrowhepburngale.com | barrowhepburngale.com | @barrowhepburngale
Editor: Gustav Temple Art Director: Rachel Barker
Picture Editor: Theo Salter
Circulation Manager: Andy Perry
The editor of The Chap for the last 20 years is also the author of The Chap Manifesto, The Chap Almanac, Around the World in 80 Martinis (Fourth Estate), Cooking For Chaps and Drinking For Chaps (Kyle Books) and How To Be Chap (Gestalten). He is currently working on a book without ‘Chap’ in the title.
ACTUARIUS
Actuarius is an artist, essayist, photographer and journalist. A selfconfessed petrolhead, he mainly produces works based around his twin passions of Art Deco and mechanised transport, making the shortlist for the highly prestigious Guild of Motoring Writers Feature Writer of the Year in 2021.
Chris Sullivan is The Chap’s Contributing Editor. He founded and ran Soho’s Wag Club for two decades and is a former GQ style editor who has written for Italian Vogue, The Times, Independent and The FT. He is now Associate Lecturer at Central St Martins School of Art on ‘youth’ style cults. @cjp_sullivan
SAM KNOWLES
By day Sam Knowles is a data storyteller; on summer Sundays he combines his passion for narrative and numbers on the cricket pitch. He is the co-refounder, scorer and match reporter for the Gentlemen of Lewes Cricket Club, whose exploits can be followed on Twitter @GoLCC_Lewes
The Chap Ltd 69 Winterbourne Close Lewes, East Sussex BN7 1JZ
Sub-Editor: Romilly Clark
Subscriptions Manager: Jen Rainnie
Contributing Editors: Chris Sullivan, Actuarius, Ed Needham Subscriptions 01442 820 580 contact@webscribe.co.uk
Ed Needham is the editor and publisher of Strong Words magazine, launched in 2018 to give book enthusiasts a fighting chance of keeping up with the blizzard of new titles, with reviews that don’t feel like homework. He was previously editor of FHM in its million-selling nineties heyday and managing editor of Rolling Stone in New York.
OLIVIER WOODESFARQUHARSON
Olivier Woodes-Farquharson is an adventurer, diplomat, voice actor and writer, although not always in that order. When not travelling to obscure places that may or may not exist, he is most likely to be found at Cheltenham Races – the best place to blood his latest tweed – or furiously foraging in the English countryside.
Advertising Paul Williams paul@thechap.co.uk +353(0)83 1956 999
Printing: Micropress, Fountain Way, Reydon Business Park, Reydon, Suffolk, IP18 6SZ
David Evans is a former lawyer and teacher who founded popular sartorial blog Grey Fox Blog nine years ago. The blog has become very widely read by chaps all over the world, who seek advice on dressing properly and retaining an eye for style when entering the autumn of their lives.
@greyfoxblog
John Minns has been a collector, buyer and seller of antiques and collectables from the age of nine, when he first immersed himself in the antique world by foraging London antique markets in the morning before school, then selling his finds to his eager school pals. His passion is still as strong today.
Raised by circus performers in Cairo, Torquil Arbuthnot learned card sharping and knive throwing as a child, skills that got him a place at Balliol College, Oxford, from where he was expelled for reciting Dada poetry through a megaphone in the Bodlean Library.
Nicole is a self-taught home cook who has been working as a freelance recipe developer and food stylist for the past 10 years. She will be sharing recipes culled from her grandmother’s recipe notebooks. She is also a member of a ladies’ cricket team and is learning to play the double bass. One day she hopes to have a pet ferret which she will call Mrs Washington. @nicolethechap
Email chap@thechap.co.uk
Website www.thechap.co.uk
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THE CHAP MANIFESTO
1 THOU SHALT ALWAYS WEAR TWEED. No other fabric says so defiantly: I am a man of panache, savoir-faire and devil-may-care, and I will not be served Continental lager beer under any circumstances.
2 THOU SHALT NEVER NOT SMOKE. Health and Safety “executives” and jobsworth medical practitioners keep trying to convince us that smoking is bad for the lungs/heart/skin/eyebrows, but we all know that smoking a bent apple billiard full of rich Cavendish tobacco raises one’s general sense of well-being to levels unimaginable by the aforementioned spoilsports.
3 THOU SHALT ALWAYS BE COURTEOUS TO THE LADIES. A gentleman is never truly seated on an omnibus or railway carriage: he is merely keeping the seat warm for when a lady might need it. Those who take offence at being offered a seat are not really Ladies.
4 THOU SHALT NEVER, EVER, WEAR PANTALOONS DE NIMES. When you have progressed beyond fondling girls in the back seats of cinemas, you can stop wearing jeans.
5 THOU SHALT ALWAYS DOFF ONE’S HAT. Alright, so you own a couple of trilbies. Good for you - but it’s hardly going to change the world. Once you start actually lifting them off your head when greeting passers-by, then the revolution will really begin.
6 THOU SHALT NEVER FASTEN THE LOWEST BUTTON ON THY WAISTCOAT. Look, we don’t make the rules, we simply try to keep them going. This one dates back to Edward VII, sufficient reason in itself to observe it.
7 THOU SHALT ALWAYS SPEAK PROPERLY. It’s really quite simple: instead of saying “Yo, wassup?”, say “How do you do?”
8 THOU SHALT NEVER WEAR PLIMSOLLS WHEN NOT DOING SPORT. Nor even when doing sport. Which you shouldn’t be doing anyway. Except cricket.
9 THOU SHALT ALWAYS WORSHIP AT THE TROUSER PRESS. At the end of each day, your trousers should be placed in one of Mr. Corby’s magical contraptions, and by the next morning your creases will be so sharp that they will start a riot on the high street.
10 THOU SHALT CULTIVATE INTERESTING FACIAL HAIR. By interesting we mean moustaches, or beards with a moustache attached.
SARTORIAL FEATURES
42 BELFAST DANDY
Paul Stafford takes us on a walking tour of the city he has shocked with his peacockery for several decades
56 STANLEY BIGGS
Sophie Bainbridge announces the thrilling opening of a bricks and mortar store for the vintage-style menswear brand
59 FRENCH ELEGANCE
Jean-Emmanuel Deluxe on how Parisian chic evolved from the Zazous in the 1940s to Vanessa Seward and Bertrand Burgalat in the present
68 PRATT & PRASAD
Gustav Temple reveals the finished suit made for him by off-Savile Row tailor Haddon Pratt
70 GREY FOX COLUMN
David Evans celebrates Shantung ties, collar studs, British watches and introduces his new Masters of Style series
CHAP LIFE
76 THE SECOND GRAND FLANEUR WALK
A photographic chronicle of this sensational saunter without destination
84 JAMES BROOKE
Chris Sullivan on the swashbuckling adventures of the 19th century Rajah of Sarawak
FOOD & DRINK
94 HIGHCLERE CASTLE GIN
The superb new gin that connects the Queen, Downton Abbey and the Vintage Egyptologists
100 COOKING FOR CHAPS
Nicole Drysdale celebrates the arrival of summer with six delicious tarts
MOTORING
106 MOTORING
Actuarius pays a visit to the Morgan factory in the Malvern Hills to road test their revived three-wheeler
114 ECO CLASSICS
Keeping a 60-year-old petrol car on the road might be better for the planet than driving a Tesla, argues Actuarius
121 TRAVEL: BORNEO
Chris Sullivan treads gingerly in the footsteps of James Brooke, trying to avoid stepping on monkeys and wild boar
REVIEWS
130 AUTHOR INTERVIEW
Ed Needham meets Simon Kuper, author of a new book about the Oxford chums who ended up running the country
136 BOOK REVIEWS
New books about Randolph Churchill, waiters in Paris and eccentric mitteleuropa hotels
140 GET CARTER
Robert Chilcott reviews the re-release of the 1971 cult noir classic starring Michael Caine
148 CRICKET
The Chap’s cricket correspondent on the legendary Gentlemen V Players fixtures
154 CAPTAIN FAWCETT’S A-Z OF EXERCISE
A fitness regime for those who prefer not to set foot in a gymnasium
157 ANTIQUES
John Minns visits a perfectly-preserved Edwardian time capsule full of antique treasures
162 CROSSWORD
SEND PHOTOS OF YOURSELF AND OTHER BUDDING CHAPS AND CHAPETTES TO CHAP@THECHAP.CO.UK FOR INCLUSION IN THE NEXT ISSUE
Alexey Ostudin hails from the currently unfashionable country of Russia, but that didn’t stop him out-Chapping all other entrants for the coveted title of Star Chap, with his choice of attire while boarding the Trans-Siberian Express.
“Please peruse this little snapette of myself,” writes Matt Stannard. “I’m wearing my usual attire, all vintage clothes apart from the cords. The tie is of course a Handlebar Club tie and the moustaches are styled with Debonair Moustache wax, the excellent collaboration between The Chap and Captain Fawcett.”
The use of newspaper as a pocket square is highly original, sir, and is very ‘on trend’ with environmental concerns.
Russell and Sara Nash found it too inconvenient to field the constant barrage of questions about their splendid outfits, so they hopped on the Queen Mary to get away from it all. The other passengers observed strict cruise liner etiquette of never mentioning any Agatha Christie novel set on a ship.
“I had to send you a postcard photo from my renewed wanderings after a two-year pause,” writes Simon ‘What’s wrong with denim?’ Doughty. “I was accosted by a vintage gendarme in the antique market of old town Nice.”
If the dummy could speak, he would be echoing our own sentiments, sir; to wit, “I see you are hatless today, monsieur?”
“Although duelling is long forbidden,” writes Max Knoth, “some unsavoury elements still challenge you on the open streets, accompanied by their gutless henchmen.”
Sir, the pen may be mightier than the sword, but the umbrella is clearly mightier than the Strawberry flavoured Mr. Freeze Ice Pop.
Among this group of ladies is one decent tweed outfit. If only they could agree upon whose turn it is to wear it today.
“My name is Shehla Choudhry and I would like to share some pictures of my boyfriend Neil. Since the first time I met Neil, I have always been impressed with his great sense of dressing and they way he carries himself. However, he strongly disagrees with me on this subject, so he challenged me to contact you and send his photos to see if you feel the same as me. Of course I’m keeping this a surprise until I get a response back.”
Madam, I think we are with Neil on this one.
Whereas this couple both have some sort of sartorial dyslexia, which causes them to put on some of the right clothes, but in the wrong order. The so-called Tweed Run has a lot to answer for, it seems.
IN RESPONSE TO A FEATURE ABOUT THE IMPORTANCE OF PAYING AS MUCH ATTENTION TO ONE’S PORTMANTEAU AS TO ONE’S CLOTHING, WE ASKED READERS TO SEND US PHOTOS OF THEIR FAVOURED CARRYING VESSEL. WITH ONE EXCEPTION (WILLIAM WALKER, PROBABLY A SPY), THE ASTOUNDING CONCLUSION IS THAT EACH OF THEM IS USING MORE OR LESS THE SAME CASE.
Jason Frost uses a charmingly weathered leather satchel to carry around his large collection of ultra-violent video games.
Sturdy, brown, handsome, patriotic: the Julio Iglesias of leather portmanteaux favoured by Grant Jukes
Mr. Walker’s valise is of a more modest girth, but nevertheless is equipped with a sturdy metal bar, presumably because the contents are protected by the Official Secrets Act.
This unnamed correspondent’s portmanteau is designed for a much heavier load, and comes with an additional shoulder strap for the extra weight, undoubtedly of a literary nature.
Not to be left out, Alexey Ostudin carries a slim leather briefcase during an assignment to investigate Lord knows what nefarious activity in the Urals.
Tinker, Tailor, Dandy, Spy
Torquil Arbuthnot, having retired from the secret service, spills the beans on how he was originally recruited and trained as a spy
Although this manuscript has been cleared by MI5, MI6 and GCHQ, they have insisted that certain words are redacted for reasons of national security, and to keep the KGB guessing. was first approached to be a spy by the usual method, the ‘tap on the shoulder’. My tutor at Oxbridge suggested I might like to dine with the Master of [redacted] College, as there was some frightfully good egg from the Foreign Office he thought I might it find amusing to meet. I duly toddled along and was seated next to Colonel [redacted], a lean, scarred man with a pronounced limp who proceeded to quiz me on my views on the
“The more louche and unhinged recruits went to Flashman’s, where they were let loose on the dressing-up box. Their training included how to ride a camel, opium smoking, sword fighting and escaping without one’s trousers”
Matabeleland question, whether I could field-strip a Webley Mk 5 revolver blindfolded and how long it took me to do The Times crossword. He must have liked what he saw and heard because, the next month, I was asked to lunch at the Travellers’, and by the time the port and stilton arrived I’d agreed to be trained as a secret agent.
I was given a railway chitty and duly travelled down to a large manor house in secluded grounds just outside Chipping [redacted]. The first week was spent being interviewed by a variety of experts to determine one’s aptitude and talents (or lack thereof). One’s level of sanity was also assessed by the resident psychiatrist. “In some situations,” the trick-cyclist explained, in between swatting at imaginary flies, “the barmier you are, the better.” I was asked what foreign languages I spoke and admitted to fluency in French and German (due to my time at the Sorbonne and Heidelberg), passable Spanish (from matador school) and a smattering of various Nilo-Saharan dialects (my gap year as a Barbary pirate). My interviewer looked a bit askance
at this, explaining that speaking foreign languages was often accompanied by other disagreeable proclivities. “All very well being glib in frou-frou languages like French if you’re a dancing instructor.”
After the initial interviews and tests, we were assigned our training. Rather like at prep school, we were allocated boarding houses based on our evaluations. For example, those grammar school types with a chip on their shoulder were sent to Deighton’s, while those who had a C-grade or above in O-level Maths went to Bletchley’s. The training differed between houses. Those in Le Carré’s were taught to speak in elliptical sentences and encouraged to use baffling vocabulary, so that even a pencil was known as a ‘bowstring’ and a bus ticket was a ‘nightingale’. They were intensively trained to be barely-functioning alcoholics.
Deighton types would spend much of their training being taught how to submit expenses claims in triplicate, how to cheek their betters and being sent on Cordon Bleu cookery courses. They received a clothing allowance for off-the-peg suits and
beige raincoats. (Once the beige raincoats become threadbare they are handed down to the spies in Le Carré’s.) The more louche and unhinged recruits went to Flashman’s, where they were let loose on the dressing-up box. Their training included how to ride a camel, opium smoking, sword fighting and escaping without one’s trousers. They would also spend many months at the School of Oriental and African Studies, learning exotic languages and picking up exotic diseases.
I was allocated to Fleming’s, where my first exercise was to memorise the 1930 edition of The Savoy Cocktail Book. I was then sent on placement to a French casino to master the roulette wheel, and spent some time with a card-sharp in Las Vegas, learning the tricks of the trade. We were sent on exercises; attaching a limpet mine to the Woolwich ferry, for example, or stealing the hubcaps from the Russian Ambassador’s car.
We all received general lectures on the threats facing Britain, both internal and external: the Russian Bear, North Korea, Johnny Afghan,
alumni of the London School of Economics and megalomaniacs with their own private store of nuclear bombs. We were informed that MI5 no longer infiltrates left-wing groups, since these are comprised of undercover policemen looking for girlfriends. Finally it was drummed into us fledgling spies that, although the Boche are never to be trusted, the real enemy is always the French.
On successfully completing spy probation we were given a badge, a cyanide pill, a box of false moustaches, a bottle of invisible ink, a set of monogrammed [redacted] and an account at Majestic Wine. On my last day at ‘spy school’ I asked the HR-wallah about job security. He said it was hard to guarantee, as I might end up riddled with machine-gun bullets while shinning over the Berlin Wall, or my parachute might fail over the Gobi Desert. But if I made it through unscathed then I would, at the end of my years of loyal service to my grateful country, be able to retire with an OBE and a decent pension, or the Order of Lenin and a dacha outside Moscow. n
the Chap...
By Wisbeach
An advice column in which readers are invited to pose pertinent questions on sartorial and etiquette matters, and even those of a romantic nature. Send your questions to wisbeach@thechap.co.uk
Barrington Gardner: I have recently been given a set of gold cufflinks. Should they be considered too ostentatious and discreetly put aside? If not, is it acceptable to wear these with day wear or should they be reserved for formal dress occasions? Your guidance would be much appreciated.
Wisbeach: Sir, it depends entirely on the style of cufflink. If they are anything like those pictured left,
then you may wear them day or night, formal or informal; if they are more like those pictured right, then you should lock them in a drawer and never speak of them again.
Montague ‘Chaps’ Gristle: I have been invited to the Royal Garden Party at Buckingham Palace next June. In the event of Her Majesty passing a witticism about my choice of tie, should I snicker, snigger, or titter?
Wisbeach: At time of writing, sir, Her Majesty has taken a temporary respite from activities that require excessive mobility, and in her stead will be HRH The Prince of Wales. He is unlikely to pass any witticisms about your tie, although if he does, you might wish to retort with a suitable
quote from Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse such as “Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.” That should silence him.
...
Alan Peters: I was speaking to a Chap today and he mentioned an item of clothing called a ‘manthorpe’. He said that they are all the rage in the city. Have you heard of them and can you advise of a gentleman’s outfitters who may stock them?
Wisbeach: I can find no record of this singular item in the Cordings catalogue, sir, which leads me to believe that your chap in the city was attempting to hoodwink you. City boys tend towards this ribald type of humour, sir, and there may be huge guffaws emanating from hostelries around Broadgate at the notion of your making enquiries in gentlemen’s clothing emporia. I hope that my reply has at least saved you this ignominy.
Montague ‘Chaps’ Gristle: My 14-year-old nephew, Pelham is showing thespian tendencies. He is spending his pocket money on DVDs featuring the actor Benedict Cummerbund. Pelham insists that I have got the name wrong and it is ‘Cumberbatch’, not ‘Cummerbund’. I have looked in my dictionaries and encyclopedias for any entry on ‘Cumberbatch’ and found none. I have, of course found entries for ‘Cummerbund’, which I think conclusively settles the argument. Pelham will have none of it and has invited Mr. C to dinner, to settle our dispute.
Mr. C’s RSVP read ‘Delighted to attend dinner, although please note that, a) I am allergic to potted shrimps, and b) I am currently filming Lady of the Lamp and am in character as Florence Nightingale. For verisimilitude please can dinner table topics be restricted to nursing practices in Victorian Britain and my place as a feminist icon, rather than the etymology of my name’.
Should I suggest to Pelham that the dinner invitation be postponed until the film is in post production, or talk blood and bandages over the crème brulee?
Wisbeach: Sir, I think you should invite Mr. Cumberbatch to afternoon tea instead, as I hear he is rather partial to a scone, which will also lead to a debate on pronunciation and provenance of said baked items that should take up the entire afternoon. ...
Montague ‘Chaps’ Gristle: My lady ‘who does’ wishes to retire. Mrs Quince has been doing for me for the past 20 years, but now feels that at the age of 90 she has flicked her last duster. I feel some sort of gift is in order to thank her for her help in cleaning my dusty passages. Would a £5 book token be too generous?
Wisbeach: I believe a gift of such magnitude would only confuse dear Mrs Quince, and she may come to the conclusion that you are in love with her. A more suitable gift, to aid her comfort after retirement, would be a Reduc-O-Matic Portable Steam Bath (above). You can present this gift with a comment about it being her turn to be pampered. n
DAMON HILL INTERVIEW
DAMON HILL
Gustav Temple meets the former Formula 1 world champion racing driver, to discuss his late father Graham Hill, playboy racers, handlebar moustaches, The Beatles, rivalry between racing drivers and enlightenment behind the wheel
You sent me a wonderful clip of your father Graham Hill from 1964, where he’s discussing gear ratios before a race at Brands Hatch, dressed in a sharp suit. I thought that would appeal to you! I always thought my dad was a cross between Leslie Philips, David Niven and Terry-Thomas.
Well that’s TheChap summed up in three people, actually. I’ve never seen so much Brylcreem on one man’s head! He did have an amazing head of hair. There was this German cosmetics company who wanted to do a male range, and they called it Graham Hill. He definitely fitted that impeccable Savile Row look.
Perhaps more so than others. He’s wearing a mohair suit in that clip, with cufflinks and a
“Being dastardly and just winning at all costs, that doesn’t sit comfortably with me, and I don’t think it did with my dad. He drummed into me when I was growing up that cheating is only cheating yourself”
pocket square, for a quick meeting with his –what do you call that chap he’s talking to?
That’s Tony Rudd, head of engineering at BRM (Formula 1 team British Racing Motors) and he went on to Lotus, but during the War he’d designed
air intakes for Spitfires, stuff like that. He and my dad worked together very closely. That’s how my father became the first British racer to drive an entirely British-made car and go on to become world champion in 1962 – sixty years ago this year.
So would you have had a similar meeting to that one in the clip with your engineer, or was that something of the past? They only seem to have a couple of bits of paper and a pen in front of them.
Sort of, yes, but in those days they had so much less data to go on. They’d get the feedback from the engine people and they’d say things like, ‘the power band is here, you need to be in these revs for that part of the circuit’, then they’d use their empirical understanding of these things to come up with a tactic. What’s most interesting is that they’re getting feedback from the driver. Now that all comes from computers and sensors in the car and the engineers
work it out, then they tell the driver that this is what the data says. Whereas in those days, the data was the driver. In that clip, they were preparing for a race at Brand’s Hatch.
And at Brand’s Hatch there’s a Graham Hill Bend now, isn’t there?
There is now, but back then it was called ‘Bottom Bend’! My dad would have been delighted that he got the bottom!
You wrote that your father grew what he described as ‘an RAF fighter pilot moustache’ when he was in the Navy, knowing full well that they didn’t approve of moustaches.
Yes, there is a photo him from much earlier than the clip we spoke about, from after he left the Navy, in a sheepskin coat with a great big handlebar moustache. He’d come out of the Navy but he had
to keep going back for refresher courses every six months, and he knew it would wind up the officers.
It was a very subtle snub, because only people in the services would know that the Navy don’t approve of moustaches and that they only belong in the RAF. You compared Hill Sr. to Terry-Thomas in School for Scoundrels. Was there overall something of the bounder in your father, which perhaps
helped him gain a reputation as a bit of a playboy racer?
I think there was, yes. In those days words like ‘sauciness’ were more acceptable, in other words you could refer to the fairer sex in a way that might not be approved of today. He was definitely a funloving person, which offset the very serious job he was doing. I honestly think that the Navy taught him how to drink! In his own autobiography, he says that because he was a petty officer, he got double
the amount of rum that the ratings got. And so every day he’d get smashed on this quart of rum he was given. So the Navy left its mark on him. He wasn’t a huge drinker but he liked to party. If that race in the clip was the British Grand Prix at Brands Hatch, which it may well have been, on the Saturday night after the race they’d all go back to his cottage for a massive party.
He was friends with people like Prince Rainier and Princess Grace of Monaco, and he would often
“I think that John Lennon got to a point where he rejected what was on offer, which was just to carry on being a Beatle. He seemed to be saying, there’s got to be more to life than that. To step back and see if he could work it out before his next move, that’s more or less what I did when I finished with my racing career”
be invited to come and sup champagne with them. He went on to win the Monaco Grand Prix 50 per cent of the time in the 60s, five times from 62-69.
When you embarked on your own career in motor racing in the late eighties, was the age of the playboy racing driver long gone?
James Hunt was probably the last of the big playboy racers, then you had Nelson Piquet, Alan Jones, Keke Rosberg, but they were petering out by the time I got there. People like Ayrton Senna were very serious, while Nigel Mansell is a teetotaller, I think. Eddie Irvine liked to party and David Coulthard has a similar reputation. But it was done in a different way, in the sense that there wasn’t the media problem that they have now. You could go to a bar with a journalist and it would all be off the record.
From your anecdotes of team ribaldry on the racetrack and in the pits, one gets the impression that your rivals displayed much more aggressive macho swagger than you did. Were you ever described as a ‘gentleman racer’ and would you have been happy with this sobriquet?
Yes, I used to hear that ‘nice guys don’t win’ thing a lot, and I just thought, I don’t believe that. I don’t believe it isn’t possible to be successful and be sporting. Being dastardly and just winning at all costs, that doesn’t sit comfortably with me, and I don’t think it did with my dad. He drummed into
me when I was growing up that cheating is only cheating yourself; if you don’t like something, you don’t go bleating to all and sundry about what isn’t fair. Although he was fun and did all those wacky things every now and then to ham it up a bit, underneath it all he was a grown-up. And he had a lot of respect for the other drivers. They all appreciated the other drivers’ skills.
It’s come back a bit to that today and they get on much better. But when I was racing at the tail end of the eighties, it was bitter. The Mansell era, and the Rosberg and Arnoux eras, and Didier Peroni – they all hated each other! My dad would not have liked that at all.
There always seems to have to be a duel between two drivers in Formula 1. Lauda/ Hunt, Senna/Prost etc. They all have one man to battle against. Yours was Michael Schumacher, wasn’t it?
In our sport, two into one doesn’t go; you can’t have two people win a race. It invariably comes down to
two of them, and only one of those can win it. The focus of each competition becomes almost like a boxing match. The press want to build it up, and they will take something that you said and they’ll keep asking about the other guy. Sooner or later something comes out that sounds a little bit challenging and you end up with these rivalries, blown out of all proportion. There’s not really anything you can do about it. I made the mistake of playing up to it a few times, and it nearly always bit me back.
There was a point during the Prost/Senna rivalry where Senna wouldn’t even use Prost’s name; he would just refer to him as ‘him’. And before that they’d been the best of friends. On the few occasions when people felt that my dad had been robbed because of some dastardly driving, he never rose to that sort of behaviour. He just wasn’t the kind of person to complain at all.
The term ‘sportsmanlike’ used to have a gentlemanly connotation towards your fellow competitors.
I think that now it means something else. There are a lot more challenging things in life than being beaten in a motor race. You’re lucky to be in the race in the first place.
Given the unusual circumstances of your career, after losing your father in an aeroplane crash when you were aged only 15, do you wonder whether things may have turned out very differently if he hadn’t died, and whether you would have become a racing driver at all?
I think that’s definitely possible, the idea of pushing it to him. First of all, I don’t know if I’d have had the courage to tell him I wanted to go and race motorbikes, because I think I would have known the answer. I’d have to have wanted to do it really badly in order to convince him. My dad had enough support from his parents in what he wanted to do, but a lot of drivers didn’t. There was a guy called Dick Seaman who was told in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be going racing, but he went anyway. Sadly he was killed.
Then there were people like Jackie Stewart, whose mum said to him that if he went racing she would never speak to him again, so he raced under a pseudonym. James Hunt and Niki Lauda’s fathers both fought against them becoming racing drivers. So racing against the will of their parents set off quite a strong tension there. When my father was once asked, when I was a young boy, if he’d like me to become a racing driver, he replied that he thought I was too intelligent. So I rather let him down!
Many of the references in your 2016 autobiography Watching the Wheels are not those one would expect from a racing driver. You quote Shakespeare and Greek tragedians, among others. You took a degree in English literature after retiring from racing? Well, I hadn’t gone to university because I was racing. My kids were growing up and I thought, I can’t really expect them to knuckle down and do all the hard work of a degree if I haven’t done it myself, plus I was curious to see what it involved. And I liked the subject; I liked what I was learning. And then of course I got competitive about it and
had to get the best score I could! I got a first, but I’ve no idea how; maybe a bit of compliance on my part. Had I written what I really wanted to write I might not have got a first.
Did you see a parallel during those ten years after you retired, when you hardly left the house, and John Lennon’s years in New York when his second son was born? You chose the title of your book from a song he wrote about that period, Watching the Wheels. Philosophically, the Beatles had such a huge influence on culture and generations, the message was very strongly towards how we can live more peacefully and be nicer towards each other, and I think that John Lennon got to a point where he rejected what was on offer, which was just to carry on being a Beatle. He seemed to be saying, there’s got to be more to life than that. To step back and see if he could work it out before his next move, that’s more or less what I did when I finished with my racing career. I had an opportunity which not many people get in their life, which is to have a bit of money in the bank and a bit of time to think about things and decide what to do next. I think there’s too much emphasis on keeping busy just for the sake of keeping busy. Or trying to stay in the limelight in case people forget you. That didn’t make sense to me. Otherwise you’re just chasing some shadow of yourself. I certainly was asking myself the question, what might I have done had I not become a racing driver?
And did you find the answer? No, I didn’t!
You describe an out-of-body experience during the Japanese Grand Prix in 1996 at Suzuka, in the Williams-Renault FW18 that led to you beating Michael Schumacher, where you had a feeling of being physically removed from the action yet completely focused on the task. Do you think that feeling can be achieved by any other means than while driving a car at 200 miles an hour? You hear it quite a lot when people are in extremely stressful situations; there’s a point where they become
detached from what’s going on around them. I’m sure it’s some sort of survival mechanism in us. We’re so often prevented from fulfilling ourselves because we think about it too much, whereas if you remove the thinking and replace it with just the will to either win the race, or get the hell out of there, or whatever, then what we call consciousness becomes irrelevant. There is no longer any need to rationalise anything; your inner instincts are quite capable of doing better without you.
It sounds like the sort of thing that would help you if you were in a Buddhist monastery at the top of a mountain, but when you’re driving in a Formula 1 race, don’t you need your consciousness more than ever?
I remember thinking to myself, I’ve tried my best, and I made this little appeal for what you might call ‘outside assistance’, and at that point there’s a kind of letting go, which is what a Buddhist monk might try and teach you. By holding on to things, you are interfering with the natural process. You’re holding on to some concept of yourself, and maybe there isn’t actually a self. What if you were just to be?
I’m sure a neuroscientist would have a much more plausible explanation. It would be easy to become too spiritual about it; I don’t believe that the hand of God came and lifted me along, or something like that. I think it is simply a phenomenon of our consciousness that we can experience these states, and they are out of the
ordinary. Which rather suggests that we muddle along in a kind of fog of ordinariness the rest of the time, occupying ourselves with stuff that isn’t really important, but we’re happy enough.
In a book about Eastern philosophy, the writer was saying that most of us get two sunsets in our lives, in other words, only two of those experiences where we feel completely outside of ourselves.
I’d say that’s right, because the other one I had was when I was sitting on a beach with my son, staring into the infinite horizon. Something else happened then, at the opposite end of the spectrum, as I was totally unstressed. The only similarity was that I must have completely let go of the idea of who I am or what I was supposed to be doing. And bingo, this extraordinary feeling. Either that or I’ve got brain damage or something!
But you may not have had that moment with your son, had you not gone through all the ups and downs of your childhood grief and your racing career? Can anyone expect to just go and sit on a mountain, without all the difficulties beforehand, and experience a feeling like that?
Maybe it is one that one begets the other. If you talk to people who’ve had really rough experiences in life, they appreciate a peaceful moment much more than people who’ve had more plain sailing. n
ROMEO COATES
With such a wealth of wonderful actors gracing ours screens and stages, Olivier Woodes-Farquharson plummets to the other end of the spectrum to explore the life and work of Robert Coates – very possibly the worst actor who ever lived
“His dress was like nothing ever worn. In a cloak of sky-blue silk, profusely spangled, red pantaloons, a waistcoat of white muslin surmounted by an enormous cravat, a wig in the style of Charles II capped with a plumed opera hat, he presented one of the most grotesque spectacles ever witnessed upon the stage”
Self-awareness is a gift that some of us could display a bit more. Our politicians, our entertainers, and so many other figures in public life contain among their tribes some who understand the impression that they give off to others with their words and deeds, and, by the same token, many who fundamentally do not. Robert Coates, an actor during the age of the
great dandies two centuries ago, believed himself to be a transcendental genius when pounding the theatrical stages of London, interpreting Shakespeare in a way never before attempted and (thankfully) never replicated since.
But be under no illusions: Genius he was not. He was – and this really cannot be overstated –utterly dreadful.
“Coates’ crest, planted boldly at the front, took the form of a lifesize silver cockerel, wings outstretched, and surrounded by the words ‘While I live, I’ll crow’. If passers-by somehow missed seeing this unique sight, they would surely have heard it, as he was usually to be seen being followed by street urchins screaming Cock a Doodle Doo!”
Yet the origin of this delusion lay not in the West End but in the West Indies, for Coates was
born in 1772 in Antigua to plantation owners who were perhaps never fully aware either of Coates’ suffocating devotion to the theatre, or of his stultifying take on the art form of acting. He had popped over to England as a teenager, developed a taste – if not an aptitude – for acting, and bided his time until his father dutifully passed away, passing on his estate and a huge £40,000 inheritance to his only surviving child. Coates hotfooted it straight back to England in 1808, armed with plenty of cash, a determination to make it as an actor and a unique taste in clothing.
These assets together made Coates glaringly stand out. He explored the London scene first, but was then quickly drawn to the handsome town of Bath, still a hub of fashion long after the glory days of uber-dandy Beau Nash. Breakfasting and lunching daily at George Street’s chic York House, he inevitably stumbled across theatre manager William Dimond and offered his services to play his favourite character, Romeo, at the Theatre Royal. An unsure Dimond saw a huge risk but also a man of considerable wealth who was basically offering to
bribe him to stage the play. Thus, in February 1809, Bath was privy to one of the most memorable performances ever of Romeo and Juliet, albeit for terrible reasons.
Coates’ Romeo – the actor’s favourite character – was nearly three times older than the 16-year-old that Shakespeare envisaged. But even putting aside this inconvenience, it was his attire that first forced jaws to drop. A member of the audience wrote the following day: ‘His dress was like nothing ever worn. In a cloak of sky-blue silk, profusely spangled, red pantaloons, a waistcoat of white muslin surmounted by an enormous cravat, a wig in the style of Charles II, capped with a plumed opera hat, he presented one of the most grotesque spectacles ever witnessed upon the stage.’ Speckled liberally throughout this monstrosity of an outfit were Coates’ favourite jewels: Diamonds. For good measure, the whole outfit was a size too small, perhaps to highlight its wearer’s masculinity in a Regency take of deliberate male ‘cameltoe’. This was a mistake. Deep into one speech, Coates bent over, bursting the seams of his breeches, displaying
to all a “quantity of white linen sufficient to make a Bourbon flag.” Unlike Coates’ breeches, the audience was in stitches, not least as Coates himself remained oblivious throughout.
But Robert was only getting started. He loved Shakespeare, but to him the great playwright’s actual words were merely an indication of feeling rather than something to be recited verbatim. He often forgot his lines but cared little, for he preferred to improvise. On more than one occasion in rehearsals he was heard to misquote his lines, only to retort, on this being pointed out, “Aye, that is the reading I know . . . but I think I have improved upon it.” During the famed balcony scene, Coates thought nothing of pausing proceedings to get out his snuffbox and take a hearty pinch, even offering it to some of the more nonplussed members of the audience.
Mistaking the crowd’s roaring laughter for the desire for an encore, he proceeded to act out the entire death scene twice again. As baffled theatregoers started heckling ‘Why don’t you just die?’, his long-suffering Juliet miraculously came
back to life and hustled him off the stage, as Dimond quickly brought down the curtain. At that moment, Coates – never a man to be kept awake at night weighed down by the burden of self-doubt –was heard to utter ‘Haven’t I done it well?’
The gossip around Bath went into overdrive,
“To confirm both Coates’ high profile and his utter lack of selfconsciousness, several pastiches of his legendary performances were now being performed across London – although Coates viewed them more as flattering homages”
for here was an actor who simply demanded to be seen, and whose accidental talents dwarfed those of the true comedians. He performed several more times in Bath to bulging crowds, before touring across England, including Brighton and Stratfordupon-Avon. His deep pockets satisfied not just the theatre managers but also his fellow actors, all of whom he had to pay handsomely to share a stage with him. Ever confident, Coates felt by 1811 that he was ready to grace the London stage with his stupefying talents. But was London ready for him? Perhaps his Caribbean upbringing had made him sensitive to the cold, as he pranced about the city always wearing thick luxurious furs, even in midsummer, forever drenched in his beloved diamonds.
And while others used more standard modes of transport, unsurprisingly Coates chose a different path. He made his way around the city in a small carriage known as a curricle, and there
“The comics of the day, perhaps in one of their darker moments, believed he would have secretly enjoyed such a dramatic and drawn-out death scene. Sadly, he would perform it only once”
was never any mistaking it for someone else’s. With a luxurious seat in the shape of a scallop shell, the carriage was bright vermillion, with the wheel spokes painted the colours of the rainbow, drawn by two white horses. With such splendour, thought Coates, it was only right that he should magic up a heraldic symbol and motto. His crest, planted boldly at the front, took the form of a life-size silver cockerel, wings outstretched, and surrounded by the words ‘While I live, I’ll crow’. If passers-by somehow missed seeing this unique sight, they would surely have heard it, as he was usually to be seen being followed by street urchins screaming ‘Cock a Doodle Doo!’
Yet this didn’t seem to put the ladies off, for Coates was meticulously polite, and his stand-out swarthy complexion seemed popular with ladies of higher breeding, who calculated – rightly – that there was absolutely no chance that they would be missed as he squired them through Hyde Park. Coates was a hit, too, with many of the dandies of the day, who all enjoyed his company, including the fabulously named Scrope Davies and Lumley Skeffington.
Later that year, Coates was itching to perform Romeo again, and the Theatre Royal in Richmond acceded, hoping perhaps that his ghastly attempts at acting would be more than outweighed by fat revenues coming from full houses of punters seeking a jolly good laugh. For some it was too funny, and several theatregoers laughed themselves so ill that they had to be escorted outside and treated by a doctor.
Nevertheless, this ‘success’ allowed the prestigious Haymarket Theatre to open up the possibility, in December 1811, of Coates playing his second favourite character: Lothario in Nicholas Rowe’s The Fair Penitent. To distinguish him from his incomparable Romeo, Coates chose to wear white satin breeches peppered with diamonds, a bright
red waistcoat and cloak, and a patently absurd hat almost resembling a sombrero, again with the obligatory ostrich feathers belching out of it. He truly believed himself to be God’s gift to greasepaint.
Over 1000 people were turned away on the first night, with the black market charging an enormous £5 a ticket for the honour and pleasure of seeing this terrifically appalling actor delude himself on stage – the Prince Regent himself being one of them. But the crowds loved it and the newspapers gleefully reported it. The Haymarket invited him back a few weeks later to play his beloved Romeo, which he proudly accepted, ensuring this time that, while his costume would be a size bigger, he would make up for it by lacing it with even more diamonds. Too many, perhaps, for on one night, as a scene ended with Coates needing to exit stage right, he instead got onto his knees and shuffled energetically around the stage like a bloodhound, for he had lost a diamond shoe buckle. Once the buckle was eventually found, a composed Coates turned to his guffawing audience to deliver his final line which was – and you couldn’t make it up – ‘O let me hence. I stand on sudden haste’.
To confirm both Coates’ high profile and his utter lack of self-consciousness, several pastiches of his legendary performances were now being performed across London – although Coates viewed them more as flattering homages. He attended one of these, with comic actor Charles Matthews playing ‘Romeo Rantall’, and the audience roared at all the right cues, including the farcical clothing, the meticulous preparation for the death scene and the ostentatious display of diamond shoe buckles, even when playing dead. When Matthews spotted Coates in the audience, he invited him on stage for a warm handshake, Coates enjoying it thoroughly, oblivious to the fact that the joke was squarely on him.
Although he carried on playing his two favourite characters, by 1815 audiences were gradually wearying of his dreadfulness, and theatre managers had to hire policemen at some performances to keep order. By the following year, they gave up supporting him altogether; Coates’ shooting-star acting career was effectively over. This downturn on the stage was mirrored by difficult circumstances at his Antigua plantation which, when coupled with his gentlemanly generosity of giving or lending money to all and sundry, left him on hard times. He moved to Boulogne in northern France to regroup his
finances, along the way meeting the charming and fragrant Emma Anne Robinson, daughter of a British Naval officer. They returned to London in 1823, married and settled, this time with Coates, still a hugely popular member of society, attending many plays from the stalls rather than on the stage.
It was on one such occasion that tragedy truck. On 15th February 1848, the 76-year old Coates left Drury Lane Theatre, needing to retrieve his opera glasses in his curricle. A hansom cab came carelessly round the corner and crushed him between the two carriages. Six agonising days later he finally expired at his home in Montague Square. The comics of the day, perhaps in one of their darker moments, believed he would have secretly enjoyed such a dramatic and drawn out death scene. Sadly, he would perform it only once. n
BELFAST DANDY
Readers who browse the fields of Instagram may be familiar with Paul Stafford, who regularly posts images of his vast wardrobe while roaming the streets of Belfast. We asked Paul what it’s like being the dandiest cat in the city
@paulstafford1
PHOTOGRAPHS BY LEE MITCHELL WWW.LEEMITCHELLPHOTOGRAPHY.COM
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“I didn’t want to just ponce around in a beautifully cut Mark Powell suit, I wanted to use the city as a backdrop to who am and what these areas or people are to me. I try to convey the underlying stories of what Belfast was, its great inventors, architects, poets and writers, but also its rebels, villains and victims”
Are you Belfast born and bred?
I was born and bred in Belfast, growing up on the Falls Road in the west of the city. Carnaby Street it was not, but in spite of the ongoing political and social issues, the area – and in fact the city – was rich with music and fashion, and I’m led to believe that there was a smattering of Bowie clones and glam rockers hiding behind barricades. But it was Punk that really set the city alight; okay, maybe a bad analogy when talking about Belfast, but in this case appropriate.
The famous line attributed to Terry Hooley, the Belfast godfather of punk, is ‘New York had the haircuts, London had the trousers but Belfast had the reason’. My parents moved to the south of Ireland in the late 70s, just as the mod revival and then two-tone were kicking off, and when I returned to Belfast at weekends all my friends had suddenly become fully fledged mods and rude boys. Living in a small border town, I felt like I’d missed out on this really exciting movement, so I set about reinventing my own image, first by copying the dress sense of my friends but gradually
being more drawn to the emerging new romantic scene.
When did your interest in vintage clothes and style begin?
Weirdly my first encounter with vintage clothes or style was through my mum’s family. Her brothers arrived back to Derry from London in the mid 1950s dressed head to toe in teddy boy drapes, brothel creepers, bootlace ties and drainpipes, and of course the ubiquitous DA Haircuts. By the time of the rock ‘n’ roll revival of the 1970s, my uncles still had that look and started to travel to the festivals to see their 50s heroes. I remember the dandy aspect of it all and, combined with a love for Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly and Little Richard, I was completely invested in the look and style of the Teddy Boy movement, inheriting some items from my uncles, as well as having a drape coat tailored for my 12th birthday.
“Belfast is a tough city; you need to be thick skinned, resilient and driven to make a success of your life here, and there are the wounds and battle scars, as well as the fresh shoots of hope that make the city the juxtaposition it really is”
Does Belfast boast many emporia of gentlemanly raiment, whether new or vintage?
The mecca of menswear in Belfast is undoubtedly The Bureau. As you can imagine by the name, it takes its roots from a modernist background and has been at the forefront of menswear in Ireland for over three decades. Their styling has moved considerably over the years from its original focus towards a more Japanese workwear and utilitarian streetwear look, but still has that modernist Ivy League sensibility. My go-to tailor in Belfast is Patricia Grogan at The Cut, a trained tailor with
impeccable taste and a great idea for detail. Her signature styles are modern takes on Great Gatsby 1920s three-piece suits, with beautiful features and luxury cloths at about a third of the cost of a Savile Row suit.
What proportion of your clothing do you have to look further afield than the UK for?
Recently I’ve started to buy more things from Japan, because the quality, cost and fit are better overall. I love Dry Bones, and I’ve found Kazuki Kodaka at Adjustable Costume very reliable at getting things to you quickly. Claudio at DNA is another reliable source of great value and new ideas, and has a brilliant eye for detail; Lorenzo at Capirari is another who always surprises me by the quality he can provide at very affordable prices.
What is your favourite spot in Belfast for a well-dressed passegiatta?
My instagram account is more of a diary than a platform for dressing up; a record of my love affair with Belfast. It’s a very one-sided relationship in some ways. Belfast is a tough city, you need to be thick skinned, resilient and driven to make a success of your life here, and there are the wounds and battle scars, as well as the fresh shoots of hope that make the city the juxtaposition it really is. When we shoot the City Streets series, I didn’t want to just ponce around in a beautifully cut Mark Powell suit (though I certainly do that regularly); I wanted to use the city as a backdrop to who I am and what these areas or people are to me. I try to convey the different aspects of the city that make it truly unique, or the things that people wouldn’t expect, the underlying stories of what Belfast was; its great inventors, architects, poets and writers, but also its rebels, villains and victims. There are ugly scorched waste grounds where there was once industry and people, and there are soulless grey concrete boxes where there was once breathtaking architecture. But then there is that Belfast attitude that it will all be okay in the end.
What is the general reaction from the good people of Belfast to you in your vast array of fabulous outfits?
I suppose dressing up is the same for everyone: if you wear a pair of spectator shoes or a hat you are sort of asking for trouble, especially if you are just wandering around Tesco at 10 am. By and large, people are pretty complimentary, but then Belfast is small and I know most people, as we’ve been in the hair industry for nearly 40 years. Of course I often get the Peaky Blinders comments, or ‘is the circus in town’ from the lads outside the pub, but it isn’t as bad as the 1980s, when you’d get chased by a bunch of skinheads or football thugs for wearing a bit of eyeliner. The weirdest moment recently was a bunch of goth kids sitting outside the city hall, with the usual green hair, black lips and piercings, sitting exactly where we used to sit many years ago as young mods or rockabillies. I suddenly heard one of them say “Weirdo!” out loud to me! You never lose it!
“My favourite city in the world is New York, undoubtedly; the energy, the streets, the history and of course the New Yorkers, I love them! From the very first moment I set foot in Manhattan I knew it was my spiritual home. I hung around outside the Chelsea Hotel and snuck in when the desk clerk was away, and we ran around the corridors trying to get to the upstairs garden or Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe’s old room”
Which is your most treasured city outside of Belfast, for general sauntering, style and shopping for clothes?
My favourite city in the world is New York,
undoubtedly; the energy, the streets, the history and of course the New Yorkers, I love them! From the very first moment I set foot in Manhattan I knew it was my spiritual home. I hung around outside the Chelsea Hotel and snuck in when the desk clerk was away, and we ran around the corridors trying to find Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe’s old room. I went to CBGBS when it was still a dive bar before it became an All Saints for would-be rock stars, and I walked the Brooklyn bridge the night I got married and thought we would never leave. We did, but returned many, many times and it never disappoints.
Which is the city in the world with the largest quantity of stylish men, in your view? London is the best-dressed city in the world. The street culture, the music, that English eccentric aesthetic, the multicultural influence and of course just far too many cool people doing wonderful things. My trips to London always include a visit to the king of Soho, Mark Powell, an original if ever there was one. I also love to have a mooch around Hunky Dory, Levinsons and Blackout Vintage. I love Thomas Farthing – vintage styling that does not look like costume, and a visit to Lock & Co in St James’s is always dangerous.
Who are the historical personages who have most inspired you sartorially?
My first real style hero was Elvis Presley. That period of 1954-1962 was without a doubt his most sartorially influential period, though his 1960s wardrobe was not without its merits; even as he veered towards the 1970s full-blown Vegas look, his off-stage gear was still pretty cool. Then Bowie’s Young Americans period, almost kitsch but so ahead of its time: glam 1950s-inspired suiting or sports jackets with wide open-collared shirts and balloon pegs, and then that haircut: prototype wedge, blow-dried to perfection and almost breathing… it lives! Then of course there are Cary Grant, Montgomery Clift and Errol Flynn, stylish men all but effortlessly cool. Kevin Rowland is a true stylist, who is not only cool but also truly fearless, as was Ian Dury, whose pre-punk pub rocker look inspired so many. True Dandies one and all! n
STANLEY BIGGS IN BRICKS AND MORTAR
Sophie Bainbridge showcases the brand-new Stanley Biggs store, housed in what was once also a clothiers and outfitters 90 years ago
You may already know of Stanley Biggs, which has been creating gorgeous garments, style campaigns and gaining momentum since 2019. In fact, if you have recently watched Hugh Laurie’s directorial debut, Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?, you will recognise many items from The Biggs Collection. Stanley Biggs was chosen as the clothier of choice for the hero of the story, played by Will Poulter.
The Stanley Biggs team has breathed new life into a mock-Tudor building in Jacksdale, Notts, exactly 99 years after the shop first opened in 1923. This history, combined with the traditional service you’d expect from an early 20th century outfitters, adds to your overall experience. Be prepared to step back in time the moment you see the shop front.
The shop itself has its own unique history that the brand has showcased. For as far back as many can remember, the building housed the County Library (the Biggs Team even found a document dated 1941 hidden away!). Closing as the library in 2019, the store has been affectionately named
‘The Old Library’ to remember this part of its heritage.Keen to find out as much history as possible, the Biggs Team began scraping away at the stubborn layers of paint that covered the long glass sign; and, after nearly 90 years, the beautiful sign of the original shop was revealed. Confirming the name of the shop owner, one George Hardwick, the sign also confirmed that the shop was originally built as… a Clothiers and Outfitters!
This is a brand in love with history. Every item is named after a pioneer, adventurer or a grand hall, many from their local area. Championing British manufacturing, textiles and designs, Stanley Biggs is the up and coming brand incredibly proud of its Midland roots. Adventurous and dashing tones have been united with timeless designs to create iconic pieces that will stand the test of time. Alongside the authentic ‘Biggs Look’, you can also enjoy the same quality and attention to detail in their contemporary collection of Rugby Shirts, T-Shirts, Sweaters and Hoodies. Stanley Biggs really has something for everyone. n
DRUGSTORE DANDIES
Jean-Emmanuel Deluxe gallops through seven decades of French elegance, from the Zazous to Vanessa Seward
Not unlike in the UK, the French pop revolution injected new energy and shaped a new paradigm for local youth to emulate. As yéyé pop reinvented anglo-saxon sounds along with swinging London, there was also a ‘swinging Paris’. It had similarities with what was happening in the English capital but also had its uniqueness; a French flavour which still fascinates today, well beyond the Seine and the Channel. A sophisticated style that honours Parisian women and elegant gallic people of all shapes and sizes.
IN THE BEGINNING: THE ZAZOUS
There’s zazous in my neighborhood. I’m already halfway like ‘em. André Jaubert
In 1938, French singer Johnny Hess, inspired by Cab Calloway’s song Zah Zuh Zaz, shouted frantically in his song I Am Swing the following chorus: ‘I am swing, I am swing, zazou, zazou, zazou zazou dé’. The song became the 1939 hit song and was featured in the 1942 film Mademoiselle Swing about a young swing fanatic who is bored to death by her provincial life and seeks some adventure.
Along with their love for American jazz, Zazous became known during the occupation for their Anglophile and Americanophile attitudes, which were not to the liking of German occupiers. Boris Vian (French writer, poet, musician, singer, translator, critic, actor, inventor and engineer) wrote, “The male got a curly and scruffy hairdo and wore a sky blue suit whose jacket fell down to his calves [...] the female also wore a jacket which protruded by at least one millimeter from a loose pleated skirt in Mauritius tarlatane fabric”.
Flash forward to the post-war years, from the taboo club cave up to Saint Germain’s cafés.
Boris Vian looked like a proto Mod and Juliette Greco like a beatnik girl worthy of the girl on the cover of Rod McKuen’s Beatsville LP. Anglophilia really started in Paris during the sixties. While English mods came from the lower classes, their French cousins originated mostly from the capital’s upper crust. A well-groomed crew who chose for their HQ Le Publicis Drugstore on the Champs Élysées. Ironically, Jacques Dutronc used to call them the ‘Minets’, “who eat their purr at the drugstore”. But it would be wrong to dismiss these young Anglophile and Parisian dandies, such as Boris Bergman, a great Russian-Jewish-Anglophile
“Minets: pseudo beatniks and dandies hating everything French –that drugstore gang is above all anti-yéyé. These few young people were
offbeat aesthetes who were into clothes and pop culture.
They
were
a strange kind of mix between Barbey d’Aurevilly and Pete Townsend”
lyricist, who grew up in London and then expatriated himself to Paris. He wrote the English adaptations of Serge Gainsbourg’s songs and was a lyricist for Sophia Loren, Anthony Quinn, Marcelo Mastroniani and Juliette Greco. “I was already part of a Saint-Michel band,” Bergman recalls, “then all the various gangs merged at the Drugstore. There were a lot of ‘our betters’ kinda kids. I was quite apart as I sort of came up from the gutters.”
“I was in the same class as Michel Taittinger
(co-director of Godard’s Rolling Stones film, 5+1 and heir of the Taittinger Champagne brand). It was an ‘Absolute Beginners’ gang. Some of them rose up to greater things; there was the future press photographer Serge Kornilov, future producer of Vanessa Paradis Marc Lumbroso, as well as famous rock critics François Jouffa and Jean Bernard Hebey. Marc Kalinowski, who would became a great sinologist, was there too. If only I knew back them what we all would become!”
The Drugstore youth wore Maurice Renoma’s ‘English blazers’ outfits. Boris Bergman adds, “At the time I was importing Penny Loafers to make end meet.” Jean Monot, in his Les Barjots book, wrote, “Minets: pseudo beatniks and dandies hating everything French – that drugstore gang is above all anti-yéyé”. These few young people were offbeat aesthetes who were into clothes and pop culture. They were a strange kind of mix between Barbey d’Aurevilly and Pete Townsend.
HERE COMES RENOMA!
Sixties girls like Brigitte Bardot (right), Jane Birkin
and Françoise Hardy loved to wear Paco Rabanne, Courège and, a little later, Jean Bouquin (Saint Tropez hippy chic) garments. Aged 23 in 1963, Maurice Renoma opened his first store at Rue de la Pompe in Paris. Before that he had already dressed the Drugstore’s hipsters, for whom he had imposed the curved cut: “Curved clothes give a chic allure to men and women. When curved, young people feel good about themselves.” Among Renoma’s famous customers who became his ambassadors you could spot: Jacques Dutronc, Serge Gainsbourg, the Beatles, Andy Warhol, Salvador Dali, Catherine Deneuve, Elton John, Jim Morrison, Françoise Hardy, Bob Dylan, Pelé, Keith Richards, Yves Saint Laurent, Valéry Giscard d’Estaing and François Mitterrand. Renoma made a mark on his era and, if his work is still relevant today, it’s because he always preferred real avant guard to hype.
FRENCH NEW WAVE
In the early seventies, as everyone was stuck in hippy antics, a fringe of trendy young people reacted. These beautiful people lived way beyond
their means. They made Gustave Flaubert’s “The superfluous is the greatest of needs” their motto. In England, the Glam Rock scene affected both sophisticated artists and teenyboppers. In contrast, French ‘decadents’ were much less numerous, very elitist and mostly based in Paris.
Yves Adrien is a mythical author and an unlikely rock critic fascinated by Sainte Thérèse de Lisieux. Yves Adrien wrote about the French post-May ‘68 hippie youth, “Teenagers prefer bubblegum pop to Marxism, it’s more fun ... Imagery of the experience goes beyond any logic based on reasoning. This is the teenage force. The leftist adventure is not, in the musical/electric concept that concerns us, more important than the twist dance craze fashion or platform boots.”
For those who liked it camp, there was the Gazolines (above), a dissident group of the FHAR (Homosexual Front of Revolutionary Action) who challenged with glitter and joie-de-vivre the greyish leftist demos of the day. Among them were the sublime Marie France, but also Maud Molyneux, Helene Hazera Jenny Bel’Air and Paquita Paquin. Their tongue in cheek slogans were “Make-up is a
“These beautiful people lived way beyond their means. They made Gustave Flaubert’s “The superfluous is the greatest of needs” their motto.
In England, the Glam Rock scene affected both sophisticated artists and teenyboppers. In contrast, French decadents were less numerous, very elitist and mostly based in Paris”
way of life, proletarians of all countries, caress yourselves!” and “Nationalise glitter factories!” The Gazolines disbanded themselves around 1974 and Jenny Bel’Air became a physionomist at the Palace, and Maud Molyneux a feared critic at the Libération newspaper. At the Palace, under Fabrice Emaer’s direction, old faces of ex-Gazolines
mixed with new figures such as Edwige (ex Punk queen and Jean-Paul Gauthier muse), Jérome Braque (an electro-pop artist and tongue-in-cheek dandy), Djemila Khelfa (who makes Kate Moss seem like an altar boy), Alain Pacadis (the ‘teddy bear who smelled bad’, according to Lio), the great photographer Philippe Morillon, Jacno, Elli Medeiros, Fifi Chachnil, Pierre et Gilles, JeanCharles de Castelbajac (who designed many artists’ clothes at that time) and so many other creatures of the night. The brilliant composer Jérome Braque recalls, “We were spoiled children. Daring to say no to golden opportunities and dressing up in clothes from St Cloud Flea market. I even had a tuxedo I got recut to my size”.
“Teenagers prefer bubblegum pop to Marxism, it’s more fun ... This is the teenage force. The leftist adventure is not, in the musical/electric concept that concerns us, more important than the twist dance craze fashion or platform boots”
To evoke French elegance, both modern and resulting from the sartorial revolutions mentioned above, we should conclude with the mythical modern couple formed by stylist Vanessa Seward and über cool composer and producer Bertrand Burgalat. In her book The Gentlewoman’s Guide, Madame Seward-Burgalat offers us a breviary of feminine elegance.
In a alphabetical form, there’s mention of Lubeck (a Young Catholic Girls institute from where many of the pupils would go on to work for Dior, Chanel and Vogue); of anti show-off attitudes; of neo-bourgeoisie. As a Parisian born in Argentina and raised in London, Vanessa Seward is the essence of style when she writes about silk pyjamas, Marine sweaters, lack of fortune and sensitive luxury. Way beyond the fabric, the essence of French elegance is an art of living and therefore of dying. Boris Vian sang, “And when I would be dead I want a Dior shroud”. n www.vanessaseward.com www.tricatel.com
FRANÇOISE HARDY – As she never cared about clothes and has always been unaware of her beauty and her charm.
JEAN D’ORMESSON – A very mediocre and pontificating writer, but very well fashioned (his wife was rich).
STÉPHANE AUDRAN – Because she was witty and intelligent, that’s what made her so attractive.
HÉLÈNE ROCHAS – “One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen”, John Fairchild.
VALÉRY GISCARD D’ESTAING – He made a lot of mistakes, but he was always perfectly dressed.
HUBERT DE GIVENCHY – A rare specimen of fashion designer who doesn’t look pathetic.
...AND BURGALAT’S REPLY TO THE SIMPLE QUESTION: WHAT IS FRENCH ELEGANCE? French elegance is like French music; it’s ok when it is not calculated. If there is a French spirit, it cannot be codified or claimed, otherwise it becomes folklore. I don’t think Alain Delon, Jean Gabin or Lino Ventura cared that much about clothes, but they wanted to be well dressed out of respect for the public.
PRATT & PRASAD: THE FINISHED SUIT
Gustav Temple finally collects the bespoke suit for which he has waited eight long weeks and made four visits to his tailor
In the previous edition, we chronicled the lengthy process of having a bespoke suit made by Pratt & Prasad. In fact, so lengthy that the suit wasn’t finished until the subsequent issue
My fourth stroll along the windswept boulevards of Clapham was repetitive in more ways than one: on each visit to Pratt & Prasad, I felt obliged to don the same black vintage suit I had worn to the first consultation so the comparison could be made. I knew this would be the last time I would wear this ensemble of mismatched blacks and weights of fabric. Goodbye, old friend, I said to it, brushing yet more lint off the lapels; you have served me well but now the Platonic shadow in the cave is to be replaced by the Real Thing.
Haddon was nearly as excited as I was, forgetting to offer me the usual cup of tea in his haste to show me his creation. I saw it immediately; a lone black figure nestled among the bright violets and pastel blues of Haddon’s more adventurous clients. A plain black wool suit like this only really comes to life when it’s put on. And it wasn’t only the suit that sprang into life. The trousers slid on like a pair of silk pyjamas, and when I put on the coat, my carriage was instantly more erect, almost as if some form of orthopaedic back brace had been applied.
Haddon proudly pointed out some of the key features, such as the luxurious roll on the lapel (compared to the flat, lifeless lapels on the vintage coat); the generous armholes, entirely concealed from the outside; the tightly jetted pocket flaps; the vampiric sweep of the scarlet lining. If I were a different type of person I would have given this
“Haddon
proudly pointed out some of the key features, such as the luxurious roll on the lapel, the generous armholes, the vampiric sweep of the scarlet lining.
If I were a different type of person I would have given this talented
tailor a high-five”
talented tailor a high-five. Instead I merely nodded, knowing as well as Haddon did that this suit would alter my bearing in the world.
The street welcomed a different man when I left Pratt & Prasad. A slightly taller, more elegant man with a more confident step. Every movement in a bespoke suit is a pleasure; every gesture rewarded with a gentle yielding of the cloth. It is as if the suit is asking its wearer: what do you want to do next, sir, and how can we assist you? No matter how fabulous a vintage garment one may have acquired and how well it seems to fit, there is nothing quite so harmonious and satisfying as wearing a suit that no other man will ever inhabit so precisely. n
www.prattandprasad.co.uk
GREY FOX COLUMN
David Evans gallops through detachable collars, British watches, shantung ties, travel luggage and Bond headwear www.greyfoxblog.com
What a relief at last to be able to attend events where we can dress up properly and shed the lockdown grunge that has eclipsed style over the last two years or more! My son and daughterin-law, married in late 2020 with a total of 14 people during the restrictions of lockdown, had the chance to celebrate properly earlier this year. The day was superb: blue skies, a magical venue, an honour guard from The Welsh Guards and a large room full of stylishly dressed guests.
I dusted off my morning dress, unworn since my daughter’s wedding and a visit to the Derby some years ago. I wore a shirt from Budd Shirtmakers with a stiff collar to add to the formality of the occasion (I hadn’t worn a detachable collar since schooldays over 50 years ago). I probably felt almost as uncomfortable as the Guardsmen in their thick red woollen tunics and highly polished heavy boots, but it felt wonderful. The pleasure of making an effort is nothing to do with vanity. Looking good equates with feeling
“I wanted a Shantung silk tie to wear at the marriage celebration. Shantung is a gorgeously slubby silk that adds interest to a tie. I tend to avoid striped ties, as they look too school or regimental for my taste, but when made out of this highly textured silk they are unlikely to be mistaken for such”
good, respect for others and indeed for ourselves. The psychological benefits of dressing well have scientific support, although those of us who enjoy dressing up don’t need science to tell us what we experience when we don our glad rags. Sometimes we forget that it’s small things like this that bring us pleasure – so needed in a world gone increasingly mad, with politicians and world leaders at the forefront of making life miserable for everyone.
TIMELY TIMEPIECES
This year saw the coincidence, almost in the same week, of collaborations between four British watchmaking brands. England was, many years ago, the centre of the watchmaking industry in Europe. British watchmakers have been responsible for much of the technology that now powers our watches – think of Harrison, who designed the first successful marine chronometer, for example. The industry is slowly being restored by brands such as those mentioned below.
The watch from Fears Watches and Garrick is 42mm in diameter, made at Garrick’s workshop in the UK and only available through Fears. It uses the Garrick UT-G04 movement with power reserve indicator: It’s hand wound and regulated to within 5 seconds a day. The hands are the usual Fears skeleton design and the watch marries the key elements of both watch brands very well. I’ve seen and worn timepieces from both Fears and Garrick and they are made to the highest specifications and quality.
The watch from Bremont and Bamford is a different animal; very contemporary in appearance with its black DLC-treated case. The S500 sports
bright blue indices that jump out against the dark layered dial, making this a practical yet stylish timepiece. The watch is chronometer rated, with enhanced shock proofing and water resistant to 500m. On the wrist it’s comfortable with not too much bulk. This is a timepiece that likes to be noticed.
Incidentally, Bremont have produced a handsome chronometer that I would love to have on my wrist if budget allowed. The Bremont WR22 is designed in collaboration with Williams Racing, made in their workshops in Henley and with a distinctly handsome, racy appearance. It comes on a bracelet, but I think looks best on the black Alcantara strap. It also comes with a Williams Racing car wheel nut!
SHANTUNG STRIPES
I wanted a Shantung silk tie to wear at the marriage celebration mentioned above. Shantung is a gorgeously slubby silk that adds interest to a tie. I tend to avoid striped ties, as they look too school or regimental for my taste, but when made out of this highly textured silk they are unlikely to be mistaken for such. I found mine at Rampley & Co, who also supply gorgeous pocket squares and have recently branched out into clothing.
TRAVEL CHAPS
If you’re travelling this summer, there are a couple of pieces of British-made luggage that I’d like to recommend. Globetrotter makes wonderfully stylish cases with a strong hint of nostalgia. Their Dr No collection has a gorgeous dark blue wheeled carry-on case that will make you the envy of the other passengers. From Bennett Winch comes a suit carrier holdall that combines a soft bag and suit carrier – the ultimate travel companion for the sartorial traveller. Finally, the Hatbag (left) provides a solution to the age-old problem of how to transport headwear across continents without one’s fedora or trilby reaching the destination a mis-shapen mess.
BOND HATS
Finally, continuing the James Bond theme, Lock Hatters’ new collection celebrates 60 years since the first Bond film, Dr No. Throughout this year they are releasing hats based on those worn in the films. Among the first is the Auric cap (pictured below), handmade from russet Escorial wool to match the rust-coloured tweed golfing suit, with baggy plus fours and oversize soft yellow cardigan, worn by arch-villain Auric Goldfinger.
As Matt Spaiser observes on bondsuits.com, Goldfinger’s suit closely follows Fleming’s description in the 1958 book: “Everything matched in a blaze of rust-coloured tweed, from the buttoned ‘golfer’s cap’ centred on the huge, flaming red hair, to the brilliantly polished, almost orange shoes. The plus-four suit was too well cut and the plus-fours themselves had been pressed down the sides…” Clearly Goldfinger’s style was by no means comme il faut, but then one would expect such lapses of taste from a villain.
Links: lockhatters.com bremont.com bamfordwatchdepartment.com fearswatches.com garrick.co.uk rampleyandco.com buddshirts.co.uk hatbag.com
MASTERS OF STYLE
Over the next few columns I want to introduce you to some Masters of Style, whose taste and sartorial skills offer inspiration to those of us less confident. These first appeared in a slightly different format on greyfoxblog.com. I’ll start with Shaun Gordon, one of the most naturally stylish men I know.
GREY FOX: Please introduce yourself. Where are you based and what do you do?
SHAUN GORDON: My name is Shaun Gordon, I am a London based multi-product menswear designer. Until recently I handcrafted neckties and fine accessories but am now moving on to other things.
GF: Please describe the main style influences in your life, past and present.
SG: My Grandfather will always be the foundation of my style. It’s the philosophy of dressing well always, as you never know who you could meet, and now I have grown to believe it to be fundamentally about self respect. I am inspired by many things and to name a few: Sidney Poitier, for the way he wore his clothes that reflected his personality, and it shone through in the films. Early Miles Davis, although I appreciate the way his style transitioned through time and was in sync with his music. David Hockney; I love the way he uses colour within the subject’s style. Another artist who’s a personal favourite is Jack Vettriano; it’s beautiful to see the way he paints the drape of clothing. Cary Grant, the beautiful form of tailoring worn with that classical
gentleman’s panache… there’s simply too many more to name.
GF: Would you say that your style is still developing? If so, how?
SG: I am unsure if developing is the right word, perhaps evolving, in the sense that, as our perspective and needs change, we experience and appreciate clothes in a different way. And I think it is a beautiful explorational journey. My style has developed from being strictly vintage, which tends to be sharp tailored pieces, to becoming more modern, with a refined and softer silhouette.
GF: What skills would you say that you have that help you in your search for style?
SG: A sincere curiosity (if you can call that a skill) and actually wearing the clothes I had in mind. Not just looking. Once you’ve learnt what there is to know, you have to take the plunge and try things out, otherwise how will you know if it suits you? Not just in how it appears but also how it makes you feel, because that will inevitably affect your appearance anyway. Also, as a menswear designer I have developed a sharp eye for detail, and I believe this is a skill that has helped me in my search for style.
Luxury capmakers and handweavers
Summer-weight linen caps now in stock
THE SECOND GRAND
CHAP LIFE
THE SECOND GRAND FLANEUR WALK
Gustav Temple reports on the second instalment of this saunter sans purpose, which became the greatest assemblage of walking canes in London since 1815
After two years of not being permitted to wander anywhere, with or without destination, a large number of flâneurs pressed their pantaloons, polished their canes and cultivated new buttonholes for the second Grand Flâneur Walk. On Saturday 14th
May, some sixty five impeccably turned-out Chaps and Chapettes assembled at the entrance to Piccadilly Arcade, watched over by the statue of Beau Brummell, to hear a tract about the flâneur to set the dandy heart ablaze. With the words of Charles Baudelaire ringing in their ears, the
flâneurs spent a long time displaying their outfits and preparing themselves for the gruelling task ahead – namely to walk a few hundred yards around the corner for a bracing cup of coffee from the kind folk at The Gentlemen Baristas on the corner of St James’s Street and Piccadilly.
From thence the flanerie proper commenced, and our intrepid flâneurs and flâneuses made it all the way to the Guinea Grill in Mayfair, where a long pause was taken for refreshments. This convivial break was only cut short by an unruly mob of soccer fans, preparing themselves to watch the FA Cup Final on television later by pouring lager continually down their throats. When they saw the quantity of walking canes being carried by many of our number, they kept their observations on our peacockery to themselves.
We were then turned away from the Golden Eagle on Marylebone Lane, because there were
“too many of you”, yet around the corner, the aptly named Angel in the Fields welcomed us with open arms into its opulently stained-glass interior. This was where debate hotly ensued among the flâneurs, as to whether the heat, by then at its fiercest, was too much for a further 45 minutes’ walk to Camden, where libations awaited us at the Camden Watch Company. Half the flâneurs braved the beating sun on Regent’s Park, the other half boarded an omnibus. Needless to say, the flâneurs on foot got there first; such is the exquisite, random, unpredictable nature of true flanerie
The Chap extends a hearty thank you to all those who attended, and especially to the generous folk at the Camden Watch Company. The Grand Flâneur Walk demonstrated that, even in today’s obsession with rigid schedules, appointments and not wasting time, a simple stroll by 65 dandies can still be turned into a Happening. n
The White Rajah of Sarawak
Chris Sullivan recounts the swashbuckling tale of James Brooke, who ruled Borneo in the 1840s with a limp hand and left a legacy of tittle-tattle in his imperious wake
ILLUSTRATION BY MARK ELLENDER
“Could I carry my vessel to places where the keel of European ship never before ploughed the water?” wrote Brooke in his journal. “Could I plant my foot where white man’s foot had never before been and see man in the rudest state of nature?”
Sir James Brooke might easily have popped up in George MacDonald Fraser’s Flashman books and was indeed the inspiration for Kipling’s The Man Who Would be King and Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Brooke bought a ship with his inheritance, fitted it with a plethora of guns and sailed off to Borneo where, in defence of the Sultan Of Brunei, defeated a mob of headhunting natives who, armed with only blow pipes and bows and arrows, were easily routed.
Bucking the trend for swashbucklers, Brooke exhibited a total lack of interest in the fair sex and seems never to have tupped a single damsel. As his family friend Kegan Paul commented, ‘He was able to be close to women and intimate friends but without a tinge of love making.’ Brooke was best
of friends with a brace of rich older spinsters but remained entirely preoccupied with adolescent boys, his more notable relationship being with Badrudeen, a Sarawak prince, of whom he wrote, ‘My love for him was deeper than anyone I knew.’
James Brooke was born on 29th April 1803 in Secrore, India to mother Anne Marie Stewart and father Thomas Brooke, who had been an officer in the East India Company before becoming a High Court Judge. The rather spoilt little James was sent back to England to Norwich Grammar School in 1815 but, as he missed his mum, was often absent and ended up being tutored at his parents’ house near Bath.
He completed a rudimentary education and in 1819, aged 16, he entered the service of the East
“I was sitting in the boat and I could notice this awful smell,” wrote missionary Harriette McDougal. “I looked and saw a Chinaman’s head in a basket. It entirely spoiled my handbag which lay near it. I had to throw my bag away”
India Company as an ensign to the Bengal native infantry, then transferred to the 18th native infantry, moving up to sub-assistant commissary-general in May 1822. Just 19 years old when war was declared between Burma and Britain on 5th March 1824, Brooke was given the command of a company of unbalanced irregular cavalry and shipped off to fight the hostiles in the jungle. He was seriously wounded in one lung during his first skirmish at Rangpur, Assam in January 1825.
“His active army career lasted two days and his convalescence would last five years,” wrote his biographer Nigel Barley. “He was awarded a wound pension of £70 per annum and written off as an invalid aged 22.” Brooke recuperated in Bath and was briefly engaged to the daughter of a clergyman, though soon saw the error of his ways. While recovering, he read Stamford Raffles’ The History of Java and, once back on his feet, resigned his commission in 1830 and travelled to China, Penang, Malacca, and Singapore as an independent trader. “They [the Singaporeans] are the first race of people I have ever met whose appearance
positively displeased,” wrote Brooke in his extensive journals. “Their habits are the most filthy, their faces most ugly and their figures most ungraceful of any people under the sun.”
In 1835 Brooke inherited the hefty sum of £30,000 (£4m today) when his father died, so he bought a 142-ton schooner, named it The Royalist, bedecked it with six 6-pounders of cannon and, after a little practice with his crew in the Mediterranean, aimed East in late 1836. It was then that he heard of a rebellion against the Sultan of Brunei, so he pulled up anchor and set sail for Borneo in 1838, hoping to ‘earn something’ for his endeavours. He arrived in Kuching in August 1838. At that time, Borneo was not on the British radar; even though it is the world’s third largest island, it was primarily known as a hotbed of piracy and headhunters.
“In the devastated feudal economy, the best business [in Borneo] to be in was simply to take money off others by violence,” writes Barley. “The Royal House of Brunei divided its time equally between the traditional demands of fornication, murdering its relatives, and Islamic piety.” The Sultan was Omar Ali Saifuddin II, whose uncle, the heir-apparent Raja Muda Hashim, had resigned and taken the office of prime minister in favour of his nephew becoming Sultan.
And so in came Brooke with his cannon-toting craft and the obligatory gun salutes, flying the white ensign and wearing his semi-naval uniform. The ill-informed Sultan thought he was entering into an agreement with the British navy, and “not some spoilt young man from Bath squandering his inheritance.” So excited was Brooke to be the first white man to walk on this undiscovered land that he went barefoot and got a serious infection, limping along like Long John Silver for months.
Brooke’s next stop was to meet the famed headhunting piratical Dayaks, where he was introduced to his first smoked severed human head. He thought it rather charming. Brooke then left for Singapore, where he was met with adulation. “Newspapers call me patriotic and adventurous,” he wrote to his mother, “The Geographical Society pays me compliments. Am I not a Great Man!”
Brooke returned to Kuching on 29th August 1840 and immediately became enmeshed in subduing the uprising alongside Hashim. In two months of fighting he lost no men, while the enemy had lost five. Meanwhile, Brooke fell for Hashim’s younger brother Barudreen and they became inseparable. It is thought that Brooke’s decision to help in the war was simply because it kept him close to his new squeeze. Hashim, still believing Brooke to be a representative of the British Navy, offered him the state of Sarawak, which he readily accepted.
After a minor victory against the rebels, the dissenting indigenes offered surrender if their lives were spared. Brooke had his men fire a volley over their heads, persuaded Hashim to let them live, and so the four years of conflict were concluded. Brooke was now 38 and had illegally assumed the title of Rajah. In July 1842 he obtained personal confirmation of his appointment from Sultan Omar Ali, and on 18th August was installed as Rajah at Kuching. Brooke had bagged himself a formidable chunk of real estate, but with few assets and no mineral deposits it meant little. He remained more or less skint for the rest of his life.
Brooke then decided to reform the dishonest and declining Malay kingdom of Brunei, based on the British code of fair play. He was determined to abolish local practices such as slavery, amputation and headhunting, while asserting that Islam was to be respected. He forever stressed that native interests were his focus and, in truth, it was the enlightening dogma of Brooke’s rule.
He quelled the Dayak raiding the coast in June 1843 with the help of the Royal Navy, under the command of his old friend Captain Henry Keppel, and in August 1844 Brooke joined forces with them to destroy the principal Dayak longhouses. Disaster struck in 1846, when the Sultan decided he needed to get rid of Brooke’s Sarawak allies. A group of the Sultan’s armed bodyguards attacked Badrudeen, shot him six times and killed him. Hashim escaped but, knowing he was done for, blew his brains out. Emotionally in pieces, Brooke returned to England in 1847 and quickly became one of the icons of early Victorian
imperialism. He was made an Oxford DCL, met Queen Victoria and had his portrait (left) painted by Sir Francis Grant, RA.
Brooke was appointed governor of the new colony of Labuan and consul-general for Borneo, but still found it difficult to obtain recognition from the British government of his sovereign status in Sarawak. He tried to raise funds by selling off the rights to the island’s coal and employed as his agent Henry Wise, as conniving and slippery a character as one might find, who then tried to set up a company to buy out Brooke behind his back. He fired Wise, who then began plotting Brooke’s downfall.
Brooke sailed back to Borneo, creating something of a scandal by frolicking with youthful midshipmen in his boudoir, dancing the polka with his new catch, 15-year-old Charles Grant, whom he called ‘Hoddy Doddy’, grandson of the Earl of Elgin and some 29 years Brooke’s junior. Even though this was not particularly unusual in the Navy, fellow officers were not amused.
In 1848 Captain John Brooke Johnson, the Rajah’s nephew, arrived in Borneo, immediately taking the surname Brooke. The newly named Brooke Brooke, tipped to succeed his uncle, was then dragged into suppressing the volatile Dayak Pirates. James Brooke arranged for Royal Navy Captain Arthur Farquhar’s ships to attack the Dayaks once again, resulting in the battle of Beting Marau at the mouth of the Saribas on 31 July 1849, when more than 1000 Dayaks were killed.
Back in Blighty, Brookes published another of his journals. Henry Wise edited out the more bellicose sections and delivered a document that portrayed Brooke as a “mad, sanguinary despot who used the navy to slaughter thousands of natives and steal their land.” The slighted Wise then founded the Aborigines Protection Society, purely as a means to bring down his nemesis Brooke. “I have been held up as prodigy of perfection and I have been cast down as a monster of iniquity,” wrote Brooke, while having contracted smallpox on top of his recurrent malaria. A year later, in 1854, an inquiry sat in Singapore to determine the truth. Wise was instrumental in providing much of the damaging evidence, but Brooke defended himself admirably. He was exonerated of charges of inhumanity and illegality, but the experience was demeaning and disillusioning. He emerged with his reputation bruised, “A foreign lackey stripped of all means of protection.”
Three years later the Chinese, seeing Brooke weakened, went on the rampage. Infants to
SHOP BESPOKE
elderly were beheaded and mutilated. Using the lure of human heads (a future husband would be laughed out of a Dayak House if he failed to turn up without a severed cranium), Charles Brooke (James’s nephew) brought in the Skrang Dayaks and led an attack, killing 1,500 Chinese, most of whose heads ended up on display in a Kayak crib. “I was sitting in the boat and I could notice this awful smell,” wrote missionary Harriette McDougal. “I looked and saw a Chinaman’s head in a basket. It entirely spoiled my handbag which lay near it. I had to throw my bag away.”
Brooke was now 54. It was 1858 and he set sail for England and haggled for payment for the costs he’d incurred in Sarawak, but came away empty-handed. He was now more or less destitute. To make matters worse, another secret was about to appear in public. His name was Reuben George Walker, who had gone missing in 1857. In a letter to Brooke Brooke, James wrote, “Now for Reuben, I told you he might be my son. I may tell you now that it is as certain as a fact can be.” Given James’s sexual proclivities, it was assumed that Reuben had been one of his paramours, though as one wag commented, “At 21, Reuben was far too old for James.”
Having weighed up the evidence, biographer Nigel Barley concludes that, “All in all, it seems likely he was Reuben’s repentant and slightly
disappointed father. Whether Reuben was his son, or recognition was to conceal a homosexual relationship, must remain a matter for speculation.”
In 1857 he met confirmed spinster Angela Burnett Coutts, heir to Coutt’s Bank and one of the wealthiest women in England. She saw James as a hero, bankrolled his endeavours and bought him the vessel of his dreams, the Rainbow. Meanwhile, the most serious consequence of the Reuben affair was the alienation of his elder nephew, Brooke Brooke, who governed during the Rajah’s increasingly protracted absences. For him Reuben was a severe challenge to his legacy. In January 1863 the Rajah both disinherited and banished Brooke Brooke for challenging his authority. After establishing Charles Brooke in his place, the Rajah left Sarawak on 25th September for the last time and returned to England. By this time, the British government had finally recognized Sarawak as an independent state, but its finances were still underwritten by Baroness Burdett-Coutts.
On his retirement James moved to his house on the edge of Dartmoor. Baroness Burdett-Coutts gave up her rights in 1865, enabling James to declare Charles his heir. In 1866 Brooke suffered his second stroke, and on 11th June 1868, he died at home after suffering a third stroke. He was succeeded as Rajah of Sarawak by his nephew Sir Charles Anthony Johnson Brooke (1829-1917). n
THE VALLEY OF THE GINS
FOOD & DRINK
THE VALLEY OF THE GINS
Gustav Temple discovers a fascinating connection between ancient Egypt, King Tutankhamun, The Queen, Downton Abbey and a delicious new gin
PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE VINTAGE EGYPTOLOGISTS: JEN SCHULTEN WWW.HERCAMERAOBSCURA.COM @HERCAMERAOBSCURA THANKS TO RENEE LEMIEUX FOR THE INTRODUCTION
What connects Her Majesty the Queen, the Earl of Carnarvon, Highclere Castle, Howard Carter, Downton Abbey and Vintage Egyptologists John and Colleen Darnell?
The answer lies in a brand-new British gin on the market by the name of Highclere Castle Gin. I joined a cross continental online cocktail party to learn more, hosted by Colleen Darnell, familiar to readers of this publication as a supremely stylish archaeologist who, with her husband John Darnell, is widely known for her extensive field work and
expertise on ancient Egypt. She is also the owner of probably the finest vintage wardrobe this side of The Valley of the Kings.
Colleen introduced Adam Von Gootkin, co-founder (with Lord and Lady Carnarvon) of Highclere Castle Spirits, who gave us a potted history of the gin they launched a few months before the covid-19 pandemic in 2020.
“Lord and Lady Carnarvon have preserved more than just a castle and an estate; they’ve preserved the quintessentially English country way of life. On the inside of Highclere Castle you have this
glorious 300-room beautiful building, host to countless members of royalty, celebrities, statesmen and artists, as well as being the location for Downton Abbey.
“Outside there is a 5000-acre estate, a combination of parkland designed by Capability Brown, botanical gardens that reach behind the castle (where we secure the botanicals used to make Highclere Castle Gin) and many acres of barley and oats – the latter also used in our gin; the first gin in the world to incorporate oats. For the last 100 years, gin has been served at Highclere during dinners, cocktail parties and shooting parties.
“This magical world of the upper classes was brought to life in Downton Abbey, but behind the scenes it continues to be stewarded and protected by Lord and Lady Carnarvon today. My vision was to liquefy all of that into a gin with history, with terroir, with authenticity; a gin with a real reason to be.”
So far one could be forgiven for thinking, nice sales pitch, mister, but it’s just another gin, isn’t it, launched to shore up the finances of an aristocratic family with a massive manse to maintain? However, Highclere is more than just another gin. The flavours are so unusually fragrant and complex that it almost seems to good to smother in tonic, and can be enjoyed neat in a frozen shot glass. When you
“This magical world of the upper classes was brought to life in Downton Abbey, but behind the scenes it continues to be stewarded and protected by Lord and Lady Carnarvon today. My vision was to liquefy all of that into a gin with history, with terroir, with authenticity; a gin with a real reason to be”
then hear about (as we will below) the way every single ingredient comes from the castle grounds, and the two years it took to develop, we seem to be much more in the arena of genuine tipple terroir, like Champagne or Islay Whisky, than a mansionfunding spin-off. Adam went on to explain how Highclere achieves its incredible breadth of flavour.
“Gin could essentially be considered flavoured vodka. You’ve got botanicals, you’ve got a neutral spirit, and somehow they’re put together. In our case
it’s through a still. Highclere Castle Gin is distilled at Langley, England’s oldest copper pot distillery. Every few months we gather up the botanicals at Highclere Castle: lemons, lime flower and oranges from the Victorian-era orangery behind the castle. We pulled back the juniper, so it’s a little less piney than traditional gins, and more citrussy.
“You’ll also catch a few floral notes, because behind the orangery is the walled monk’s garden. In the 9th century, before the title of the Earl of Carnarvon was created and he was gifted this estate by the King, Highclere Castle was inhabited by the Bishop of Winchester. He planted these beautiful lavender beds that line the ancient walls, from which we source our lavender today. I love teasing my French friends by telling them that the lavender in our gin is older than any French grapevine in existence!
“We also use more traditional cassia and angelica root, and of course juniper. We know from records that juniper has grown wild at Highclere Castle since the ancient Romans occupied the area, because there’s an iron-age fort on Beacon Hill behind the castle, where the Romans kept a fortress. Records from that time show they were using juniper to cure stomach ailments (which is why genevere was created by the Dutch to begin with).
“These botanicals are shipped to Langley distillery and immersed in a neutral spirit made of English wheat. Then the stills are brought to temperature and the vapours rise, carrying with it the aromas and flavour profiles of the botanicals. When it’s condensed back into a spirit, you have Highclere Castle Gin.”
So where do the Vintage Egyptologists fit into all this, apart from being long-term chums with Von Gootkin (and one would expect them to have friends with names like that)? One of the Darnells’ most admired Egyptologists is Howard Carter, the man who discovered the Tomb of Tutankhamun in 1922. Right by his side, when Carter first peeped into a small hole he’d made in the sealed door in the Valley of the Kings in Luxor, Egypt, was George Edward Stanhope Molyneux Herbert, 5th Earl of Carnarvon and great-grandfather of the current Earl. The Earl asked the question, ‘What do you see?’, receiving the now-legendary reply from Carter, ‘Wonderful things!’
The excavators widened the gaps in the entrance and Lord Carnarvon and Howard Carter climbed in. Everywhere ‘There was the glint of gold...’
The funding for this and other expeditions in Egypt had come from the Earl’s wife, Lady Carnarvon, born Almina Victoria Maria Alexandra
Wombwell, whose father Alfred de Rothschild had bestowed a £500,000 (equivalent to about $81 million today) settlement on his new son-in-law.
The Tomb itself wasn’t opened until a year later, on 16th February 1923, when Carter, accompanied by the 5th Earl of Carnarvon, opened the innermost chamber and found the sarcophagus of King Tutankhamun. Only a few months later, the Earl died in a Cairo hotel, leading to endless speculation about the curse of Tutankhamun that ripples to this day. In reality, Lord Carnarvon’s body, after a car crash in 1903, was not in rude health, and his early death was attributed to a weakened immune system.
Lord Carnarvon is buried within the boundaries of the 2,000-year-old Iron Age hill fort near the estate, from which the wild juniper for Highclere Castle Gin is harvested. This provides a strong, if rather ghoulish, connection between the 5th Earl and the gin now being enjoyed in bars and restaurants all over the world. An exhibit of ancient Egyptian artifacts brought to England by the 5th Earl and Countess remains in the basement of Highclere Castle today, open to the public along with other parts of the building.
The current Lord Carnarvon is godson to the Queen. His father and grandfather were both racing managers for the Queen, who was given a bottle of Highclere Castle Gin and apparently loved it. Everyone knows that Her Majesty the Queen’s favourite pre-prandial tipple is gin and Dubonnet. In honour of her Jubilee year of 2022, the Jubilee Cocktail was created. n
THE JUBILEE COCKTAIL
1.5 oz Highclere Castle Gin
1.5 oz Red Dubonnet
Champagne
Orange Twist garnish
In a mixing glass half filled with ice, combine the gin and Dubonnet. Stir until well chilled (30 seconds). Strain into a coupe glass and top with champagne. Squeeze an orange twist over the surface of the drink and place in the glass.
A SUMMER OF TARTS
You can’t beat a good tart during the summer months. Hot or cold, sweet or savoury, puff, shortcrust or filo. Make them simple for a light lunch or with toppings galore for an evening meal. Serve on their own or with an assortment of salads and slaws. Tarts are easily transported and perfect for al fresco dining.
Making your own pastry is extremely satisfying but somewhat time consuming and, frankly, I would rather spend more time on perfecting the toppings. I like to buy the ready rolled sheets when I’m using puff pastry, but I find the block works best when using shortcrust, as I often want it a little thinner than the bought sheets. If you prefer to try your hand at making the pastry I suggest going for a trusty recipe from one of the old favourites (such as Delia Smith).
It was difficult to choose only four suggestions for the puff pastry toppings, as the options are endless. For the tomato tart, I chose a mixture of yellow, orange and red cherry tomatoes but you could just as easily use larger sliced tomatoes. In a mini chopper, add some fresh basil leaves, grated Parmesan, pine nuts, garlic and olive oil, whizz it all together and season. The tomatoes are the obvious topping but the pesto would make a great base for other toppings, such as thinly sliced parboiled potatoes with cheese or sliced courgette.
The pepper and chorizo tart is rich and has a little heat to it. If peppers aren’t your thing, you could use red onion or mushrooms. If it’s a saucy tart you’re after, this is the one for you. The leek tart might not look as colourful and exciting as the others but it really is very tasty. Cooking the leeks in butter gives them an extra richness and the delicate flavour of thyme brings out the flavour.
The toppings for a puff pastry tart really are endless. I played around with creamy mushroom and roasted garlic with a truffle oil drizzle, roasted beetroot with goat’s cheese and red onions cooked in a sticky balsamic glaze, all of which were delicious. Puff pastry also suits a sweet topping. Slices of fruit – peach, plum, apple, pear, a sprinkle of sugar then a drizzle of watereddown jam once it’s cooked. Serve hot or cold but delicious hot with a dollop of whipped vanilla cream. I always part bake my puff pastry before further cooking it with the topping. This ensures a crisp bottom and keeps it flaky rather than too soggy. Run a sharp knife around the edges (about 1cm in) almost, but not quite, all the way through. Stab the pastry with a fork all over and bake in pre-heated oven for 12 minutes or so.
For the sweet tarts I used sweet shortcrust pastry. The chocolate tarts can be kept for a day or so in the fridge but the rhubarb and custard is best eaten on the same day. The chocolate tart is the naughtier of the two; dark and indulgent and perfect for a romantic night in.
SAVOURY Tarts:
Tomato, Pesto & Mozzarella Tart
Serves 4
Prep Time: 10 Minutes
Cooking Time: 30 Minutes
Ingredients
2 packs of cherry tomatoes
Small pot (or 3-4 tbsp) Fresh Pesto
Ball of Mozzarella
1 pack ready-rolled puff pastry
Salt & Pepper
Method
1. Remove the pastry from the fridge 30 minutes before needed. Pre-heat the oven to 180.
2. Prepare the pastry as per the main article and bake for 12 minutes.
3. Slice the cherry tomatoes in half and tear up the mozzarella.
4. Remove from the oven and assemble the toppings. Spread the pesto over the base of the pastry. Lay the tomatoes on top (cut side down) and scatter over the torn-up mozzarella and season. Bake for a further 20 minutes until cooked and golden.
Asparagus, Pea & Mint Tart
Serves 4
Prep Time: 10 Minutes
Cooking Time: 30 Minutes
Ingredients
1 pack ready-rolled puff pastry
250g Asparagus (approx)
200g Frozen Peas
Knob of butter
1 tsp Mint sauce
Parmesan shavings
Small handful of chopped pine nuts
Salt & Pepper
Leek & Goats
Cheese Tart
Serves 4
Prep Time: 10 Minutes
Cooking Time: 30 Minutes
Ingredients
3 Small Leeks
1 Pack ready rolled puff pastry
Couple sprigs of fresh thyme, chopped
1 Tbsp butter
Small pack of goat’s cheese
Salt & Pepper
Method
1. Remove the pastry from the fridge 30 minutes before needed. Pre-heat the oven to 180.
2. Thinly slice the leeks and sauté in a frying pan in the butter. Season and add the thyme.
3. Prepare the pastry as per the main article and bake for 12 minutes.
4. Remove from the oven and assemble the toppings. Spread the salted leeks over the pastry and top with the sliced goat’s cheese. Season and bake for a further 20 minutes until cooked and golden.
Chorizo, Pepper & Harissa Tart
Serves 4
Prep Time: 10 Minutes
Cooking Time: 30 Minutes
Ingredients
1 Pack ready-rolled puff pastry
3 Tbsp Tomato puree
1 tsp Harissa paste
Half a chorizo ring
3 Small peppers (various colours)
1 Sprig of thyme
Salt & Pepper
Method
1. Remove the pastry from the fridge 30 minutes before needed. Pre-heat the oven to 180.
2. Prepare the pastry as per the main article.
3. In a small bowl, mix together the tomato puree with the harissa. Slice the peppers and chorizo.
4. Remove the pastry from the oven and assemble the toppings. Spread the tomato mixture over the pastry and lay the slices of chorizo and peppers on top. Sprinkle over the thyme and bake for 20 minutes until cooked and golden.
Method
1. Remove the pastry from the fridge 30 minutes before needed. Pre-heat the oven to 180.
2. Cook the peas in a small saucepan in the knob of butter and season (no need to add water). At the same time, steam the asparagus for 7 minutes.
3. Once the peas are cooked, smash them roughly with a fork and stir through the mint sauce.
4. Prepare the pastry as per the main article and bake for 12 minutes.
5. Remove from the oven and assemble the toppings. Spread over the smashed peas and lay the asparagus on top. Sprinkle with the pine nuts and bake for a further 20 minutes or until cooked and golden.
6. Once cooked, scatter over the Parmesan shavings.
SWEET Tarts:
Chocolate Tarts
Makes 8-10 small individual tarts
Prep Time: 15 Minutes
Cooking Time: 40 Minutes plus 1 1/2 hours to chill
Ingredients
1 Pack sweet shortcrust pastry
200g Dark chocolate
50ml Whole milk
270g Double cream
3 tsp Caster sugar
50g Unsalted butter
Rhubarb & Custard Tart
Serves 8
Prep Time: 10 Minutes
Cooking Time: 45-60 Minutes
Ingredients
Tart:
500g Rhubarb
Sprinkle of caster sugar
1 pack Shortcrust pastry (block)
2 tbsp water
Sprinkle of plain flour
Method
Custard:
450g Full fat milk
110g Caster sugar
1 Vanilla pod, cut in half lengthways
1 tbsp Plain flour
4 Egg yolks
1. Remove the pastry from the fridge 30 minutes before needed. Pre-heat the oven to 180
2. Trim the rhubarb and place on a baking tray. Sprinkle with caster sugar and a dash of water and bake for 25 minutes until soft. Keep an eye on your rhubarb, and if it looks like it’s drying out add another splash of water. Remove from the oven and allow to cool.
Method
1. Remove the pastry from the fridge 30 minutes before needed. Pre-heat oven to 180.
2. On a lightly floured board, roll out the pastry to half a centimetre thick and line the individual tart tins. Cover each with tin foil, fill with baking beans and blind bake for 10 minutes. Remove the foil and beans and bake for a further 10-15 minutes or until golden. Remove from the oven and place on a wire rack to cool
3. Make the chocolate filling by placing the cream and sugar in a pan and bringing to the boil. Remove from the heat and add the chocolate in small pieces. Stir until melted. Add the butter and combine then stir in the milk.
4. Pour the chocolate mixture into the tart cases and leave to set for 1-1/12 hours.
5. Serve with some raspberries and optional cream.
3. Make the custard. Start by adding the milk and vanilla pod to a pan and bring to the boil, then turn off the heat. In a stand mixer, whisk the egg yolks and sugar for 10 minutes until light in colour. Beat in the flour. Remove the vanilla pod from the milk and slowly beat into the egg mixture. Pour the mixture into a clean pan and bring to the boil, stirring continuously until thick. Remove from the heat, cover the top with clingfilm and allow to cool.
4. On a lightly flour-dusted board, roll out the pastry to roughly half a centimetre. Line a loose bottomed tart tin with the pastry and prick the base with a fork all over. Blind bake by covering the tart with a sheet of tin foil and weighing it down with baking beans or rice.
5. Place on a baking tray and blind bake for 15 minutes, then remove the foil and beans and bake for a further 10-15 minutes until golden.
6. Allow the tart to cool then remove from the tin. Pour the custard into the tart case and top with the roasted rhubarb.
MORGANIC EVOLUTION
ECO CLASSICS
TRAVEL: SARAWAK, BORNEO
Morganic Evolution
Actuarius pays a visit to the Morgan Motor Company in the Malverns, to inspect their revived Three-wheeler and find out whether time and progress continue to overlook the original Morgan sports car
The Morgan Motor Company site consists of a seemingly erratic complex of red brick buildings located in Malvern Wells, part of the picturesque and sprawling conurbation made up of the various Malverns, which hug the sinuous flanks of the hills from which they take their name. An area that benefitted from the emerging Victorian market for both holidays and health, today it has the comfortable charm that comes with grand granite mansions and Gothic civic buildings spaciously distributed along leafy boulevards. It is perhaps a step too far to suggest that the Morgan, long seen as the sports car that time and progress overlooked, is influenced by its immediate environment, but it certainly sits in
“The three-wheeler grew into a practical solution for families who could stretch beyond a motorcycle but still couldn’t quite afford a conventional car. It just so happens that the sporting models with their small size, low weight and powerful motorbikesourced engine were also formidable track weapons”
“Suggestions of subtle changes to improve production flow and work rate, without undermining the essence of the handbuilt sports car, were rebuffed. The response from the public was an increase in orders, but with a timescale of around eight years between placing your order and receiving your car, something had to change”
sympathy with the area. Or does it?
The best way to find out would be a visit to the factory, where we were allocated ‘Cousin Nick’ (a moniker validated by official recognition)
to guide us on a personal tour before getting up close to its latest products. We met him in the new Experience Centre to the rear of the factory, an avant-garde building employing materials used in the cars within a design that references both the cars themselves and the ever-dominating hillside. From here the short walk to the factory buildings took us past racks of new chassis waiting patiently in the yard. Notably they were bonded aluminium structures, owing more to current aerospace techniques than the blacksmith of a century ago, hinting how much things have changed since the company was founded by HFS Morgan in 1909. Initially he only made three-wheeled light cars, but through the decades motorised mobility became more affordable and so the models changed to suit the market’s requirements. The threewheeler grew into a practical solution for families who could stretch beyond a motorcycle but still couldn’t quite afford a conventional car. It just so happens that the sporting models with their small size, low weight and powerful motorbike-sourced engine were also formidable track weapons.
1936 saw the 4/4 introduced, the designation unimaginatively referencing four cylinders in the engine and a wheel at each corner of the rectangular chassis. This was the genesis of the Morgan car from the Second World War onwards. Originally sporting a conventional flat radiator, this gave way to the now familiar curved cowl without too much upset post-War. However, an attempt to update the overall aesthetics with the Plus4Plus of 1963 proved less successful. It’s difficult to know what was seen as so objectionable about this pretty, delicate and exquisitely proportioned fibreglass bodied variant, but having invested so much in the development, it proved an expensive failure Morgan could not afford to ignore.
Little wonder then, that the original sliding pillar front suspension design, along with a prewar style ladder chassis and aluminium body panels secured to an ash wood frame, would be perpetuated until the new millennium. It appeared, at least, that Morgan had become the antonym of ‘progress’, a view that was reinforced by Sir John Harvey Jones’ visit as part of his Troubleshooter series for the BBC in 1990. Suggestions of subtle changes to improve production flow and work rate without
undermining the essence of the hand-built sports car were rebuffed. The response from the public was an increase in orders, but with a timescale of around eight years between placing your order and receiving your car, something had to change. In addition, as with other small-volume companies, adaptation would also become inevitable from a reliance on outsourced components, as these were either modified or made obsolete.
However, it would be a mistake to think that change has been limited to dealing with supply issues and slightly rearranging the production line. Today the wings are no longer hand beaten on site, a process that brings an inherent variation, but are moulded from hot Aluminium sheets by Superform instead. Gone is the ladder chassis, replaced by those bonded aluminium fabrications we had seen in the yard, the latest generation having twice the torsional rigidity of Morgan’s initial version from 2000. The wooden body frames continue, but the greater repeatability and reduced tolerances of wings and chassis mean that these, with the panels that are still hand-formed, can now be built up on jigs rather than having to be matched to specific cars. The sliding pillars are consigned
to history, as a more sophisticated suspension handles the performance powered by modern BMW engines. Whisper it softly, but some of those recommendations from Sir John Harvey Jones have now been implemented as well. Crucially the DNA of Morgan, the essence, remains not only present but defiantly intact in a world where even Lamborghini – whose own DNA will forever be entwined with gloriously impractical hypercars –has felt compelled to build an SUV.
There were concerns raised when the Morgan family sold their majority holding to InvestIndustrial in 2019, but thankfully not only have these proved unfounded, but the company has instead been energised and enabled. Fears of relocation from the original factory buildings, dating from between 1914 to 1918 and still the heart of the assembly line, were countered by the investment that has led to the new Experience Centre, among other site improvements. True, the four-seat Morgan has fallen by the wayside, but an ongoing expansion of the range has accelerated. The Three-wheeler was resurrected, with a new
design that clearly references the racers of the 20s and 30s; an electric trike was stymied only by the failure of their partner in the venture, and the insane off-road XTC was born from a chance suggestion. All those that made it to production have sold well and sit against a continued development with an eye to the future. The Twocylinder engine of the Three-wheeler recently ceased production, so Morgan once more had to respond to a new challenge. The result is the newly unveiled Super 3 with a Three-cylinder Ford engine (a ‘3/3’ as it were) which continues to bring in a new, younger customer base while ensuring that the old guard isn’t excluded. It should come as no surprise that specialists have already been taken on to develop Morgan’s electric technology, enabling them to flourish in the future. It would appear that Morgan does change after all, but purely in a way where the fundamentals stay the same. It’s all about evolution rather than revolution.
Our thanks to Cousin Nick and PR & Communications Manager James Gilbert for their time and help. n
The Morgan Super 3
The Three-Wheeler Morgan of 2011 was the perfect ‘cheap’ Morgan, designed to appeal to new and old customers alike. With a ‘two wheels at the front’ layout and beetle-backed, function driven styling, coupled to motorcycle-derived vee-twin up front, it was a clever update of the famous racing variants from the pre-war years. Not dramatically quick but quick enough; fun, quirky and with paint jobs that playfully referenced WW1 military schemes from fighter aircraft to dazzle camouflaged ships. The unflinching focus, hinted at through aircraft inspired instruments and Eurofighter sourced starter button, promised much in return for the commitment demanded from the owner. Now that engine has been phased out and a replacement trike has been created, this time powered by a Ford-sourced inline three-cylinder engine driving through a Mazda MX5 gearbox.
The Super 3 is more than simply a re-packaging exercise, and although the basic architecture is the same, most notably the new engine is concealed under the bonnet. Rather than taking the opportunity to create a fully integrated nose, Morgan has instead retained the basic principle of leaving the structure unadorned and proudly on display. The main element at the front is now the cast cross member, but push rod suspension and mesh guarded intakes are also readily visible with no attempt to disguise or hide them. The flat cockpit sides and concave sculpted rear flank with arched boot lid are visually more distant from the original pre-war inspiration and could have looked awkward. Instead, overall, it feels like a cohesive natural progression building on what has gone before. The cast wheels, whose large planar surfaces reference back to disc wheel covers of the 20’s and 30’s, help underline a strong Bauhaus ethos: the hand of the stylist is apparent but it enhances the aesthetics imposed by
the functional underpinnings, rather than seeking to deny their existence.
The opportunity has also been taken to soften, just a little, the experience of ownership. Customers no longer have to rely purely on the limited space available in the moulded tray above the rear wheel for stowing luggage, and there are integrated mounts for Morgan-supplied panniers. The front mudguards extend further down, eliminating the shower of muddy water previously aimed squarely at the driver’s face when charging through puddles on corners. The cockpit is slightly wider, so you don’t have to be on quite such good terms with passengers, and there’s plenty of legroom available with the adjustable pedals, a pragmatic solution to avoid the expense of adjustable seats. The aircraft-inspired dashboard remains, with all of the controls falling naturally to hand, but now a sculpted screen deflects air over the heads of the occupants. The view from the driver’s seat to the short nose and narrow wheels, fixed outboard at the end of utilitarian suspension arms, promises accuracy and joy unmatched by most technology-heavy alternatives generally available today.
Eco Classics
Actuarius takes on the mighty topic of climate change, arguing that opting for a vintage car will actually help rather than hinder the planet
Once you start looking into the ecological viability of different types of car, the first thing you will find is a total lack of complete, reliable and unbiased data. It is because of this that we must navigate our own way through the subject matter, the first step being to establish the core problems:
1. There is an airborne pollution problem in cities where a significant contributor is vehicle exhaust emissions (local).
2. Vehicle exhaust emissions are a significant contributor to climate change (global).
3. Buying a new car brings with it a cost to the environment (cultural).
“A
new set of pistons and rings every 30 years or so, a new set of leather coverings for the seats every 50 years, sundry parts on a year-by-year basis: how long would keeping an old car going take to match the total carbon footprint of buying a completely new car?”
A classic MG BGT, yours for only £5,000-£10,000
WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?
From this and with a little knowledge, some common sense questions can be asked and theories with some basis in fact expounded. Whatever your view on the way forward may be, the least controversial (albeit still not entirely accepted) statement is ‘something must be done.’ So far so easy, but now we come to the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’, and that’s where it all starts getting a little shady. You may be wondering if the paperboy has delivered Popular Mechanics by mistake but stick with me because, by default, the readers of The Chap may just hold the key to the future.
It doubtful that a single solution can be found for all of the above, a view that sits at odds with electric vehicles being currently promoted as a general panacea for climate change. While electric cars certainly help the problem, we should take a step back and consider how effectively to move around cities. Public Transport still remains a convenient and locally ecologically sound principle.
A bicycle provides an even simpler and cheaper solution. This doesn’t mean that you cannot own a car in a city, or that it has to be electric; you simply have to make the most of whatever opportunities exist to avoid using it when you don’t really have to. Assuming that we want generally to retain the personal freedom that cars bring to longer journeys, finding the best solution to the global problem is inherently linked to the cultural problem. In order to establish and compare their carbon footprints, we need to understand the complete ‘cradle to grave’ impact for the various available vehicles. That’s the mining and shipping of raw materials, their refinement, the total energy needed to form them into useable components, the amenities needed by the factory, energy used for assembly, the maintenance, spare parts required during the car’s life and finally disassembly, scrapping and disposal. Then there’s the fuel and power required to generate all of the above – it is little wonder there’s no definitive answer out there.
THE ADVANTAGES OF A CLASSIC CAR
Given how confounding this all is, a more valid strategy could be to approach it from the opposite direction. The latest petrol engines are more efficient than they’ve ever been, but whether petrol or electric, manufacturing and supplying a new car accounts for a lot of damage to the environment. Especially when you consider additional consequences like an old car somewhere at the other end of the chain being scrapped, as it is no longer required. Even with their inherently outdated technology, you have to wonder if it’s in fact better simply to keep old cars going. A new set of pistons and rings every 30 years or so, a new set of leather coverings for the seats every 50 years, sundry parts on a year-by-year basis: how long would keeping an old car going take to match the total carbon footprint of someone buying a completely new car? Of course older cars don’t have modern driver aids, they are prone to leaking (rainwater in and oil out) and they do not have the crash structure and safety features of a modern car.
“Some classic car drivers are going off a bit prematurely and already converting internal combustion-powered classics to electric. The mechanical and sensory elements of these cars are an intrinsic part of ownership and losing them removes a significant part of the driving experience”
Keeping the rust at bay is a continual quest and you may need to develop some basic mechanic skills yourself. What you get in return is a level of engagement, class and style that’s difficult to find in any of today’s automobiles. Low slung coupés or square-rigged saloons, antique sports cars or former bank manager limos; due to the breadth and vagaries of the market, it’s relatively easy to find something to like in your price range. A tidy Triumph Spitfire will cost you £6k, an equally nifty Rover P5 £10k. You do have to actually drive such cars; you cannot simply press the pedal and vaguely guide your classic along while chatting on
the in-built telephone, but the overall experience is invariably a treat. My MG BGT always makes me smile with its wood-rim steering wheel, chrome bezel instruments and view down the long bonnet. As does my Vauxhall Chevette, with its plethora of gauges, busy rally car urgency and exhilarating engine noise. You tend to find other road users respond favourably too. Although the cars mentioned are what we conventionally think of as being ‘classics’, there’s no compulsion to be quite so hardcore. At the time of writing, a rust-free, ‘drives like new’ 1993 Mercedes 190E can be had for the princely sum of £2,990. With that you get German build quality, most modern amenities and the warm glow of knowing that you’re helping to save the planet by eroding the culture of rampant consumerism.
One concern regularly raised to try to cause unrest is the spectre of the withdrawal of petrol. While none of us know what lies ahead, the chances of having nothing to put in our fuel tanks is minimal; the classic car and historic racing scene is far too big and lucrative. The only questions are how easy it will it be to get hold of and how
much it will cost. Some classic car drivers are going off a bit prematurely and already converting internal combustion powered classics to electric, a process that makes absolutely no sense to me. The mechanical and sensory elements of these cars are an intrinsic part of ownership, and losing them removes a significant part of the driving experience. You are taking an outdated vehicle designed around the needs of an internal combustion engine and installing radically different technology, to create something that will be not only quickly become outdated but also inherently compromised. What else do we need to consider to understand the overall environmental impact of converting classic cars to EVs? A working or repairable motor, transmission, fuel tank, etc will have been removed and either stored or scrapped. New batteries, motor and controller along with ancillaries like cables will be made for the electrified classic, all with their own individual cradle-to-grave footprints. And all that that is even before we get to the eye watering cost of conversion. If you want a car that looks like a classic but is powered by
electricity, you’d be far better off mounting a body that is superficially identical to a classic car on a new, bare platform designed for electric propulsion to modern safety standards.
So if you’re serious about saving the planet without living the life of an eco-obsessive hermit, buy an old bike for local journeys and an old car for further afield. Keep them going and only buy replacements if you absolutely have to, then look for something else that is old. You will find the whole experience more enjoyable and, best of all, you can smile the smug smile of someone who really is helping to save the planet.
When it comes to climate change, cars are always focused on, but they are only one of many consumables that we should be considering. If we’re serious about this, then every aspect of our lives should be looked at in the same way. For all goods, especially electronics, don’t buy something new if you don’t have to. If you absolutely must, try to obtain a second-hand replacement.
And finally, how, as I stated at the outset, do you hold the key to this? If I’m correct in my
assumptions about The Chap readership, then I’d suggest you simply look around and see how much of what you own is new, compared to what was bought second-hand, vintage or antique, and what has been lovingly kept and restored. I’ll wager there is a lot more than simply the car in your garage. n
Voyage to Sarawak
Chris Sullivan follows in the footsteps of James Brooke to discover the lost secrets of Sarawak on a truly incredible journey to Borneo
My first sight of Borneo was in a David Attenborough retrospective special. He visited the world’s third largest island in 1956, met tribes who seemed from another century and rescued a baby orang utan. Ever since I’ve wanted to visit. Borneo is one of the last bastions of unmitigated oddness, populated by scores of tribes: warrior Dayaks with blackened filed-down teeth and blow pipes; the Pena, still covered in traditional tattoos, and the Iban, who still hunted heads after WWII. Borneo is also home to huge variety of exotic wildlife. Orangutans, proboscis monkeys, saltwater crocodiles and the magnificent hornbill, alongside the world’s smelliest fruit, biggest flower and largest
“I soon realised that sitting with one’s legs at 90 degrees to one’s body for three hours while paddling like Hawkeye in Last of The Mohicans in 90 degree humid heat is, no matter how one does it, unmitigated agony. Lovely views, lovely water but by Jove it was hard work”
“We returned to see a gang of longtailed macaque monkeys emptying our bags. We also saw a pair of Bornean bearded pigs, a gang of proboscis monkeys, a plantain squirrel, crazy looking frogs and a fluorescent green Asian pit viper wrapped around a branch. My 8-year-old son was so excited he could hardly speak”
moth – at some 10 inches wide. Of course, no-one I knew had ever been there which, considering that today everyone has been everywhere, made it even more appealing.
I arrived in Kuching, the capital of Borneo’s main ‘county’ Sarawak, some 15 hours after I had left home and deposited myself in a suite the size
of my flat in the city’s newest hotel, The Pullman, and looked out over the city.
The first thing I noticed was the total lack of tourists. The second thing was that I had the huge hotel pool and terrace all to myself for the whole afternoon. The next day, still not ‘all there’ after my gruelling flight, I agreed to kayak down the Semenggoh River. Initially a good idea, I soon realised that sitting with one’s legs at 90 degrees to one’s body for three hours while paddling like Hawkeye in Last of The Mohicans in 90 degree humid heat is, no matter how one does it, unmitigated agony. Lovely views, lovely water but by Jove it was hard work.
I must say, that evening I was not a happy bunny. It was hard to locate a muscle that didn’t ache, so I opted for a massage and made the huge mistake of asking the tiny middle-aged Oriental lady for a strong massage. As a consequence, I could hardly walk to my room. In just two days I had turned from a normal healthy chap into a relative cripple. But the advantage of starting any vacation like that is that things can only get better, and they did.
The next day I was looking for something more pedestrian that had no chance of testing my
mettle or shaking my tree, so moseyed on down to the Sarawak Village to get a handle on the island. Sarawak is one of two Malaysian states of Borneo; the other, Sabah, lies to the north and in between lies the independent sovereign state of Brunei. To the South lies the Islamic Indonesian Borneo, which most folk never mention. Sarawak itself is very British. Everyone speaks English; they drive on the left, have UK plugs and are extremely polite and incredibly well mannered. This is partly down to James Brooke, the first white Rajah of Sarawak (see page 84). Sarawak Village is run by these tribes who exhibit their food, skills and wares in a rather hokey down-at-heel fashion. We tried our hands at a blowpipe, were chased by a monkey and took in a surprisingly marvellous performance of tribal song and dance, the likes of which I had never heard before.
The next day, my aches subsided, we took a boat to Bako, Sarawak’s oldest national park established in 1957, and took in a jungle walk up and over a mess of tangled vines and rocks covered by a canopy of trees, until we stumbled on a most beautiful barren beach, where we had no option but to swim in the crystal-clear waters.
We returned to see a gang of longtailed macaque monkeys emptying our bags and running off with my wife’s antihistamine tablets and our snacks. We also saw a pair of Bornean bearded pigs, a gang of proboscis monkeys, a plantain squirrel, crazy looking frogs and a fluorescent green Asian pit viper wrapped around a branch. My 8-year-old son was so excited he could hardly speak, while I made do with bad sunburn. It’s easy to forget that Borneo is on the Equator.
After a few hours in a cold bath, a liberal anointing in Aloe Vera and a big dose of
painkillers, I woke the next day looking like a freshly scalded lobster. Luckily, we’d planned a day with the orangutans at The Semenggoh Wildlife Centre, which cares for wild animals that have been found injured in the forest, orphaned, or kept as illegal pets. On arrival we were given a quick orientation lecture and whisked into the monkey’s enclosure to chop up food (guava, banana, sweet potato, papaya leaves and hearts of palm) for the orangutans, before mucking out and cleaning their cages. When all was done, we fed these magnificent creatures by hand through a cage and then observed them in their rather large enclosures. My son then adopted an orangutan called Doris for a nominal sum that goes straight back to helping prolong their existence. We met former ad executive Naomi from Surrey, who had dropped everything to come and work here, and Australian Kerrie, who was training to become a helper. Both were beaming with joy.
After lunch we went into the rainforest to see the results of the Centre’s efforts, and saw gangs of rehabilitated orangutans (which is Malay for ‘person of the forest’). We stood mouths agape watching these utterly incredible creatures
swinging through the trees and playing for an hour. A life changing moment for my little boy, he still asserts that this was the best day of his life! Bornean orangutan populations have declined by more than 50% over the past 60 years, and the species’ habitat has been reduced by at least 55% over the past 20 years, through logging but mainly deforestation in pursuit of palm oil, which has no nutritional value and is used in a huge variety of products such as pizza dough, chocolate, instant noodles, margarine, biscuits, ice cream, pot noodles and packaged bread. The most threatened orangutans are those that live in Northwest Borneo around Sarawak, where a mere 1,500 individuals or so remain.
Now fully into the Sarawak (an area the size of England and Scotland) experience, we decided to visit one of its 18 national parks and opted for Bako, the oldest, 22 miles north of Kuching on the stunning Muara Teba Peninsula. After a short car journey and a quite stunning a speed boat ride, we chose the easiest of the organized jungle treks – Telok Paku – which, though less than a mile or so took an hour (the longest is 8 hours) and was remarkably testing in the sweltering 100
degrees Fahrenheit and 90% humidity under a dense canopy of trees. It is virtually impossible to comprehend how British soldiers in 1945 might have walked in outfits not constructed for this intense humidity, with heavy guns and full packs through this tangle of rock-hard roots, where one might easily snap an ankle.
By now we had switched hotels to the lovely Riverside Majestic, less modern than the Pullman but infinitely more charming. We had stayed one night at the tree houses in Permai Rainforest Resort overlooking the beach, which are very rustic, very novel and certainly worth a look.
We dined at a rather special restaurant, The Dyak, which purveys a mix of Iban, Bidayuh and Orang Ul cuisine. On the recommendation of Dyak’s owner Alistair (his grandmother was a Dayak Princess whose feet were never allowed to touch the floor) we feasted on chicken cooked in bamboo with tapioca leaves; Tilapia garnished with ginger and chillies wrapped in turmeric leaf, steam-baked Dayak style. Bitter nuts (petai) stir-fried with fragrant wild ginger flowers, onions and anchovies, star gooseberry stir-fried with egg, and giant jungle ferns stir-fried with fragrant wild ginger flowers. Simply incredible, it was as foreign and unfamiliar as Borneo itself.
But that was typical of every meal we had. Top Spot is an aquatic food hall on the top of a multi story car park that serves some of the finest
fish this reviewer has ever tasted. Cooked in a choice of sauces and style, it comes with rice and vegetables such as Bok choi. At another food hall in the sticks we ate hinava (raw fish marinated with lime juice and herbs), otak (rectangles of fish wrapped in banana leaf and grilled over charcoal) with noodles in a spicy soup. We were smiled and waved at by the locals because, as Peter our rather wonderful guide explained, they had never seen white people before.
All in all Sarawak is an amazing place to visit. It is also really inexpensive. A double room at the Riverside, including a marvelous breakfast, was just £40, as was the Damai beach Resort, while a three-course meal for three including drinks at Dyak was £40 and a mere £45 at Top Spot for a feast including huge prawns, crab, scallops and sea bass. But if you’re on a tighter budget you could eat for £6 a day (a big bowl of Sarawak Laksa at Mom’s Laksa Kopitia is £1) and stay at the Home Stay Kuching for £15 a night. At whatever price, Sarawak is an incredible destination almost untouched by tourism, waiting to be discovered by the world. I’d get there soon if I were you. n
For all travel info: www.sarawaktourism.com
Chris Sullivan flew Malaysian Airlines
Special thanks to Jo Hartley at Hill Balfour for arranging the journey
Author Interview
SIMON KUPER
Ed Needham meets the author of Chums: How a Tiny Caste of Oxford Tories Took Over the UK (Profile, £16.99) www.strong-words.co.uk
“At Oxford, it is very realistic to aspire to be prime minister from the age of 14. And then you get a statue, because the prime minister of Britain in their minds is a glorious figure that bestrides the world stage. They think of past figures like Palmerston, Gladstone, Churchill. When Johnson was asked why he left journalism for politics, he said it was because they don’t put up statues to journalists”
Ed Needham is the editor of Strong Words, a magazine launched in 2018 all about new books, full of loquacious reviews, author interviews and stories behind the great novels of history. In this issue, Ed meets the author of a new tome that sets out to expose the troubling amounts of political power wielded by a very small and privileged Oxford elite, many of whom were members of the notorious Bullingdon Club.
CHAP: What has been the initial reaction to the book?
KUPER: It is basically divisive, where some people say, “Oh, he’s saying that Brexit wasn’t actually the will of the people who voted for it, that it’s just some little group of Oxford toffs who made it happen.” So the Brexiteers are very sensitive about it, and the Remainers like it. I was hoping it would not be divisive in that way, because what I did not
want the book to be was a very sterile argument about “is Brexit a good thing”, which is the argument the country has been having for the last six years. It is much more looking at the roots of this ruling class and of Brexit, but of course, if you write a book about UK politics in our very partisan times, it will be received in a partisan way.
CHAP: You write, “I didn’t know any of the future powerbrokers personally, because we were separated by the great Oxford class divide,” but what was your opinion of this clique (Johnson, Osborne, Gove, Rees-Mogg et al) when you were studying alongside them?
KUPER: I didn’t really have a strong view of them. I had lived in various countries until I was sixteen, so I was just kind of getting to know and understand it all. Some people have said, “Oh, you hated them, you were jealous of them, you were
rejected by them,” but it wasn’t like that at all. To a large degree they passed me by, except Jacob ReesMogg who was just immensely visible because he dressed like a Victorian vicar, much as he does now, but it was even more extraordinary for an eighteenyear-old. I just wasn’t that aware of them.
CHAP: Were you aware of the Bullingdon Club and other such social options exclusive to the chum class?
KUPER: They were very much off my radar. I had read Evelyn Waugh’s Decline and Fall, and he parodies the Bullingdon, but I didn’t even realise he was doing that. It was only some years after leaving university that I found out what the Bullingdon Club was.
CHAP: One of the things that surprised me was that George Osborne “became chancellor with no formal post-school
education in economics or business beyond whatever he had picked up in his Oxford history degree.” Did it shock you that people like that could achieve such high office with such scant preparation?
KUPER: That’s the way the British system works: the idea of the gentleman dilettante. And the gentleman dilettante is so clever – in this theory – that he can pick up all these things very quickly. The idea in the ruling class is that, once you’d got your Oxford degree aged 21, you were done. You’d had this magnificent education and there was really nothing more to add. You were ready for adult life.
CHAP: You argue that in some ways, Oxford is excellent preparation for a political career – the business of winning elections, appealing to voters beyond
your circle, getting yourself noticed. Once Boris had won the Union presidency though, his subsequent term was chaotic, foreshadowing somewhat his time as prime minister. It’s as though he (and others like him, eg Cameron) desire the posts enough to make the effort to gain them, but then are not really bothered with the exercise of power once they have it. So what is their motivation?
KUPER: They are all different and Johnson is the least ideological person, as we know. He is very cynical about everything except himself, then he is very ambitious and serious. As that kind of public-school male, you feel the higher posts in the UK are sort of made for you and your class. It has always been Eton and Oxford types who have had those jobs, and it is very realistic to aspire to be prime minister from the age of 14. And then you get a statue, because the prime minister of Britain in their minds is a glorious figure that bestrides the world stage. They think of past figures like Palmerston, Gladstone, Churchill. When Johnson was asked why he left journalism – or his sort of comedic writing, to which he was very well suited – for politics, he said it was because they don’t put up statues to journalists. So the statue, and stepping into the glorious footsteps of great toffs of the past, is a big part of it.
“Breaking the
rules
is the prerogative of people who don’t have to
prove themselves. Among the upper classes if you can break the rules that kind of proves your status. I remember once playing cricket in a team with a number of public schoolboys and one bloke, he was somebody’s friend, came along in red trousers, and played the match in them. What he was saying was, well, I can do that”
CHAP: Why do you think Boris Johnson’s signature inability to dress himself didn’t apply to his Bullingdon costume or when he was photographed wearing black tie at Oxford? He seemed to be able to dress himself then.
KUPER: Johnson’s dress makes a statement. And the statement that his shambolic look, going jogging wearing a kind of sports jacket and never brushing his hair, makes is a very common one among the upper class, which is: I am so secure in my class status that I can break the rules. Breaking the rules is the prerogative of people who don’t have to prove themselves. Among the upper classes, if you can break the rules that kind of proves your status. I remember once playing cricket in a team with a number of public schoolboys and one bloke, he was somebody’s friend, came along in red trousers, and played the match in them. What he was saying was, well, I can do that.
CHAP: You write, “one continental European prime minister, a man of ordinary origins, invited to Chequers by Cameron, realised in an evening that the colleague he had got to know from European summits as an informal, cheery, pragmatic chap like himself was in fact a quasi-aristocrat who ruled the UK with a posh clique of school chums.” What do politicians from overseas make of this current political clique?
KUPER: A different European prime minister who was asked about Johnson said you can’t really have a discussion with him because he hasn’t read the brief, so he doesn’t know the issue he wants to discuss in any kind of detail and just makes kind of funny and vague ripostes when he wavers. I usually live in France, and Macron has a sort of contempt for Johnson. Macron is a very serious person who wants and tries to solve serious issues and thinks hard about them, and when he encounters Johnson he recognises him as just a verbal performer. Macron sees himself as trying to win Wimbledon and is confronted with just an extremely over-confident club player.
CHAP: Is there anything in the Oxford method of preparing privileged youths for cabinet positions that other countries admire or that are advantageous, from your perspective?
KUPER: I think there was an admiration for the wit of Prime Minister’s Questions and the kind of rhetorical punch of the Commons, because in Germany or Canada they just don’t have politicians like that, and so they think, ‘they are so suave and well spoken!’ When the Iraq war was being sold by Blair and George W. Bush, Blair sold it much better and was a much better-spoken figure than Bush, and Americans would admire that. I think that admiration has diminished, and I don’t think foreigners hugely look to Britain now as a kind of political example.
I think one advantage of this whole Oxford thing is the lack of curiousness – mostly it is quite
damaging; there is a contempt for serious ideas, and anything that sounds boring can easily be laughed out of court – but that is one reason why the British elite never fell for communism and very few of them fell for fascism. PG Wodehouse mocking Spode the fascist leader and the black shorts is a very funny rejection of fascism. Fascism was just too humourless to catch on with the British elite, and communism sounded a bit too boring. So in some way it worked quite well as a defence mechanism against the most extreme ideas. n
A longer version of this interview appears in Strong Words, issue 37
Strong Words is a magazine for people who love books and relish the tantalising process of deciding what to read next. Published nine times a year and with over 100 books entertainingly reviewed in each issue, this is your best chance of hitting the literary bullseye, every time.
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BOOK REVIEWS
By Ed Needham www.strong-words.co.uk
NON-FICTION
CHURCHILL AND SON
By Josh Ireland (John Murray, £12.99)
In 1964, a year before his father’s death and just four ahead of his own at 56, Randolph Churchill was operated on for a benign tumour.
Evelyn Waugh remarked that it was typical of modern science to remove the only part of him that wasn’t malignant. Winston Churchill’s wartime personal secretary John Coleville concurred, remembering Randolph as “one of the most objectionable people I had ever met.” By his end, Randolph was chugging through two bottles of scotch and 100 cigarettes daily – not traditionally the sign of a happy man nor the kind of fumes many would envy. Yet this biography of the relationship between Winston and his son goes some way towards restoring a little colour to Randolph’s battered reputation, as well as showing an aspect of Winston that has tended to command little of the torrent of ink devoted to him: that of warm and loving father. Winston’s own father, another Randolph, had kept the emotional temperature as low as possible, yet Winston always treated his own boy as an intimate, even greeting him as an adult with a kiss. Such a firm footing helped Randolph to become “a young man whose self-confidence was so large it appeared it could swallow galaxies whole” and he was an exceptional public speaker,
but his temperament was volatile, possibly because no-one could emerge undamaged from so much exposure to Winston’s colossal personality, and father and son would often clash in a “brutal mix of anger and pain.”
Randolph generated more of that anger and pain by standing unasked in a pre-war election, wrecking the Tory vote for the seat and his own chance at a political career, and although a journalist of considerable output, came to devote much of his energy toward constructing his own toxic reputation. He “staggered around London, littering his path with gratuitous insults” and “ruined parties, gate-crashed private dinners, immolated friendships that had lasted for decades.” His post-war productivity was largely reduced to writing dad’s giant biography, but ultimately that long shadow served a more destructive purpose: as an ideal environment for Randolph’s abundant flaws to flourish.
A WAITER IN PARIS
By Edward Chisholm (Monoray, £16.99)
Two years after completing the extortionate rituals of a British university education, Edward Chisholm has discovered the true value of a degree – he is still jobless. Attempting a spot of out-of-the-box thinking, he moves to Paris with a girlfriend, thinking that perhaps that’s where all the jobs are hiding. If they are, he doesn’t find them, and then she leaves him anyway. Now what? With his need to eat overcoming the embarrassment of his mediocre French, he scams a job as a ‘runner’ at a large Parisian restaurant of some repute, although his language skills are insufficient for him to understand what the job entails. He learns soon enough, the hard way. A runner is a sort of waiter’s lackey, being constantly hissed at to help clear tables or carry vast trays of glasses on the fingertips of a single hand. Payment at the end of a 14-hour day is in the form of tips from the waiters – except they don’t cough up.
The waiters themselves exist in a sort of twilight zone between the Hades of the kitchens and the gentility of the dining room, and show both faces: polite to the customer, more like a Victorian pickpocket to their colleagues, as they feed themselves on left-overs from the plates, badmouth each other to get the best blocks of tables and steal each other’s dishes and tips. Chisholm, initially greeted with double contempt for being so lowly and English, has to learn on his blistered feet (his shoes soon fall to pieces and are held together by tape).
With time he acquires the guile to force waiters to subsidise him, and he is eventually inducted into the waiterhood. Rule one seems to be that wages are for rent and bills, but tips are to be spent immediately, and disposing of them at speed buys a privileged insight into the lives of this oddly pre-21st century caste. From that brutal life comes a hugely enjoyable book, and should anyone you know begin to manifest an interest in going to university, get it into their hands immediately. They need to know where such folly leads these days.
THE YEAR OF THE COMET
By Sergei Lebedev (Apollo, £8.99)
With every year that passes, people get more excited about the Russian novelist Sergei Lebedev, hence a fresh wave of reissues, flawlessly translated by Antonina W. Bouis. The most recent
to appear is The Year of the Comet which first saw light in English in 2017. The son of geologists, Lebedev once said in an interview that he was “doomed to be a geologist”, work that took him to deepest Russia and exposed him to the vast remains of the old gulag system, something he was shocked to discover still existed as a footprint. This is a theme that runs through all his work: while some things seem eternal and immovable (most notably the Soviet Union, but also rocks), a closer look reveals everything undergoing a ceaseless process of ruination. At the same time, deep suspicions and an aversion to too much truth make a sense of stability a rare commodity.
Like Lebedev, the unnamed narrator of The Year of the Comet is raised as a child largely by two war-widowed grandmothers, one of aristocratic ancestry, the other of peasant stock. Were it not for the 1917 revolution, their family lines never would have merged. Although he doesn’t know it at the time, the boy is of the last Soviet generation, and spends half the book trying to make sense of his odd and lonely world, as experienced from the family dacha, while the nailhard grandmothers compete to take possession of him. A key piece in composing his picture is the discovery of a 1930s edition of The Great Soviet Encyclopedia, an unexpected triangulation point that enables him to see how he is among people who have been led to believe themselves members of earth’s most advanced society, while in reality they experience hardship and shortages daily. With age, that hardship comes into sharper focus still, with Chernobyl, illness and a particularly sinister character who may be a serial killer.
Eventually the Soviet dream collapses, but as signalled by Halley’s ominous comet, the forces of disintegration, suspicion and a
powerful fear of history radiate on untroubled into whatever lies ahead.
GRAND HOTEL EUROPA
By Ilya Leonard Pfeijffer (Fourth Estate, £18.99)
Swake, and the response to refugees, who have often spent significantly more for the privilege of travelling in vastly inferior conditions to reach the same destinations.
Observed en masse , the tourist and the refugee also generate very different readings to when the same species are examined as individuals. While the tourists transform cities beyond recognition, causing entire streets in Amsterdam to be handed over to the retail of Nutella or causing Venice to face the prospect of having no inhabitants but 18 million visitors by 2030, they raise numerous speculations of just what it is they have come to experience. As they circulate with their authenticity-seeking iPhones, the narrator and his former beloved, themselves being driven out of Venice, embark on their own cultural code-cracking quest: an Umberto Ecotype search for a missing Caravaggio.
CITY ON FIRE
By Don Winslow (HarperCollins, £20)
Bi nce Grand Hotel Europa was published in the author’s native Netherlands in 2018, the Dutch people have spoken of little else, such has been its impact. It deals with a writer who has taken up residence in a melancholic and isolated hotel, whose old-world appeal is lost on all but a tiny handful of mildly eccentric ‘permanent’ residents. The bellboy is a very young and grateful refugee who shares the traumatic story of his flight with the author. The author in turn sits down to write his own story, of a recently failed relationship with an art historian with whom he lived in Venice. One person does have faith in the hotel, however, its new Chinese proprietor, Mr Wang. His ‘upgrades’, such as removing the elaborate chandelier and installing an English pub, soon have the overseas customers interested, convinced they are soaking up an undiscovered piece of authentic European culture. With their arrival, it also becomes clear that this novel intends to enter on a much larger scale analysis of the complexities of the movements of people from A to B, such as tourism’s gormless momentum, devouring all in its
ehind the sofa, everyone – Don Winslow is back in town. That town is Providence, Rhode Island, and Don seems to have just visited his ammunition wholesaler. Like a hard-boiled Dickens, he’s assembled a vast grudgebearing cast to swarm over a sprawling plot of gangster clan conflict, generational transition and internal family meltdown, narrated with gusto
in a lexicon of 1986 vintage that considerably predates current sensitivities regarding the acceptability of certain insults. For Winslow fans who still haven't come to terms with his epic The Power of the Dog trilogy coming to an end, this is Vol 1 of a fresh threesome, and doesn’t dither in compiling the sort of body count his readers expect as standard.
Set in something of a criminal backwater, two different factions have maintained a mutually beneficial division of graft under their respective patriarchs, a season of cooperation that is about to come to an end. On one side are the Murphy/Ryan people, whose revenues flow from the docks, the trades unions and associated illegal entrepreneurialism. Danny Ryan is connected to the Murphys by marriage and history, although his own father Marty was once the network’s overlord until a weakness for liquor took precedence. That would have made Danny the heir to the throne, but he’s happy for now to rub along without that responsibility. Their natural enemies are the Morettis, whose artisanal speciality is trucking and its off-book opportunities, but the next generation is gnashing away on the leash and trying to add one of the bars under Murphy protection to their own chain of cocaine dealerships. A singularly dim and unstable member of the Murphy family, younger son Liam, manages comprehensively to wreck the détente by going straight for a nuclear option: a blend of sexual line crossing (touching the breast of a made man’s girlfriend) and the commissioning of unauthorised hits. It’s on!
TRUST
By Hernan Diaz (Picador, £16.99)
Trust has already laid waste to American readers’ minds with its brilliance, and seems particularly suited to this moment of oligarchical, billionarial ultra-greed, focussing as it does on the Achilles heel of the obscenely rich man: the thin ice of his ego. Exquisitely revealed through tales within
tales (expect to endure lots of references to Russian dolls in other reviews) Trust revolves around a razzledazzle New York couple from the roaring twenties. He’s a financier, she’s a blue blood, and they manage to keep their fortune intact even when swept over the waterfall of the Wall Street Crash. In 1937, a hit novel is published. Called Bonds , it seems to tell a version of their rise and fabulosity. The magnate is incandescent that this work of fiction has painted his late wife (she has since passed away in a sanatorium) as a lunatic and embarks on his own memoir to set the record straight – as he sees it. Lending a hand is an assistant who has diverted her own writerly ambitions towards the service of rehabilitating the wife and trashing the reputation of the impertinent novelist. She contributes her own version of her wealthy patron too.
Completing the trove of documents is the late wife’s journal, which reveals a more intimate picture of the tycoon and the heads he’s chosen to step on to build his staircase to wealth and glory. As the life of this pillar of business and society is collaged together from these differing sources, the reader has no choice but to decide which to believe: which past, which characteristics, and which the more accurate version of the role played by all that money. Only then may they hazard a guess as to the true depth of a rich man’s self-delusion. n
FILM REVIEW GET CARTER
Robert Chilcott reviews the re-release of Michael Hodges’ 1971 British ganster classic
ALL IMAGES COURTESY WARNER BROS. PICTURES
Get Carter is 50 this year. Actually the cult British noir classic was released 51 years ago, but certain conditions put paid to celebrations last year. “You’re a big man, but you’re in bad shape” long ago entered the catchphrase cacophony of post-Cool Britannia pull quotes. Kubrick championed it upon release, it made a decent return, but critics’ views were mixed and it largely disappeared from view, until intermittent TV screenings slowly brought it back to life in the late 1980s. Scarcity value is an essential badge of honour for breeding cults. Further groomed in the 1990s by home video release, Britpop’s retro obsessions and endorsements from Tarantino, Guy Ritchie, and, inevitably, Mark Kermode, Get Carter’s status rose meteorically in the pantheon of listicles, labelled as “...the best British post-war gangster film classic ever that you must absolutely 100% see before you get a fatal disease”. Then, after such intangible
plaudits, academia feeds on its carcass, and real cultists switch their attention to the less celebrated Villain, released the same year. “They’re still the same – piss-holes in the snow”. Originally adapted by writer/director Mike Hodges, with Ian Hendry in mind for the lead, producer Michael Klinger had already signed Michael Caine as its star. Hendry suffered with
“During the shooting, Michael Caine remarked, “I had never witnessed misery like this in my own country. It was like Charles Dickens meets Emily Brontë, written by Edgar Wallace”
ill health and alcohol problems, and remained grumpy towards Caine for stealing the part, though the tension works to the film’s advantage. Caine saw the title character as his ghost – frustrated at previous depictions of gangsters in British films as either stupid or funny, he knew from his own East End background that they were neither. Carter was a path he might have taken himself: “The dead-end product of my own environment, my childhood. I know him well.”
The Grim Reaper hovers at the film’s opening. Much of the action is shot through a long lens, a sniper’s rifle waiting to put the characters out of their misery. Carter draws the curtains while his gangland bosses, loosely based on the Kray twins, watch a spick and span slideshow of soft porn, presumably the spoils of a honey trap. “Bare ass naked and still with his socks on!” they jeer at the screen. The British have never been able to take sex, or anything else, very seriously. "Is that a python?" Carter watches on, observing them in disgust. He’s risen as far as he can go as their top enforcer and errand boy, and now wants out, so he can abscond to South America with Britt Ekland, his guvnor’s mistress. His one last job is to attend his brother’s funeral, find out who killed him and avenge his death. His bosses don’t want him to go, fearing it might be bad for business.
“Carter doesn’t eat breakfast, so he’ll never live to be an old man. His coolness is seemingly medicated by the pills he routinely pops, and a nasal spray, perhaps for an allergy to the sickness of his environment”
Its noir-ish aspirations hide in plain sight. On the train out of London, Carter reads Chandler’s Farewell My Lovely, which begins with Marlowe investigating a dead-end missing person case. Hodges stated that he saw the crime story as an autopsy on society’s ills. A man with a ring sits opposite, smoking a cigarette, the angel of death. Straight off the train, he heads for a meeting in the local pub, but the natives care little for his stiff tailored shirt and his order of a pint of bitter
in a tall glass. A decadent Londoner – his social mobility is out of line here. The original novel was set in an unnamed North Eastern town, and locations were initially considered in Grimsby, Lowestoft, and Hull (writer Ted Lewis had gone to Hull Art School for four years). Hodges was grabbed by Newcastle’s gritty urban environment. During the shooting Caine remarked, “I had never witnessed misery like this in my own country. It was like Charles Dickens meets Emily Brontë, written by Edgar Wallace”.
Ironically, for all its initial ‘grim oop north’ intent, the locations are romanticised to full effect, their dystopian beauty a wet dream for location fetishists – the Newcastle/Gateshead swing bridge and the brutalist Trinity Square Car Park are all very Ballardian. Newcastle itself would subsequently become popularised for its later exports – Auf Wiedersehen Pet, Byker Grove and Sting. A 16-year-old Jimmy Nail can allegedly be seen as an extra outside a nightclub, which was the real location for many 60s gangland murders.
John Osborne as was keen to escape his angry young man image, and here is allowed to essay
a quiet, middle-aged man as Kinnear, the local mob boss (filmed in another real-life crime scene: Dryderdale Hall, linked to the One Armed Bandit Murder). His dialogue, almost whispered, jumbles up the expositional beats with the ongoing poker game and the introduction of Glenda (Geraldine Moffatt) as the femme fatale. The film favours mood over plot, and there are also many ambiguities to the backstory. The shotgun symbolises happier times growing up with his brother, present in the novel but absent from the film. Carter doesn’t eat breakfast, so he’ll never live to be an old man. His coolness is seemingly medicated by the pills he routinely pops, and a nasal spray, perhaps for an allergy to the sickness of his environment.
Conceived and produced from script to screen in ten months, shot for a mere £750,000 over 45 days, Roy Budd’s now classic score had only been afforded £450 for its budget, necessitating him playing both the harpsichord and the Wurlitzer simultaneously. It is testament to its durability that its main theme, Jack Takes The Train, has survived unscathed the saturation of a million ‘Birth of Cool’ compilation CDs and car
'A COAL BLACK, SWAGGERING BEAST OF A THRILLER' EDGAR WRIGHT
THE CLASSIC BRITISH GANGSTER FILM STARRING MICHAEL CAINE, NEWLY RESTORED IN 4K BY THE BFI
4K ULTRA HD & BLU-RAY EDITIONS FEATURING AUDIO COMMENTARIES, INTERVIEWS, DOCUMENTARIES, POSTER AND AN 80-PAGE BOOK
“The locations are romanticised to full effect, their dystopian beauty a wet dream for location fetishists – the Newcastle/Gateshead swing bridge and the brutalist Trinity Square Car Park are all very Ballardian”
advertisements. Britt Ekland had been reluctant to by typecast as a gangster’s moll and didn’t want to take her clothes off; however, some bad investment via her accountant led to her taking the role to get out of financial problems.
Chaps of a vintage Generation X disposition will no doubt feel a rush of comfort at the sight of Bryan Mosley, aka Coronation Street’s portly Alf Roberts, as slot machine nabob Cliff Brumby, his bloody demise from the car park roof an iconic
moment. A devout Roman Catholic, Mosley first consulted his priest over the moral implications about taking part in a film with depictions of violent criminal behaviour: “I was pretty astounded when he said it was a pretty good morality play!” The US producers had originally wanted Telly Savalas for Mosley’s part. The film was remade a year later as a blaxploitation film, Hit Man, with Bernie Casey and Pam Grier, then some 30 years later as a reboot with Sly Stallone as Carter and Caine as Alf Roberts.
Shortly after its release, Caine was at a discotheque and bumped into the gangster who he had based his character on. “I’ve just seen that film of yours,” the mobster said. “Load of crap. Biggest load of crap I’ve ever seen. One thing – why aren’t you married? We’re all married – why do you think we do these things? We have a family. What are you doing these things for?” Caine said he was given a bollocking, but didn’t argue. n
GET CARTER is in selected UK cinemas and will be released by the BFI on UHD and Blu-ray on 25 July
THE GENTLEMEN VERSUS THE PLAYERS
The Chap’s Cricket Correspondent Sam Knowles gallops through the tale of Gentlemen v Players, finding that it is also a history of the British class system
Rrugby is said to be the most democratic of games, providing a meaningful role for anyone and everyone, whatever their height, pace and frequently substantial girth. It’s democratic in as much as it accommodates all sizes and shapes of humanity, from the gazelle-like ectomorphs in the backs to the buffalo’s strength and immovability of the endomorphs in the scrum. It also welcomes a broad spectrum of personality types, too, from the quicksilver double-dealer to the pedestrian honest John. But that’s another story.
THE BRITISH CLASS SYSTEM IN MICROCOSM
Cricket, by contrast, developed not as a broad
“The Gentlemen were upper-class amateurs, dabbling with cricket as a way of crossing the chasm to hoi polloi; the workingclass Players, meanwhile, attempted to earn their living through the game and received a stipend for playing, including in the regular fixture against the Gentlemen”
church to accommodate all physical specimens, but rather as the metaphorical sporting embodiment of the imperial British class system. Exported on the backs of expansionist adventurers, not only does the sun never set on countries that used to be coloured pink on British Empire maps, but the sun also never sets on a game of cricket, and – at time of writing – all the countries that have long since gained their independence from His and Her Majesty are of course much better at cricket than the English gents who invented and exported the game.
Nowhere is cricket as a microcosm of the class system more evident than in the tradition of the Gentlemen versus the Players. The Gentlemen were upper-class amateurs, dabbling with cricket as a way of crossing the chasm to hoi polloi; the working-class Players, meanwhile, attempted to earn their living through the game and received a stipend for playing, including in the regular fixture against the Gentlemen. Indeed, before the advent of international test cricket in 1877, the Gentlemen versus Players was the most prestigious fixture in the cricket calendar.
The Gentlemen were only entitled to claim expenses. They played for the love of the game and
didn’t need to worry about something as unseemly as taking a fee. The nice distinction between Gentlemen amateurs and professional Players was delineated by the venerable Marylebone Cricket Club, and because it was – quite naturally – the Gentlemen who wrote the rules, the Gentlemen’s expenses are said often to have exceeded the fees paid to the Players.
Every town and village had its Gentlemen’s team, as I and several co-conspirators discovered when we sought to set up a veterans’ Sunday side in Lewes, East Sussex, in the early 2010s. The first literary reference to a ‘Gentlemen of Lewes’ cricket team was in 1753, a fact recorded with pride on our club crest. This is much to the chagrin of some of our regular opponents, including the country’s oldest independent family brewer, Harveys of Lewes; they can only boast a Georgian foundation date of 1790 – those Johnny-come-latelys!
In CHAP 109 (Autumn 2021) I told the story of one of the longest-established fixtures in sporting history, albeit played in the newest format – The Hundred: the Gentlemen of Lewes versus the Gentlemen of Firle. For in the pavilion at Firle, there’s a poster celebrating the 1851 fixture
between these two teams, yet the contest continues 171 years on. In proper tradition, however, the opening batsmen from the Gentlemen of Firle still play in top hats.
THE GENTLEMEN VERSUS PLAYERS SCOREBOOK: A NARRATIVE BY NUMBERS
On a national stage, the first recorded Gentlemen-Players rubber took place in 1806. It became a more-than-annual fixture in 1819 and continued, more or less uninterrupted but for two world wars, until 1962. Over the lifetime of the fixture, the Players were vastly more successful than the Gentlemen. Of the 274 games played in England, the Players won almost half, the Gentlemen less than a quarter – fully 12 fewer than the 80 fixtures that were drawn – while one, thrillingly, was tied. Set 150 to win by the Players at the Oval in 1883, the Gentlemen yielded to the clarion call of claret at their Pall Mall clubs and were skittled for an oh-so-nearly 149.
“Kitchener-style cartoon hands point firmly left for the Gentlemen and right for the Players. A similar – if more dilapidated – sign is on display at the Bradman Oval in the Bowral in Australia, where W.G. Grace played in 1891, doubtless turning left for his dressing room”
in the early 1930s – and the Gentlemen only won two fixtures post-World War II, both in 1953. The last recorded victory for the Gentlemen came in September of that year and included a doublecentury – 241, no less – from one Len Hutton, certainly a Gentleman but also very much a ‘P’ player and not, if we’re honest, all that amateur.
The same might be said for the Gentlemen’s 1899 skipper, one Wilfred Gilbert Grace, whose firstclass career yielded 54,000 runs, 124 centuries and more than 2,800 wickets. A gentleman, no doubt, but very definitely also a player. Grace holds the record of most appearances in the fixture, turning out a remarkable 85 times between 1865 and 1906.
Lord’s was by far the most popular venue for the fixture, hosting more than half (142) of the games played in the long-running series. Next came The Oval (71), followed by Scarborough (38) – the host venue of the final fixture – Folkestone (10), and Hastings (7).
In the 20th century, the Players won 47 times, more than three times more often than the Gentlemen. 58 of last century’s games were drawn – including a tedious run of eight matches straight
Of the last 18 games in the fixture, seven were drawn and 11 yielded victories for the Players. The Gentlemen were clearly tiring of their regular game against their sporting betters. While the Gentlemen did, very occasionally, win this two-innings-per-side encounter by a margin, it was rarely by a country mile and hardly ever by an innings. The same was not true for the Players, whose greatest margin of victory was a staggering innings and 305 runs in 1934 at the Oval.
A CLASS APART
Despite the Players’ dominance, the fixture was characterised by a separation of the classes in more than just team selection. This is celebrated in the stern sign of admonition that remains at Lord’s to this day, which boldly insists: “GENTLEMEN v PLAYERS: Those taking part in the above match must observe the proprieties of the occasion. Separate entrys & dressing rooms are provided. The Gentlemen’s rooms being strictly out of bounds for the Players.” Kitchener-style cartoon hands point firmly left for the Gentlemen and right for the Players. A similar – if more dilapidated – sign is on display at the Bradman Oval in the Bowral in Australia, where W.G. Grace played in 1891, doubtless turning left for his dressing room. What is perhaps most surprising is that the fixture – and the distinction between the Gentlemen and the Players – continued as long as until 1962. In the last game, England pace bowler ‘Fiery’ Fred Trueman captained the Players to victory over the Gentlemen by seven wickets. His opposite number, the Gentlemen’s Gentleman, was supposed to have been Ted Dexter, though coming down with a mystery illness meant he couldn’t play. It was the MCC who called time on the fixture on the last day of January 1963, erasing the distinction between Gentlemen and Players and ushering in the modern era. All first-class cricketers were then deemed to be professionals – or Players – meaning there was no longer a role or a place for this fixture on the calendar. The definitive story of the dawn of modern English cricket – and the last ten years of GvP – is told in Lord Charles Williams’ Gentlemen & Players: The Death of Amateurism in Cricket. The author knew of what he wrote; not only did his Lordship play for Oxford alongside Colin Cowdrey, but he also turned out more than once for the Gentlemen in the game’s final decade.
WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE? GENTS DON’T!
Almost 40 years after stumps were drawn in the Gentlemen versus the Players for the last time, the fixture caused fresh controversy on the British quiz show Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Stuck without lifelines but with an apparent stooge in the audience, coughing when he happened upon the correct answer, Major Charles Ingram was asked by host Chris Tarrant: “Gentlemen v Players was an annual match between amateurs and professionals
“In the
last fixture, England pace bowler
‘Fiery’
Fred Trueman captained the Players to victory over the Gentlemen by seven wickets. His opposite number, the Gentlemen’s Gentleman, was supposed to have been Ted Dexter, though coming down with a mystery illness meant he couldn’t play”
of which sport: (A) Lawn tennis, (B) Rugby union, (C) Polo, or (D) Cricket?”
As the Major mused – with wistful imaginings of ancient cigarette cards – the supposed coughing accomplice can clearly be heard convulsing off-camera whenever he veers towards choosing cricket. After a dramatic few minutes, Ingram chooses the correct answer, winning £64,000 in the process (although as is well known, he was eventually stripped of both his winning and military titles, providing a rather neat fable for the end of droit de seigneur).
Gentlemen had no need to become millionaires; they’d been born into that status –or its equivalent before generations of compound interest. The advent of Kerry Packer, the World Series, T20 and the IPL tell of a sport transformed, where the Players’ ability is what sees them auctioned to become overnight millionaires and be handsomely rewarded for talent. The irony is, of course, that the Players were always superior to the Gentlemen. n
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sam Knowles is the Cricket Correspondent for The Chap. By day a data storyteller, on summer Sundays he is the co-re-founder, scorer and match reporter for the Gentlemen of Lewes Cricket Club. You can follow their exploits on Twitter @GoLCC_Lewes
What ho chums!
Those of a horizontal inclination may wish to look away, for the time has come to bend and stretch! The body is capable of extraordinary things! It’s the mind we have to convince. So without further ado I present... Reproduced with the kind permission
CAPTAIN FAWCETT'S A-Z OF EXERCISE
A is for Age
My physician told me that exercise could add 10 years to my life. He’s right. I feel a decade older already.
B is for Blazer
Never lift to the point where one’s biceps strain the lining of one’s blazer.
C is for Carbs
The Right Hand Man is an enthusiastic advocate of cutting carbs. Particularly when helping himself to another slice of Victoria sponge.
D is for Daily Dozen
Calisthenics of the 1920s, invented by Walter Camp, designed to exercise “the unseen and usually unremembered muscles”. I say!
E is for Everyday Errors
Do not confuse ‘exercise’ with ‘extra fries’. The results are invariably discouraging.
F is for FitBit
A device worn upon the wrist encouraging fellows to walk 10,000 steps a day in exchange for a single moment of tingling vibration. Other methods for tiring one’s wrist are available.
G is for Gorgonzola
A rich, ripe odour emanating from old plimsols.
H is for Habit
PG Wodehouse said ‘The habit of exercise should, like the Measles, be caught young’. Most wise.
I is for Indian Clubs
Donald Walker’s 1837 book British Manly Exercises included strength training with clubs from India which, according to a British officer, offered “the most effectual kinds of athletic training known anywhere”. Maharajah Moustache Wax is the perfect complement.
J is for Jerks
Don’t be one. However many PBs one may have, ahem, ‘smashed’, a gentleman wears his smugness on the inside.
K is for Knuckles
Wot, fisticuffs? No indeed, for bare-knuckle boxers followed the London Prize Ring Rules, such as not thumping a chap when he’s down. Quite so.
L is for Lunge
Frequently confused with ‘lunch’ by the Right Hand Man. Unless duelling with swords, lunging is uncouth and to be avoided at all costs. However, a sudden forward movement is permitted if catching a rapidly falling object, such as a crystal decanter or rosewood cigar box.
M is for MACHINES
Contraptions made of the finest mahogany with pulleys, cords and weights attached formed the new fangled gymnasium equipment of the Victorian era. Health and safety was secondary to the correct exercise attire. As etiquette guides of the era advised: “Horses sweat, men perspire and ladies gently glow.” How very civilised.
N is for Nowhere
The destination of anyone running on a treadmill.
O is for Ombrophilous
Meaning: tolerant of large quantities of rainfall. Essential trait of all British runners, cyclists & hikers.
P is for Phantoms
No need to fear one’s gym is haunted. Everyone inside is exorcising.
Q is for Queensberry Rules
The English aristocracy further refined pugilism with an etiquette named for the 9th marquess of Queensberry. Gentlemen, the gloves are on.
R is for Resistance Training
Also known as refusing to go to the gym.
S is for squats
Life is full of ups and downs. Whilst in motion, avoid squits, squirts and squeaks. Never squat on a squirrel, squire or squadron leader.
T is for Thong
When asked if anything is worn under the shorts the only permitted response is ‘No sir, it’s in perfect working order.’
U is for Ukulele
When one’s resolve is flagging, there’s nothing like a rousing tune upon the ukulele to boost morale and encourage a chap to achieve his personal best. I call upon all gymnasiums to hire a wandering troubadour with immediate effect.
V is for Vim and Vigour
Exercise for the cultivation of vigour and vitality leads to a bounce in one’s step and a renewed cheerfulness of demeanour. Huzzah!
W is for Whiskerando
A whiskered person. Such as Samson whose superhuman strength resided in his hair. Keep growing. AHTH!
X is for Xerotripsis
Avoid dry friction, rubbing or abrasion by applying lubricant. Unless of course one enjoys it.
Y is for Yetis
“When I go to different countries on my expeditions, all the porters and Sherpas call me Brian Yeti. I look in the mirror in the morning and see a great big beard, very heavy and fit, and I love myself.” Brian Blessed, never one to lack self-esteem.
Z is for Zen Proverb
“You should sit in meditation for 20 minutes a day unless you’re too busy, then you should sit for an hour.”
Here displayed are a collection of fascinating patents for Victorian Exercising Machines. Waistcoats optional. Moustaches preferred. ‘Keeping A Stiff Upper Lip Regardless’... Tally ho!
TIP 1 from a bear of little brain
“A bear, however hard he tries, grows tubby without exercise.” - A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
TIP 2 from the King of Atlantis
“Whenever I wake up, I’m up, I don’t lie there like an idiot. I get up, run up a hill, get some exercise and have some time with my thoughts.”
- Jason Momoa in Men’s Health Magazine
TIP 3 from an old gentleman “Whenever I feel the need to take some exercise I lie down until the feeling goes away.”Attributed to Winston Churchill, Mark Twain & assorted gentlemen now deceased.
In the last issue, we wrote about a Parisian apartment discovered untouched for 100 years. John Minns was invited to view a similarly preserved time capsule in England
A little over a month ago, I was at home deliberating as to whether to go to an open-air collectors market. It was raining hard with further weather predictions of sleet and possibly snow to follow. I found myself ruminating on what treasures I could miss out on by not attending, when a text arrived out of the blue from a property project manager colleague, giving me the address of a property close by and instructions to “Get over here sharpish, there’s something very interesting I thought you might like to see”. All thoughts of the collector’s market quickly diminished, and I made haste to the specified location.
When I arrived at the property, it revealed a stunning Edwardian house in its original unrestored state but in an extremely run-down condition. I watched as a high-sided 16 cubic yard skip, filled to the brim with carpets, pots, pans and old and varied household goods, was hoisted on to its loader. This would be the first of ten skips that would eventually be used in the clearance of the property. I was met by my project manager chum, who told me I had a limited time to assess, appraise and isolate the contents of the building, as restoration work would be starting imminently. A large cleared room had
been set aside for anything deemed of interest to me.
I entered the hallway, stopping to scan the two large rooms on either side of it. Apart from the erosion and decomposition that time had naturally created, everything there seemed to be as it would have been in Edwardian times. Original brown paintwork and the fashionable and expensive handprinted wallpaper of the day, with chrysanthemum flower, fruit and butterflies intertwined with vines, still adorning the walls. There were exquisite ceiling lights and heavy floor-length velvet window drapes now covered in thick layers of dust, untouched since being positioned there over a hundred years earlier.
I made my way to the top of the building, where there were six bedrooms in all. A number of the bedrooms were literally
filled from floor to ceiling with goods. Paintings, furniture and clothes from the 1930s, ceramics, bisque headed dolls, toys, used stamps, tinplate toys, suitcases full of books, knitting and clothes-making patterns, along with huge amounts of ephemera including photographs and reams of personal correspondence dating from the mid-Victorian era to this last decade.
After making my way down to the basementscullery and lower storage areas, there were more items: chocolate and jelly moulds, plates and an endless amount of other kitchenalia. I calculated that there must have been tens of thousands of items throughout the building, making it the most comprehensive and diverse range of stored or hoarded goods in a private home that I had ever encountered.
So how did such a vast amount of items accumulate at the property over ten decades? In conversation with a distant relative and beneficiary to the property, and searching through various items of correspondence found at the house, a number of things came to light. A Mr. and Mrs Few purchased the house shortly after it was built in 1910. The Fews were brought up during the Victorian era and it would seem that they adhered to the ideologies at that time of resourcefulness, frugality and thriftiness, added to the ethos of not wanting to let an item go, even if it had been damaged or broken (another Victorian trait).
Discarding anything would have been anathema to them; any item remotely of use or value would have been considered possede a vie or ‘owned for life’ and virtually nothing was thrown away.
It appeared that the Fews may have instilled these values into their three children, born at the house. When rationing was introduced in the early part of WWII and later the Make Do And Mend campaign came along, the siblings, now in their 20s and 30s, must have taken on the government request with gusto. The last surviving family member, Katheleen Few, lived alone at the house until she was 104, presumably happily hoarding right up until the end.
MAKE DO AND MEND
After clothes rationing was introduced in 1941, people were encouraged to be more resourceful, to make new clothes from old fabrics, table cloths, curtain linings, discarded or damaged uniforms, while even parachutes (invariably made from silk) were turned into blouses and undergarments. So popular was the reaction from the general public and various women’s groups at that time, including the WVS (Women’s Voluntary Service) and the WI (The Women’s Institute ) that a Make do and Mend scheme would later be introduced by the Ministry of Information.
The nationwide campaign was received enthusiastically, with pamphlets, posters and cinema newsreel trailers extolling the virtues and value of recycling, thriftiness and frugality. Another government instruction was to ‘Revive and Repair’, meaning to to learn new skills like knitting, darning, sewing, and the general home maintenance that would have previously been the job of tradesmen now conscripted into the services.
THE FLUMMOXER
Readers are invited to ponder the purpose of this issue’s antiquity conundrum, and one provider of the correct answer wins a superb pair of Fox Cufflinks.
Send your answer to chap@thechap.co.uk
D. B. Spats correctly identified last issue’s Flummoxer as an Edwardian mother-of-pearl inlaid hemming pin cushion
Our ever expanding range of gentlemen’s requisites and elegant sartorial adornments now includes a hip flask, a cocktail shaker set, a cravat, several gentlemen’s fragrances, lapel badges and a selection of silk pocket squares
s an introduction to our quarterly publication, The Chap is making the generous offer of a HALF PRICE subscription to Britain’s favourite gentleman’s journal.
Instead of the usual price of £24.00 for four issues per year, by taking up this offer you will become an annual Chap subscriber for just £12.00, precisely half the usual cost, which still includes free postage. After that you can either cancel your subscription, or continue at the Direct Debit price of £24.00 per annum. You will also receive a FREE copy of Best of The Chap.
CROSSWORD
By Xeno
Solutions to crossword 111, CHAP Spring 22
ACROSS
1. With help, a teen broke something large and inconvenient (5,8)
8. See 5 Down
With help, a teen broke something large and inconvenient (5,8)
9. Throws a punch when industrial action’s at an end (7,3)
10. Hide dictator’s air bed (3,3)
11/22. Blush after Frank reveals top set (8,5)
12. Noblewoman starts dressing up before mating game (7)
DOWN
1. Curse, needing no introduction, that is Dutch for tired (7)
2. I hand out the cards to perfection (5)
3. Macpherson’s wardrobe, so to speak, in another place (9)
8 See 5 Down 9 Throws a punch when industrial action's at an end (7,3)
14. See 20 Down
10 Hide dictator's air bed (3,3)
15. Starter is on a platter you say? (6)
17. A time to have Edward’s bubbly (7)
4. Slow moving creatures in Laos ruin sheds regularly (7)
1 Curse, needing no introduction, that is Dutch for tired (7) 2 I hand out the cards to perfection (5)
5/8. Said to be how to annoy Victoria Coren Mitchell? (5,4)
6. Alsatians chewed up mugger (9)
7. Tie Hugo in knots – it’s a hard one! (7)
3 Macpherson's wardrobe, so to speak, in another place (9)
13. Courses seen in free University circular (9)
14. Tanzania’s wild green site (9)
11/22 Blush after Frank reveals top set (8,5) 12 Noblewoman starts dressing up before mating game (7)
16. To be second person in hideout is most convenient (7)
19. Sprinted back in the middle of von Trapp nanny making pasta sauce (8)
21. Less stylish old man taking note for government (6)
14 See 20 Down
23. Pay backs in Somerset are numerous (10)
24. Employed American journalist (4)
25. They make Amber turn red (7,6)
Sprinted back in the middle of von Trapp nanny making
sauce (8)
17. What Jesus spoke of: a siege engine and a 99 (7)
18. Extreme emotion in Keanu Reeves film, played backwards, intensifies (7)
20/14A. The one in a suit in room of helpful people, as Spooner reports (3,2,6)
22. See 11 Across
Less stylish old man taking note for government (6) 23 Pay backs in Somerset are numerous (10)
4 Slow moving creatures in Laos ruin sheds regularly (7) 5/8 Said to be how to annoy Victoria Coren Mitchell? (5,4) 6 Alsatians chewed up mugger (9) 7 Tie Hugo in knots - it's a hard one! (7) 13 Courses seen in free University circular (9)
Tanzania's wild green site (9)
16 To be second person in hideout is most convenient (7)
17 What Jesus spoke of: a siege engine and