“IN THE PAST, RECORD
HAD TO GET INVOLVED AND TELL AN ACT TO WEAR A JACKET OR GET A CERTAIN HAIRCUT, BUT NOT WITH THE CLASH”
“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
Editor: Gustav Temple
Picture Editor: Theo Salter
Circulation Manager: Andy Perry
Art Director: Rachel Barker
Sub-Editor: Romilly Clark
Subscriptions Manager: Jen Rainnie
Contributing Editors: Chris Sullivan, Ed Needham
The editor of The Chap for the last 24 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.
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
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.
David Evans is a former lawyer and teacher who founded popular sartorial blog Grey Fox Blog twelve 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, whatever the age. @greyfoxstyle
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.
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.
Colleen Darnell is an Egyptologist with a Ph.D. from the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at Yale. She directed the Mo’alla Survey Project, an ongoing archaeological project in Egypt, and she has the best vintage wardrobe this side of the Valley of the Kings @vintage_egyptologist
BEN
Ben Edge is an artist, songwriter and folklorist, who for nearly a decade has been painting and documenting the seasonal folk customs of the British Isles. In 2021 his Frontline Folklore series was exhibited alongside the Museum of British Folklore collection at the Crypt gallery of St Pancras New Church.
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
Subscriptions 01442 820 580 contact@webscribe.co.uk
Stephen has been a TV channel controller, author (his first novel was published last year), media/culture commentator, occasional lecturer, movie consultant/ sales broker and amateur antiquarian. A habitué of Soho’s Colony Club scene during his younger years, Arnell now resides in bucolic Bedfordshire.
Email chap@thechap.co.uk
Website www.thechap.co.uk
Instagram @TheChapMag
Facebook/TheChapMagazine
Twitter @TheChapMag
DAVID EVANS SAM KNOWLES EDGE COLLEEN DARNELL1 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.
44
36 76
8 AM I BERET?
Readers submit photographs of themselves in their Berets
16 SCREEN IDLE
Torquil Arbuthnot on his glittering early days in rep theatre and his easy transition to Tinseltown
22 INTERVIEW: PAUL SIMONON
Chris Sullivan meets former Clash bass player and original stylist for the band
31 NAG’S HEADS
Olivier Woodes-Farquharson on a brace of eccentrics from the world of horse racing
36 LAURENCE HARVEY
Andrew Roberts on one of British cinema’s most intriguing louche dandies/decadent villains
44 NEW YORK CITY WORLD’S FAIR
John and Colleen Darnell visit the site of the two World’s Fairs held in New York in 1939 and 1964, dressed in period-specific costumes and photographed by Jennifer Schulten
57 THE BERET
Chris Sullivan on the peaks and troughs of his many decades spent wearing berets, with a potted history of this French titfer, and how he learned to cope with the ‘Ooh Betty’ comments
64 BROLLY DOLLIES
The colourful bounty that has resulted from The Chap’s collaboration with silk maestro Geoff Stocker, in the form of one ladies’ headscarf and two gentlemen’s pocket squares
70 GREY FOX COLUMN
David Evans samples Glendale Wool, English Whisky and military tailoring
76 BOSS MORRIS
Gustav Temple meets an all-women morris side who are shaking things up among the beardies, by reinventing morris dancing yet remaining true to its folkloric origins
86 I FOUND MY THRILL ON SILBURY HILL
The enticing mysteries behind this enormous mound of earth in Wiltshire and why it continues to fascinate both archaeologists and those of a pagan persuasion
92 JACK THE CLIPPER
Lou Christos treads gingerly in the footsteps of Jack the Ripper on a walking tour of the mythical streets of Whitechapel
100 UCONVENTIONAL COCKTAILS
Geographical curiosities with which one may fashion familiar cocktails with the added ingredient of international intrigue
106 RESTAURANT REVIEW
Alexander Larman samples the meaty delights at the newest branch of Blacklock at Canary Wharf
113 FLAGRANT FRAGRANCE
Ways to find cologne that doesn’t cost the earth, without being sold simply a copy of one of the big perfume brands
121 MOTORING
Actuarius sweeps through the history of the McLaren marque on racetrack and Civvy Street
130 DANDY DOCTOR WHO
Stephen Arnell celebrates the new Doctor’s dandyism by recalling the most sartorially flamboyant regeneration, Jon Pertwee
136 CRICKET
What the blue blazes is ‘Bazball’? Sam Knowles investigates from the pavilion
143 A NEW UNHOLY TRINITY
David Bramwell offers an alternative trio of folk horror offerings to replace the canonical three observed by most horror cineastes
153 BOOKS
Ed Needham reviews new tomes on corduroy suits, spies, Shakespeare and the man they called ‘Half Byron, half Tarzan’
162 CROSSWORD
READERS WERE ASKED TO SEND US PHOTOS OF THEMSELVES WEARING A BERET. DUE TO THE UNPRECEDENTED QUANTITY OF RESPONSES, WE HAVE GROUPED THEM INTO FOUR CATEGORIES: 1. THE REBEL;
WITH A
The Star Beret in each category wins a Chap Star Lapel Badge
“Please find attached a Tintype of me in a beret done by the really rather fabulous Guy Bellingham,” writes Richie Paradise-Williams. “Guy uses a process developed in the 1850s and the lenses used date back to the 1920s. I felt as old as the picture looked. Jacket by Brown in Town tailor, moustache and weather lines all my own work.”
Sir, is Tintype anything like those communication devices schoolboys made in the past out of tin cans linked by a piece of string? Either way, the results are spectacular and the model flawless – although curious how the breast pocket and square are on the right hand side. Most unusual.
“I offer you my contribution to the brimless bonanza,” writes Stephen Myhill. “Featured is a Basque beret purchased from Sombrereria, a splendid headwear stockist in Barcelona. I provide a couple of angles in case it helps with page layout.”
Sir, you have clearly been poring over the comic books of Robert Crumb again, although the facial expression suggests that this particular photograph was taken while viewing an outdoor screening of Pink Flamingos by John Waters.
2. THE LADIES; 3. THE ARTISTIC; 4. THE MILITARY,
STAR BERET IN EACH CATEGORY
Clearly inspired by the great beret-wearing rebels of yore, such as Che Guevara, Tony Hancock and Frank Spencer, Hamza Mouncif is good at posing in cafes, though slightly less practiced when it comes to thinking, as evidenced by his chosen reading matter.
Mark Edward wears a beret, smokes cheroots and wears bead necklaces. This is altogether less surprising when one learns that not only is his job description ‘professional mentalist’ but also that he hails from California.
“I attach several shots of my cotton Summer berets,” writes Edward Marlowe. “Designed by the artist Billy Childish in collaboration with South Pacific Berets, a New Zealand Business, these are made by Boneteria Auloronesa in Oloron Sainte Marie. The red beret pictured is from the ‘Goat In A Tree’ series. They see much wear in the Summer as part of an overall look I like to refer to as the Working Man’s Riviera.” It was only a matter of time before someone submitted a beret photo that referenced Wolfie ‘Citizen’ Smith. Having said photo taken outside a branch of Morrisons certainly bolsters its proletarian credentials.
Whereas Francis Giordanella is so good at thinking that the café has closed while he is lost in thought. The risks of wearing a beret are such, one may become so entirely lost in questions of an existential nature that one forgets that red and pink don’t really go together in an outfit.
“I’m quite fond of a beret,” writes Joly Braime, “especially teamed with some vintage NHS specs. I went through a phase of trying to introduce a different hat into my repertoire each year. Homburgs and boaters were easy to carry off, a bowler went down surprisingly well in Whitby, and a fisherman’s cap got me the odd shout of “Eh up, Jeremy Corbyn”. But by far the hardest to pull off was a beret. Perhaps for that reason, it remains a favourite.”
Sir, we shall not ask what opprobrium you were subjected to in a beret. Suffice it to say that your efforts have impressed at least this tiny portion of the populace.
We were torn between placing Mr. Alfonsi into The Rebel or The Artistic, concluding that he really required a category all of his own called the slightly preposterous.
“Please see attached a photo of me wearing my beret during a typical snow day in Colorado,” writes Kimberly B. Richardson. It is either snow blindness or the protective warmth of a beret that is producing such a cosy smile. Either way the result somewhat resembles the cover of an album by Belle & Sebastian.
“Here is my handsome wife, Alexandra,” writes Terence Smith (see ‘The Artistic Beret’), “sporting a beret in the style of Clare Crogan (Susan) in Gregory’s Girl. I’m sure you’ll agree there’s a striking resemblance. Whenever she dons a beret, she asks me in a soft Scottish lilt, “Are you Gregory?” to which my reply is, “Aye, darlin’, I’ll be Gregory if yae wannae me tae be,” in my best strong Glaswegian accent. “Now how aboot we dae some o’that lying doon dancin’ yae likes so much...”
Steady on, sir. We’re here to discuss berets, not personal lovemaking habits. Nevertheless, we can see the resemblance and it is comforting to know that a mere item of headwear can bring about such life-affirming activities as putting on funny accents.
“Glamorous Suzie once again steals the show!” writes Ian Taylor. No idea what show there is to be stolen, but a beret in purple suede is a courageous item to don, especially when the natural sunshine has been so generous to Suzie’s skin.
Once again, this photo was sent by the husband or partner of the subject, which in itself says a lot about our readership. Nevertheless, Mrs Parsons’ beret features rakish red tassels, suggesting she may be submitting photos of herself to magazines that Mr. Parsons knows nothing about.
“I don’t know if I’m too late with my beret pics,” writes Nina Soleil from Kassel, Germany, “but I thought I should try it because I never leave my house without one of my beloved berets.”
Hallelujah, madam, for submitting these photos all by yourself! If one may be so bold, you have the air of someone who never leaves the house at all, but there is undoubtedly a houseful of similarly eccentric admirers who make this unecessary.
“I am pleased to enclose, for your delectation,” writes Lynsey Walker, “a picture of myself in said headwear aboard the original 1958 BOAC passenger jet currently at Duxford, trying to recapture those heady days of glamorous air travel. Although it does look like I am clad in just a fur coat, please be assured I had a dress on underneath.”
‘Assured’ isn’t quite the right word, madam, and with a beret worn at such a rakish angle, anything seems possible. However, we shall take your word for it and hope you weren’t offered a tour of the cockpit.
Colleen Darnell, however, didn’t want anyone to try and guess what she had on underneath her fur coat. Turns out her red beret was the most unrevealing item in her outfit.
“My granddaughter Lady Mollie Hobson,” writes Gary Horsfield, “admitted to me she once had a rendezvous with a mime artist; she said the night was truly unspeakable.” Indeed, sir. We didn’t realise there was such a thing as ‘granddad jokes’ and now we can see why there shouldn’t be.
Gary Horsfield also sent us this photo of Lady Lisa Elegance, presumably another member of his family without access to his medication. The message accompanying this one was simply “Claims she was wearing Berets before Chuck ever did.” The relevant authorities have been informed.
“Ian Taylor once again setting himself up to be pilloried,” writes, unsurprisingly, Ian Taylor. “This suede beret is from 60s London boutique Bermona.” Pilloried, sir? Why on earth would we wish to pillory someone who has clearly gone to a lot of trouble to source his clothing, by visiting every charity shop in town and asking to see the stuff they can’t put on display for fear of encouraging the use of psychedelic drugs?
“My usual headwear,” pithily writes Mark Stone, “Laulhere, the original French beret manufacturer and as worn by the French Resistance.” Indeed, sir. Dressed like this, you could easily blend into any crowd entirely unnoticed.
“I have been a beret wearer for years now,” writes Christopher Flansburg. “As a mariner I find them very practical. And I just like them.” And we just like the no-nonsense approach of Mr. Flansburg. We like his name too, which suggests flanning about. Then we saw his job title: Owner - Viridian Tea Company/ Certified Tea Specialist, and realised that Chappism comes in many forms.
“On a Brompton Cemetery walk in Feb 2021,” writes Jonathan Ross. “After six months without a haircut, a beret is just the thing for containing the lockdown locks. But really it is a hat for all seasons. By the way, the edifice behind me is rumoured to be a Time Machine.” Sir, you had access to a time machine, yet chose to go back to 2021?
Jerry Tharapos, from Melbourne, Australia, is coming down from his magic mushroom trip, yet he still managed to tie his bow tie impeccably. The choice of beret, however, and the eyes, tell us the real story of what is occurring underneath that layer of fuscia felt.
“In March 2023 we sojourned to Paris to watch England play France in the six nations,” writes Alan Bridgen-Page. “One member of our small party donned the beret and instigated a singalong in the surrounding crowd at half time, simply to cheer supporters of our team who were getting a free lesson in the art of Rugby at that time.” It seems they were also getting a lesson in how to dress like one of British television’s most renowned sitcom characters, sir.
“My name is Sören Wallin and I live in Södermalm, Stockholm, Sweden. Here are some samples for your article. I hope you find something useful and chappish/beretish among these.”
It is most peculiar how, since the invention of the smartphone, the device gives people the urge to take a photograph of themselves while ascending or descending in a lift. It’s all a bit ‘The Truman Show’, isn’t it?
“Greetings from the Isle of Wight,” writes Patrick Ford, “where three of us are wearing berets. Pic 3, Will Nixon, actor, chimney sweep and Chap wears his naval beret.”
Funny old place, the Isle of Wight, isn’t it, sir? Makes one feel as if it is perfectly normal to see naval men wearing short-sleeved shirts, and moustaches instead of ‘full sets’.
Surprisingly, this is not Sören Wallin again, but a different person altogether named Peter Jones. A brother from another mother, perhaps?
“A photograph of myself in typical French style,” writes Terence Smith, “tending my vitis vinifera ‘dans le jardin’ . Beret clad, I am demonstrating the lesser known winemaking technique of squeezing the grapes on the vine directly into the wine glass.”
Sir, I have tasted wines from Ye Corner Shoppe that taste as if they had done precisely that. Thank goodness they are white grapes too, with those marvellous trousers.
Appreciated over the centuries by revolutionaries, artists and the sartorial elite. Who doesn’t love a nice bit of corduroy, especially when it’s probably the best in the world?
The McNair PlasmaDryTM Corduroy supercharges this natural fabric to repel water and stains so it keeps you dry and looking good.
Channel your inner Roger Moore.
Handmade in Yorkshire. Men’s, women’s, off-the-peg and made-to-measure. Available online and by appointment at our showroom.
Andrew parsons, meanwhile, has yet to see active service, and has been given an extra chocolate ration while he recovers from a sprained wrist.
“When one considers the beret as suitable attire,” writes Charles (surname witheld), of the Mercian Regiment, “look no further than that bastion of keeping good order, the British Army.”
Considering that Charles is wearing the beret as military uniform and clearly doing more than polishing the cutlery in the mess hall, he fully deserves Star Beret status.
Everything seems to be in order in John Darnell’s Foreign Legion uniform. We can only hope is wearing the regulation white spats over his boots.
“Field-Marshal Montgomery absolutely loved his beret,” writes Colin Brooks Williams, AKA Monty’s Double. “When he arrived in North Africa in October 1942, he found that his regulation peaked cap was not practical to wear inside a tank. The problem was solved by a driver of the Royal Tank Regiment, who handed Monty a beret one day. He had a General’s embroidered cap badge sewn on, next to the RTR badge, and resolved to wear it as his own personal and instantly recognisable motif, which of course it became with great success from that day on.”
What a lovely story, sir. And out of curiosity, the war Monty was fighting in: what was the outcome of that?
“Hi again, it’s Steve Jenkins in WW2 Army uniform at Bletchley Park 1940s Weekend a year ago.”
Sir, we see you are positioned in front of an exhibit concerning the Turing Bombe Rebuild Project. Could we be so bold as to ask whether the target machine for this cryptology device was a three-wheel, 36-Enigma version with high-speed 104 Siemens-type double sense relays, and whether the carry of the target machine takes from 13 character times or points (39-point machine) down to four points (30-point machine), depending on the model – or is it just the way you walk?
Torquil Arbuthnot on his long and happy years in British repertory theatre, and then in the early days of Tinseltown as a scriptwriter and wicket keeper
It is the fashion nowadays for film actors to pen (or rather have ghost-written for them) ‘kiss-and-tell’ autobiographies. These are usually turgid tomes, rehashing tired anecdotes (about darling Larry Olivier and dear, dear Dame Judi), interspersed with self-pitying mawkishness about their ‘struggles’ with alcohol, drugs, fame or first-night nerves. I have so far resisted all exhortations from publishers to ‘dish
“Although I had always yearned from an early age to tread the boards, I did not wish to waste three years with the posturing provincial popinjays at RADA”
the dirt’ on my glittering stage and screen career, but I thought readers of this magazine might be mildly entertained with a few reminiscences of my time in 1930s Tinseltown.
Although I had always yearned from an early age to tread the boards, I did not wish to waste three years with the posturing provincial popinjays at RADA. Rather I honed my craft in rep and appearing in music halls with Fred Karno’s Komic Kapers, alongside a gauche young man called Archibald Leach (later to find a modicum of fame under the stage name Cary Grant). When not appearing on stage, I tried my hand at writing plays and revues. My 1933 play about the love affair between Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton, Hearts of Oak, had a succès d’estime in the West End and was snapped up by Hollywood as a bodice-ripper. American studios at the time were busy churning out films based on classic English novels such as Pride and Prejudice
and Wuthering Heights, so my agent soon got me work as a scriptwriter at MGM. As I had been at both Eton and Oxford, I was hired to add verisimilitude and was put to work in an office with F Scott Fitzgerald on A Yank at Oxford and A Yank at Eton. Very little of what we penned ended up on screen, possibly because neither of us could change the ribbon on the typewriter, and both of us took too regular inspiration from the office bottle of tequila.
I missed England to a certain extent, and so joined the Hollywood Cricket Club, founded some years earlier by Sir C Aubrey Smith. I turned up for my first net in my I Zingari blazer and sent down a few leg-tweakies to Ronald Colman, and then retired to the pavilion for a few pink gins with my fellow expats including the Club Secretary, a fellow scribe called Wodehouse. Later I taught Humphrey Bogart the rudiments of cricket and, such was his natural talent that,
had he not been an actor, he could have made a decent living keeping wicket as a professional in the Lancashire Cricket League.
I worked on an adaptation of Henty’s Under Drake’s Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main, called Fireships at Cadiz, starring Errol Flynn as Sir Francis Drake and a young Donald Sinden as the cabin boy. I had bumped into Mr. Flynn at the boxing gym (where I was sparring with another fellow scribbler, Ernest Hemingway) and he, learning that I could also act, inveigled me into a small part in the film as a Plymouth tavern keeper. From then on I alternated between acting and screenwriting. Usually I kept my English accent, as it lent a certain cachet to films, but it meant I was typecast into playing butlers (Charlie Chan and the Eustace Diamonds) or scions of the aristocracy (the Duke of Kidderminster in Tiaras
and Tap-shoes) or suave villains (The Tuxedo Murders). I even played the second lead in a rather good B Western, Pistol-Packin’ Limey.
Although I did not necessarily get a writing credit on many of the films I worked on, I am proud of my contributions to The Lady and the Fop (an adaptation of Bulwer-Lytton’s Pelham), Abbott and Costello Meet the Scarlet Pimpernel, a South American vehicle for Ginger Rogers called Kiss Me, Gaucho! and Tilting at Windmills starring Henry Fonda as Don Quixote and Mickey Rooney as Sancho Panza. On occasion, an American actor would hire me as a dialogue coach if they were cast in an Olde England or medieval film. I well remember the difficulty I had persuading Clark Gable that “Yes, sire” was not pronounced “Yes, sirree”. When I wasn’t working on a screenplay or acting, I earned a little money on the side playing
in high-stakes bridge games with Billy Wilder as my partner.
When war was declared in September 1939, David Niven and I were the first to board the Queen Mary and sail to Britain’s aid. I rejoined my old regiment, Cumberland’s Light Horse, and looked forward to giving Fritz a bloody nose. Unfortunately, as soon as the brass hats discovered my Hollywood connections I was sidelined into boosting the nation’s morale, appearing in such uplifting film comedies as Adolf, Where’s Your Trousers? and Herman, the Short-sighted German.
I also schmoozed visiting American dignitaries and showed them as good a time as the blackout and rationing would allow. I think it’s safe to reveal after all these years that, if I hadn’t rescued Eisenhower from the clutches of Soho Beryl and her Maltese pimp, D-Day might not have gone so smoothly.
I was still itching for some proper action, so put pressure on Churchill (I obtained his Cuban cigars via a contact in the Uruguayan Embassy) who got me on to Operation Jedburgh. This was a clandestine plan involving three-man teams (a Brit, an American, a Free Frenchman) being parachuted into occupied France to lead the local resistance. I was lucky to be teamed with Douglas Fairbanks Jnr and Yves Montand. We clambered into an aeroplane one night bound for Marseilles but, unknown to me, Yves slipped the pilot a bottle of cognac and some silk stockings and we were parachuted instead into Monaco, where we liberated the casino in Monte. For this a grateful country awarded me the Légion d’honneur
Although Churchill begged me to stay in Britain to head up MI6, the lure of the greasepaint was too strong and I used my return ticket on the Queen Mary to return to America, where the second half of my Hollywood career began. In the second instalment of my reminiscences, I will cover my adventures with the anti-communist paranoia of the 1950s and my time with Frank Sinatra’s Rat Pack in the 1960s. n
INTERVIEW: PAUL SIMONON
Aman who has long been regarded as one of the UK’s most stylish men, former Clash bass player Paul Simonon never looks less than sharp. So when the opportunity arose to sit him down and talk to him at length over a few ales, the subject of style just had to come up.
Where do you find your clothes?
I live near Portobello Market and sometimes find a few gems. On a Friday it’s like a poor man’s version
of the V&A, but the difference is you can buy the stuff. It’s great that these markets exist, as it is them that drive youth culture.
Do you think those formative styles stay with you?
Definitely. I wear pretty much the same now as I did as a kid; I’ve almost gone full circle. I had a tonic suit when I was about 15 off a mate of mine and I used to wear it in the early Clash days, and now I’m wearing similar stuff.
“I don’t think styles are as extreme as in the past, when for every culture there was a counter culture which was the polar opposite. Hippies with long hair and flares and sandals existed at the same time as skinheads with no hair, tight trousers and big boots, while sharp suited Mods were around at the same time as greasy rockers in leather. Brits are very good at reacting against something”
“I had a tonic suit when I was 15 and now I’m wearing similar stuff”
Why is personal style important?
People might consider that style is trivial, but it really defines who you are in the eyes of other people. It tells people what you are about.
Why do you think that, unlike many other countries, the UK youth often manifests its identity via their clothing style?
Well I think music is the driving force behind a lot of styles. Since the Teds, clothes have denoted what music you like, and things have always been very tribal here. I think it’s still tribal but maybe not as clear cut or as extreme and aggressive as it used to be. Having said that, I would have to be aged 15 to notice all these tribes, as you have to be in there to notice the details. It is still going on but I don’t think they are as extreme as in the past, when for every culture there was a counter culture which was the polar opposite. Hippies with long hair and flares and sandals existed at the same time as skinheads with no hair, tight trousers and big boots, while sharp suited Mods were around at the same time as greasy rockers in leather and jeans – total opposites both in the way they dressed and the music they listened to and even their philosophy.
Brits are very good at reacting against something. Today it seems that such extreme
“We thought that the label’s job was just to put the record in the shops. In the past the labels maybe had to get involved and tell an act to wear a jacket or get a certain haircut, but not with The Clash. Bernie Rhodes would often say, ‘You cannot have an audience better dressed than the group because you’ve got to lead the way’”
cultural polarity is missing, but you’d have to ask a fifteen-year-old for the real answer.
How would you describe the Clash style, as you went through so many changes?
In the beginning it was very modish, with suits and all that, then we had a Jackson Pollock phase where we splashed our clothes like his paintings, then we had a Robert Rauschenberg phase using stencils, and then we had stuff made up or we customised army gear from Lawrence Corner. And then eventually we became rockers, which caused a lot of confusion as it was just after the Teds and the punks fighting, but we came along and we were like punk Teds.
We were also influenced by that glam rocker look that Bryan Ferry had, when he dressed like Billy Fury. But a lot of our change from punk rockers to rockers came because we went to America and bought all this great original fifties gear for nothing at these second hand shops, especially as it was over $2 to the pound back then,
and we used to cut the sleeves off as it was so hot on stage. It was like paradise for us, as no-one was interested in these clothes. And then people in the UK started manufacturing what we’d been wearing and it all took off. I used to go to the US and buy an old suitcase from the Salvation Army and fill it up with original fifties ties, records and clothes because nobody wanted it. At the beginning with The Clash, we couldn’t really go into Vivienne’s shop and buy her clothes because for one we couldn’t afford it, and secondly we didn’t want to look like the Pistols, so we made do with what we had and bought second hand stuff.
so you can get virtually anything – you just have to make sure you’ve got the right size. It’s no good for me as I’m too fussy.
How did you get interested in style and clothes?
Growing up in Brixton, it was all around us. I was hanging around with the sons of the Jamaicans who had come over on the SS Windrush, and you’d go into their house and it was really colourful and exotic and that was what the clothes were like. There was the older Jamaican generation, who wore hats and sort of zoot-style suits with brightly coloured jackets and big shoulders. They had a certain swagger, as if they’d just come from the OK Corral, whereas everyone else was wearing pinstripes. I think as a youth such things have a great effect on you and stay with you. But I moved around a lot. I lived in Italy in the mid-sixties and took it all in – the sort of slim-suited, casual Fed Perry mohair suit thing, and then I came back to England to see it all starting here with the Mods.
While I was in Italy I used to go to spaghetti westerns with my mum, and then we came back to England to find that Lee Perry was doing songs about these westerns, mentioning Lee Van Cleef, and then the mod skinhead thing started taking off, mixing the JA style with the two tone suits I’d seen in Italy. And it was all about the details. Ben Sherman, and if you couldn’t afford them Brutus, Doc Martens or Monkey Boots, and the braces had to be the slim ones and the back had to form a Y in the middle of your back and not an X. So it really is the attention to detail that is at the centre of British style.
It is more varied, as people mix it up a lot more. Someone might wear a drape jacket with a mod shirt and Doc Martens, for example. You couldn’t do that before. I see young kids who dress in a way that really reflects what they’re into and making it their own. Even though to me a lot of them look like they’ve been pulled straight out of the eighties; if you weren’t about then it looks great, as most people wouldn’t know. What really helps kids today is the internet, as there are sites that sell all sorts,
I remember when I first started hanging out with Joe [Strummer] when he was on the dole and I’d been kicked off it. We were both skint and we used to walk about a lot, because that’s what you do when you’re penniless. We both loved mirrored sunglasses as you could see people’s eyes and they couldn’t see yours. Aggressive clothes were a very real thing for us, even though it seems daft now, but at the time it was a necessity, because when you grew up in the UK you were in world where other people were always out to get you, so you adopted a uniform as protection.
“The camouflage thing started when we played in Thailand and there was this great shop selling camouflage and surplus, which we bought loads of and started wearing it, and as the tour progressed we saw more and more of the audience wearing it, because it was cheap and accessible and stylish. By the end of the tour it was like playing in some army barracks”
Do you think British music is healthy at the moment?
Yes, in some ways. The independents have opened things up and the big guns have had to downsize from huge buildings in Soho Square to a little flat in Chiswick, and they have a lot less power. The problem with the big record companies was that they tried to dictate what you did. We were lucky, as what we stood for was so different and we sort of slipped in before they realised what was happening, and then they saw that we were quite good. The other good thing is that music is being shared around. My eldest son has his mates come around and they make music over the Internet with all sorts, and I heard that he’s about to start his own label on the Internet. So that’s all great. You just need the imagination and the drive.
But the Clash were very much their own men. Yes, but it was a fight all the way. We thought that the label’s job was just to put the record in the shops. At the beginning they said, ‘Well your album should look like this and this is how you should dress’, but we said, ‘Hang on, we know all that. It’s all in-house, mate!’ In the past, the labels maybe
had to get involved and tell an act to wear a jacket or get a certain haircut, but not with us. Bernie Rhodes [manager of The Clash] would often say, ‘You cannot have an audience better dressed than the group because you’ve got to lead the way.’
I remember when we did the Combat Rock tour, the idea was that whatever you had on stage represented your music and made it accessible. The camouflage thing started when we played in Thailand and there was this great shop selling camouflage and surplus, which we bought loads of and started wearing it, and as the tour progressed we saw more and more of the audience wearing it, because it was cheap and accessible and stylish. By the end of the tour it was like playing in some army barracks.
With the Clash I looked after the looks, but it wasn’t as if I told them what to wear; it was all suggestion and never forced. When we did the second album I had this idea of using a projector to project the Battle of Britain behind us while we were recording. But the producer didn’t like it, so I took the projector home and got a load of films, one of which was Brighton Rock. So I thought I’d go with that look and from there the whole visual style and the video idea developed.
Did a lot of the music develop organically as well?
Well yeah, as in any creative process. If you’ve been into something for a while you react against it and do the opposite, which is the fundamental driving force of British style. The idea of doing another album that was exactly like the last one was impossible for us. I recently listened to the Clash singles Box Set and I thought, you can imagine someone thinking after each new song, ‘Is it the same band?’ And ‘What links these tracks?’ But in a strange way they are all linked, as they represent this journey, sometimes literally, as we developed and picked up different influences and reacted to them. We could not have made the same record twice, as that would have been soul destroying. Some people are happy with that and get on with it, working in the music factory knocking out the same record time and time again.
Is there anybody you like now?
I’ve been listening to Bombshell Babies from Bombay, which is Indian music from the fifties to the seventies and it’s great – it’s rock ‘n’ roll, then goes into Latin, then almost mariachi, and then has a bloke who sounds like Elvis and musically it is great.
For the past three decades, Simonon has carved himself a new career as an oil painter, creating brooding cityscapes and landscapes. His eleven exhibitions have all sold out and now his well executed work is extremely collectable. But when he isn’t painting he’s not idle. This year Simonon embarked on a new musical project, Galen and Paul, with the singer Galen Ayers (daughter of Kevin Ayers) who have released a few cracking singles and an album Can We Do Tomorrow Another Day, which, like Simonon himself, are all totally unique. And if that’s not enough to fill his diary, Simonon DJs vinyl every Thursday at a run-down old classic West London pub which is, as he says, “Just a bit of fun.” n
by Galen & Paul is on Sony Music
www.galenandpaul.com
www.paulsimonon.com
The
York
Paul Simonon smashing up his bass guitar on the stage. “The show had gone quite well,” Simonon recalls, “but for me, inside, it just wasn’t working well, so I suppose I took it out on the bass. If I was smart, I would have got the spare bass and used that one, because it wasn’t as good as the one I smashed up. When I look at it now, I wish I’d lifted my face up a bit more.”
21st September 1979,
Originally Smith initially didn’t want her photo to be used at all on the cover. She felt it was slightly out of focus, as she was backing away to keep out of the way of Simonon and any flying bits of bass debris. The cover design itself was a pastiche of Elvis Presley’s 1956 debut album, with the same lettering and colours. “When that Elvis record came out,” says Simonon, “rock ‘n’ roll was pretty dangerous. And I suppose when we brought out our record, it was pretty dangerous stuff too.”
shot was taken by NME photographer Pennie Smith at the New
Palladium on
of
Something that struck me as I recently undertook to write a book on the history of horse racing was that, underneath the thin exterior of the wealthy owner, the driven trainer, the canny jockey or the actual horse at the centre of it all, there is often an absolute lunatic dying to be unleashed. It seems fitting, therefore, that readers of The Chap should know more about a handful of these eccentrics – human and equine – to confirm that this timeless Sport of Kings is also the Sport of the Mildly Deranged. There follows a small selection of these largerthan-life individuals.
He was quirky, he was Belgian and he liked horses. He was also gobsmackingly wealthy. Captain Alfred Lowenstein – briefly of the Belgian army but largely a hugely successful financier in
“Essentially nocturnal, Dorothy Paget would get up in the evening and start placing bets on races that had already been run, with the accepting bookies fully aware of her idiosyncratic habits. Although she didn’t officially die from a surfeit of lampreys, one somehow feels that she ought to have done”Olivier Woodes-Farquharson rounds up the human and equine eccentrics that have made horse racing the diverting spectacle it is over the last century
the 1920s – liked horses and was prepared to pay handsomely for them. A top English steeplechaser called Easter Hero caught his eye and Lowenstein (nicknamed ‘Europe’s Croesus’ with good reason) forked out £7000 in 1928 – fully half a million pounds in today’s money, and an astonishing sum for an 8-year-old gelding – in order for him to be pointed specifically at the Grand National. Yet Lowenstein never got to see Easter Hero turn into a champion. More drama – this time reeking of skullduggery – ensued on 4th July that year, as Captain Lowenstein, on a flight in his
Fokker FVII from Croydon airport to Brussels, disappeared during the flight… yet oddly the pilot landed the plane on Dunkirk beach, with all six others on the flight absolutely fine – but behaving very strangely when approached on the beach to see if they needed help. Although Lowenstein’s body was recovered a fortnight later, and no-one was ever charged, the evidence pointed towards a rather sinister conspiracy to murder him by pushing him out of the plane over the Channel and getting direct access to his immense wealth. That he was buried in an unmarked grave and his wife Madeleine didn’t even turn up for his funeral suggested he wasn’t going to be sorely missed. By the 1930s, the racing world had less apparent murder on the scene but just as many wealthy oddballs. The greatest steeplechaser of the era was the magnificent Golden Miller, who was owned by Dorothy Paget. Daughter of Lord Queensborough, it is hard to overstate her eccentricity. She was as mad as a cut snake, a breathtaking misandrist, a contradiction who was both cripplingly shy and absurdly outspoken, who chain-smoked yet ate like a starved whale. Jaw-droppingly rich after inheriting a chain-store
“Persian War was prone to swallowing his tongue, so often ran in a tongue strap. Davies once quipped that ‘when we put a tongue strap on Persian War, some people thought it a pity that we didn’t do the same to the owner’”
empire, she dressed in almost laughably shabby clothes, yet still thought nothing of casually dropping bets of £20,000 (£750,000 in today’s money). Essentially nocturnal, she would even get up in the evening and start placing bets on races that had already been run, with the accepting bookies fully aware of her idiosyncratic habits. Although she didn’t officially die from a surfeit of lampreys, one somehow feels that she ought to have done.
Not to be outdone for wealth in that era, but in the more aristocratic circles of flat racing, was Sir Sultan Mahomed Shah – known to the world as The Aga Khan. Born in Karachi but educated at Eton and Cambridge, his ways were very much those of the British aristocrat, outdoing his school friends by coming from a family even more fabulously wealthy than theirs. With a background like this, it was hardly surprising that he took an interest in the Sport of Kings. Yet it was an interest driven purely by commercial concerns. His success was immense, yet the exterior investment in blue-blooded thoroughbreds hid an inner stinginess that raised an eyebrow or two in social circles. As soon as war broke out, he hot-footed it to neutral Switzerland and sold
all his top stallions to the US, despite promising that he never would. His greatest horse was also a character. Bahram was stunning – a beautifully put-together specimen who won the 1935 Triple Crown (2000 Guineas, Epsom Derby, St Leger) and retired undefeated. Yet he was not like normal thoroughbreds. He was outrageously lazy and just wanted to sleep all day. Chilled out beyond belief, Bahram’s unique and signature pose was to lean against the stable wall, cross his front legs in an anthropomorphic way and languidly survey everything around him. You sense that, if he had been human, he would likely have been drawn to surfing.
Not all champion horses were as relaxed. The war years saw the welcome sight of King George VI owning the greatest horse, an utterly nutty filly called Sun Chariot. She initially refused to be trained, driving her trainer Fred Darling mad. The most shameful moment of her life came in the run-up to the Epsom Oaks, for which she was favourite. The King and his consort (the future Queen Mother) decided to descend upon Darling’s stables and watch their thoroughbreds in action on the training grounds. Sun
Chariotabsolutely disgraced herself. In a stultifyingly petulant mood, even by her exacting standards, the head lad on her back decided to give her a smack. Sun Chariot bolted off the course and ran headlong into a neighbouring ploughed field. Once there, and for reasons known only to her lunatic self, she sat herself on her knees and, according to all those present, ‘proceeded to roar like a bull’.
By the postwar years there was an invasion of excellent French horses who plundered vast swathes of Britain’s top races, finally getting rid of that superiority complex in British racing circles. The jockey on some of these winners was Jacques Doyasbere. He was not only one of the best jockeys; he was also one of the most self-assured. Riders will always tell you how the indefinable quality that is known as confidence is so critical when giving their mount its best possible placing. The question is, just how confident do you want a jockey to be? Consider this action by
Doyasbere. In the run-up to Europe’s premier flat race, the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, in October 1951, he booked a table for 12 at Paris’s top restaurant Maxim’s to celebrate his forthcoming victory As chutzpah goes, it takes some beating. He did indeed win, but one dreads to think what the dinner would have been like if he hadn’t.
Cool jockeys were aplenty in the 1950s, but the most famous horses were absolute rotters. Across the Pond, in the early 1950s, a wonderfully talented grey horse named Native Dancer had taken the racing scene by storm, winning a host of top races in scintillating style and in the process getting the US public hooked on to live TV racing, then in its infancy. What none of the heroworshipping public knew, however, was that Native Dancer was utterly odious. He was on record as lifting sleeping grooms by his teeth until they screamed, pulling riders off other horses during exercise by tugging hard at their legs, roaring in anger if anyone entered his field, and launching a collie dog over a 6-foot fence because he didn’t like the look of it. His apologists called him ‘playful’. My choice of words would be different.
However, even Native Dancer had to doff his cap to English hurdler Sir Ken when it came to horrendous behaviour. For Sir Ken, also plying his trade extremely successfully in the early 1950s and a three-time Champion Hurdler, was an actual murderer. He was put into paddock for the summer of 1953 with a companion. One morning soon after, the other was found dead, clearly having been in a horrific maul with Sir Ken and coming off decidedly second-best. The Champion Hurdler, meanwhile, had barely a scratch on him. The message was blood-curdling, yet abundantly clear: you didn’t mess with Sir Ken.
The horses may have been better behaved by the 1960s, but the same could not be said of the owners. One champion thoroughbred called Vaguely Noble was bred by quirky textiles magnate and unrepentant Yorkshireman Major Lionel Holliday. Even his friends called him irascible, grumpy and vinegary. No-one could remember him ever saying anything remotely pleasant, and he got through trainers like pairs of dirty knickers. Even so, he knew his horses, and spent two decades building up an old-school breeding empire similar in scale to Lord Derby and the Aga Khan earlier in the century. Petulant yet wily, he once stood up for himself when challenged as to why he dispensed with his trainers so quickly: “They come to me on bicycles but they
all leave in Bentleys”. All well and good, but the church was far from overflowing at his funeral. Even Holliday however couldn’t hold a candle to owner Henry Alper. An Essex-based insurance loss assessor desperate to buy his first racehorse, Alper had seen Persian War winning a couple of races easily, and decided that he would be that horse. He parted with £9,000 – a record for a hurdler – and immediately sent Persian War to trainer Brian Swift in Epsom. It would not be the poor horse’s last stable move, thanks to Alper’s habit of daily phone calls enquiring as to his nag’s welfare. Alper then sent his long-suffering horse to Colin Davies’ stable in Chepstow. The much-loved Davies had his saintly patience tested by Alper, who said, “I made it clear that he could expect me to telephone at least once a day and that it would not be long before he probably considered me a nuisance.” By ‘day’, he actually meant ‘day or night’. When Persian War won his 2nd Champion Hurdle at Cheltenham, Alper also won a cool £25,000 in bets in the process. He supposedly collapsed on hearing the result, although there is no record of anyone rushing to help him back up. Persian War was prone to swallowing his tongue, so often ran in a tongue strap. Davies once quipped that, “When we put a tongue strap on Persian War, some people thought it a pity that we didn’t do the same to the owner”.
Let us finish with a name that has transcended racing: Lester Piggott. A top jockey from the 1950s to the 1990s, Piggott displayed throughout that time all the behaviours that made him both utterly infuriating and an out-and-out genius. About as loquacious as Marcel Marceau and with an enigmatic face once memorably described as resembling a well-kept grave, Piggott invariably did his own thing, often to great success. In the 1977 St Leger, however, he messed up on the favourite Alleged, setting himself up as a sitting target for the Queen’s filly Dunfermline in the royal owner’s Silver Jubilee year. Alleged’s owner Robert Sangster was livid, saying later, “Lester was told to hold Alleged up, but he kicked on early in the home straight and acted like a pacemaker for Dunfermline. Vincent [O’Brien, Alleged’s trainer] was so devastated he dropped his binoculars before the finish.” Yet it was well known that Piggott only paid lip service when following instructions, once stating: “A good jockey doesn’t need orders and a bad jockey couldn’t carry them out anyway, so it’s best not to give them any.” Quite the team player was Piggott. n
Punch a Hole in the Wind: The Stories Behind 50 of the Greatest Racehorses Since the Dawn of Film, by Oli Hein, is published by The Racing Post and Pitch Publishing (2022)
Lester Piggott: a face like a well-kept grave
“If mainstream cinema liked to present its leading men as the chap next door, Laurence Harvey was one of British cinema’s most intriguing villains. He was the Mayfair dandy with a polished Jaguar Mk. VII parked outside a fashionable niterie, while his immaculate vowels covered an ambiguous background”
The actor born Zvi Mosheh Skikne in Lithuania on 1st October 1928 is a figure who aroused mixed feelings throughout his career. Esquire once noted of Harvey, ‘The fifth that shows is sleek and glossy’, but Wardour Street denizens muttered he exploited Hermoine Baddeley, his wives Margaret Leighton and Joan Cohn and the producer James Woolf of Romulus Films for professional advancement. Meanwhile, Elaine Stritch informed Time that acting with Harvey on stage ‘has been the most horrible experience of my life’.
Yet Andrew Loog Oldham (The Rolling Stones’ manager) wrote of how ‘Laurence Harvey’s stardom and James Woolf’s management of it would inspire me throughout the turbulence of my youth’. Perhaps the finest summary of his star persona is from Greil Marcus’s description
of the scene in The Manchurian Candidate when Frank Sinatra looks at him ‘as if he’s never seen anything stranger, more out of place in his life’. If mainstream 1950s British cinema liked to present their leading men as the chap next door, Harvey was one of British cinema’s most intriguing villains. He was the Mayfair dandy with a polished Jaguar Mk. VII parked outside a fashionable niterie, while his immaculate vowels covered an ambiguous background. And his breakthrough role in Room at the Top remains a fascinatingly unsparing deception of self-destructive insecurity.
Skikne’s family relocated to South Africa in 1933, and during the Second World War he joined an army entertainment troupe led by Sidney James. Post-war, ‘Larry Skikne’ departed for RADA, where he remained for just three months before joining the Manchester Theatre. There was also a change
of name to the more pronounceable Laurence Harvey, apparently jointly inspired by Laurence Oliver and Harvey’s Bristol Cream, to suit his new persona as a thespian of note.
Over the next 25 years, Harvey proved as ardent a self-publicist as Diana Dors, an actor seemingly born to grace the pages of various film fan magazines. Readers for whom two packets of custard creams represented utter decadence, could enjoyably disapprove of his cigarette holders and baroque hairstyle. Harvey believed in ‘suffering in abject luxury’, as demonstrated by various RollsRoyces, Maseratis and, best of all, a customised Mini-Cooper with his initials engraved in gold on the door handles.
Such ardent publicity seeking had a purpose, for Harvey would have been more than aware of the fate of various Bylcreemed former deities who fell from grace. Once Pinewood’s embodiment of healthy masculinity, Anthony Steel left the Rank Organisation in 1956 – seven years later he was reduced to appearing in ‘Black Wolseley’ B-films. The studio also foisted the inexperienced Tony Wright on the director Ray Baker for Tiger in the Smoke in a role that needed Stanley Baker or Jack Hawkins. By the late 1960s, Wright played support roles in The Saint
Such a fate would not befall the talented Mr. Skikne, who once ruminated, ‘I always spend more than I have in order to maintain a lifestyle that I would wish for’. As Picturegoer noted in 1953, ‘Forcefulness and the ability to back up his own self-selling’ created Harvey’s debut in the 1948 B-feature The House of Darkness as Francis, the arch-
rotter. He gives a performance of one who has never seen cinema acting but is prepared to give it a jolly good try. Throughout the short running time, the young actor pulls faces, sneers with considerable aplomb and hurls himself around the set with great enthusiasm.
By the end of 1948, the Associated British Picture Corporation had recruited Harvey for Elstree’s equivalent of the Rank Organisation roster of actors; his fellow artists included Patricia Dainton, Peter Reynolds and Elizabeth Sellars. The contract lasted just two years, although Picturegoer of August 1950 billed him as ‘Britain’s New Leading Man’.
However, Harvey’s Egyptian (!) police lieutenant in 1950’s Cairo Road demonstrated one of his significant casting challenges – he was never at ease as a ‘Standard Issue Juvenile Lead’.
“Readers could enjoyably disapprove of his cigarette holders and baroque hairstyle. Harvey believed in ‘suffering in abject luxury’, as demonstrated by various Rolls-Royces, Maseratis and, best of all, a customised Mini-Cooper with his initials engraved in gold on the door handles”As Rex Black in The Running Man (1963) With Lee Remick in The Running Man
Six years later, his ‘George’ in Romulus’s smugly self-satisfied adaptation of Three Men in a Boat was further proof Harvey was ill suited to play chaps prone to saying ‘Gosh!’ In later life he remarked, “I love those saturnine, dashing characters”, and Basil Dearden and Michael Relph were the first directors who understood his potential for screen villainy with 1952’s I Believe in You.
This juvenile delinquent drama represented Harvey’s sole work for Ealing Studios, and was a rare British film to use Joan Collins’s notinconsiderable thespian talents. The narrative has Harvey’s ‘Jordie’ as the embodiment of decadence, a habitué of low dives with clothes and hair on the cusp between spiv and Teddy Boy. The poster even featured Joan apparently mesmerised by Larry’s quiff of evil, as if to emphasise his menace.
Two years later, Harvey’s Miles ‘Rave’ Ravenscourt in the film noir The Good Die Young, established his screen persona – the remittance man par excellence. Post-war British cinema was rich in actors who specialised in serpentine menace – the sardonic Dudley Foster, Peter Arne (whose courteous manners seemed to barely mask fathoms of depravity) and the camply malicious Harold
Lang. But Rave possessed a unique soigné vileness – a malign figure that even his father (a notably subdued Robert Morley) repudiates.
Harvey made an equally entertaining foray into screen villainy in 1963’s The Running Man, his homicidal confidence trickster dyeing his hair blonde and acquiring a fake moustache. The picture’s highlight is the chase between the rotter’s Lincoln Continental and Alan Bates’s Austin Cambridge, with Harvey resembling Leslie Phillips portraying Dick Dastardly. By contrast, Miles Brand of John Schlesinger’s Darling is a far more sinister figure, as if Rave found his true metier in the advertising world of the mid-1960s.
But the role that consolidated Harvey’s British film stardom was Joe Lampton in Romulus’s 1959 adaption of John Braine’s novel Room at the Top. For an actor regarded by his critics as the embodiment of narcissism, it is a performance lacking vanity. An early scene has the town hall secretaries casting an appreciative glance at this handsome young man, but Harvey constantly demonstrates Lampton’s many flaws. When Simone Signoret’s sensual yet vulnerable Alice Aisgill is attracted to Joe, the audience fears for her future. Harvey does nothing
to assuage their worries in a depiction of male weakness that more than deserved its Academy Award nomination.
Harvey reprised the character for 1965’s Life at the Top, one of the decade’s few cinematic depictions of middle-class provincial existence. When Lampton attempts to flee this realm of expense accounts and Jaguar S-Types for the capital, he finds closed doors and the disdain of ‘the fashionable set’. A boardroom
sequence is especially painful; the self-made man deconstructed as played by an ambitious outsider. Harvey’s reaction to the courteous jibes of the directors seems to reflect the young Jewish Lithuanian arrival in the UK who encountered mockery from the theatrical establishment.
Joe Lampton illustrated Harvey’s potential as a leading character actor, but this did not accord with his self-image as a star. Two performances served as reminders of his often-untapped range, the first being as the would-be rock ‘n’ roll Svengali of 1959’s Expresso Bongo. “No-one,” raved Loog Oldham, “could have pleased me more as manager Johnny Jackson than my own Larry Harvey, who was as at home in the coffee bars and strip joints of Soho as he had not been in the society drawing rooms.” If there is one screen moment encapsulating Larry Parnes-era pop music, it is Jackson, eyes like pound signs, gleefully crooning, “I’ve never had it so good before.”
The second film is, of course, 1962’s The Manchurian Candidate. Throughout the 1960s, Harvey divided his time between London and Hollywood in pursuit of international stardom, but the result was often the sort of picture that used to haunt late night BBC1. But John Frankenheimer’s drama shows the pain of maintaining a patrician exterior.
“I am not lovable,” laments Raymond Shaw, and Marcus wrote how Harvey maintained the character in such an Iron Maiden of repression that,“There may be nothing in the film so frightening as the moment when, with his last words in the picture, he speaks as a human being, as a man possessed – a man possessed, finally, by himself.”
The 1968 Cold War drama A Dandy in Aspic marked the end of Harvey’s career as a major cinematic leading man. Amid some bizarre casting –Peter Cook as an effete-sinister ‘Man from The F.O.’ – he brought a sense of understated despair to the role of a Soviet double agent lost beneath the mask of a British spy. The remainder of Harvey’s screen
career now seemed to consist of ‘International Epics’ that appealed to no nation at all.
Harvey died of cancer in London on 25th November 1973, aged just 45. The Guardian’s obituary accurately observed, “There is no player of his age who survives with his particular gifts.” This writer’s favourite memory of Laurence Harvey is in the opening of Room at the Top, with Joe Lampton blowing smoke rings and proudly admiring his new shoes. It is the work of an actor who innately appreciated such ambition and youthful bravado. And, who, off-screen, delighted in being conveyed around the capital aboard a chauffeur-driven motor scooter. n
RAKER MAKE CLOTHES FOR THE FORWARD-THINKING CHAP FROM FABRICS PRODUCED IN THE BRITISH ISLES raker.shop
John and Colleen Darnell paid a visit to the site of the two World’s Fairs held in New York in 1939 and 1964, accompanied by photographer Jennifer Schulten and an era-appropriate wardrobe
WORDS: JOHN AND COLLEEN DARNELL
PHOTOGRAPHY: JENNIFER SCHULTEN
WWW.SANDIASTUDIO.COM @HERCAMERAOBSCURA
Flushing Meadows Corona Park has gone from ash heap to public park, an evolution punctuated by two World’s Fairs, one ultimately overshadowed by the outbreak of the Second World War, the other celebrating the dawn of the Space Age. In August of 1922, in the fictional, Fitzgeraldian world that runs coeval with the more mundane and generally less well scripted space-time of physical New York City, duplicitous Daisy Buchanan – with Gatsby along for the ride – struck and killed her husband’s mistress while driving pell-mell through the ‘Valley of Ashes’. Overseen in the novel by the colossal and sightless eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleberg, the site is now overlooked by the remains of those two once marvellous events – the 1939 and 1964 World’s Fairs.
In 1910, Flushing Meadows in Queens became the centre of a vast network of trains hauling the ashy detritus of the ever-growing
metropolis, focal point of a project intended to fill marshes that were once a glacial lake, as a prelude to port development. Although that plan was abandoned due to World War I and the rapid changes that followed in that conflict’s wake, controversial urban planner Robert Moses was imagining the Valley of Ashes as the site of a great park already, around the time in fictional NYC that Daisy was bearing down on the doomed
“In keeping with the futurism theme of the fair, some thought was also given to what Earthlings might wear in the year 2000, at least in a Vanity Fair magazine project.”
Colleen wears:
1960s Pan-T-Boots
Contemporaneous fringed bra-top Mod necklace from modern Aswan
John wears:
1930s Palm Beach belted-back white suit
Panama hat from Lock and Co Hatters
Colleen wears:
1960s Japanese ‘walking out’ jacket
Bikini inspired by Jane Birkin’s
Courrèges-designed bikini
Tall 1960s leather boots
1960s brimmed beret
Myrtle. Finally, preparations for the World’s Fair, begun in earnest in 1935, ultimately led to the proper cleaning up of the site.
The 1939 World’s Fair opened on 30th April; on 1st September Germany invaded Poland and the World of Tomorrow theme was suddenly somewhat obsolete. Nevertheless, the fair continued through late October 1940, and some things on view were indeed prescient, some more than their creators may have expected. Though the sleek Deco locomotives on display would ultimately and unfortunately be mostly eschewed by American businesses and travellers, the television indeed leaked out of its display and has since spread virulently across the earth.
A ‘World of Fashion’ exhibit at the 1939 fair presented fashions and accessories of the day. In keeping with the futurism theme of the fair, some thought was also given to what Earthlings might wear in the year 2000, at least in a Vanity Fair magazine project. An associated British Pathé
film presents some of this sartorial speculation from the eve of the Second World War. Women, so the design speculators thought, would wear complex clothing with zippered panels and often diaphanous elements – interesting but more slight than shocking plays on clothing of the time, although the spiral metal bra worn over a sheer
“World War II eclipsed the future that the 1939 World’s Fair envisaged, and when a World’s Fair returned to the site a quarter of a century later, in 1964, Art Deco had transformed into the already overripe Populuxe style, and the Space Age had begun”
Colleen wears:
Psychedelic 1960s tights
Courrèges dress
Clear 1960s gogo boots
1960s cap based on the ‘Snoopy cap’ of the Apollo astronauts
John wears:
1930s Palm Beach belted-back white suit
Panama hat from Lock and Co Hatters
Colleen wears:
1960s Japanese michiyuki (a ‘walking out’ jacket)
Modern interpretation of Jane Birkin’s Courrèges-designed bikini from the film La piscine
Tall 1960s leather boots
1960s brimmed beret
dress seems a feature worthy of redevelopment. Within less than a decade of the 1939 fair’s opening, this view of a future with communications on one’s person, of which we today are already past masters, inspired equally prescient concern in a short film by journalist and documentary film producer J.K. Raymond-Millet. Inspired by journalist, film critic, and science fiction author René Barjavel’s Cinéma total: essai sur les formes futures du cinéma (1944), the film
A Vanity Fair article to coincide with the 1939 World’s Fair predicted male fashions for the year 2000. The man of the future – our present – wears a practical, no-nonsense jumpsuit. Sporting a raffishly thin moustache and a goatee, looking hirsutely forward to the beatniks who were even then hull down on the horizon, the man of 2000 wears bobbed, neo-medieval hair that foreshadows the bowl cuts and longer locks of the 1960s and 1970s. The announcer for a British Pathé film released at the same time lets us know that shaving and ties, even pockets, are all no more. The accoutrements of the man of the future, larger than what they have truly become, are indeed with us. Ringing 2000-man’s head is a crown-like antenna, catching the signal for his chest-mounted radio communicator (shaped like a small ship’s speaking tube), and on his belt is a pack for Lord knows what he might carry about with him.
La Télévision, oeil de demain foresees a world in which almost everyone owns – and both addictively and equally unsafely watches – small, portable television sets. People walk past one another, disregarding their fellow humans, faces transfixed by their hand-held devices; pedestrians collide with each other and walk slowly and heedlessly in front of moving vehicles; a motorist drives at breakneck speed, eyes glued to a small screen to the right of the steering wheel, paying more attention to the traffic in the film playing on the television than to that sharp turn he is carelessly about to miss.
World War II eclipsed the future that the 1939 World’s Fair envisaged, and when a World’s Fair returned to the site a quarter of a century later, in 1964, Art Deco had transformed into the already overripe Populuxe style, and the Space Age had begun. The Queens Museum physically bridges the two fairs – the building was the New York City Building in 1939-1940 and the New York City Pavilion in 1964-1965. In 1946 this
“The 1964 World’s Fair traded the Trylon for the New York State Pavillion, with its three observation towers, topped by flyingsaucer-like elements, overlooking the ‘Tent of Tomorrow’ with its cable suspension roof”
structure did to some extent dramatically fulfill the promise of the Fair as a vision of the world of tomorrow, becoming the temporary home of the United Nations General Assembly. The great steel Unisphere (120 feet in diameter) of the 1964-1965 World’s Fair rises on the site of the Unisphere (180 feet in diameter) of the 1939 World’s Fair. The Unisphere was partially surrounded by the spiral Helicline ramp, and overshadowed by the tall (610 feet) and skinny three-sided pyramid called the Trylon. The 1964 World’s Fair traded the Trylon for the New York State Pavillion, with its three observation towers, topped by flyingsaucer-like elements, overlooking the ‘Tent of Tomorrow’ with its cable suspension roof.
In Jennifer Schulten’s portraits, we wear 1930s and 1960s fashion at the surviving architectural and sculptural features of the two World’s Fairs. In several shots, Colleen pairs psychedelic 1960s tights with a 1960s Courrèges dress, clear 1960s gogo boots and a 1960s cap based on the ‘Snoopy cap’ of the Apollo astronauts.
Colleen also wears a 1960s Japanese michiyuki (a ‘walking out’ jacket), with a modern interpretation of Jane Birkin’s Courrègesdesigned bikini from the film La piscine, made by that Australian architect of the swimsuit, Steven Fleming, at Prideswim, along with tall 1960s leather boots, and topped by 1960s brimmed beret.
Colleen also wears powerfully flowered 1960s Pan-T-Boots with a contemporaneous fringed bra-top, and a surprisingly Mod necklace from modern Aswan.
John wears two belted-back suits from the 1930s – an early Palm Beach belted back white suit paired with a modern but stylistically appropriate Panama hat from Lock and Co Hatters; the bucks are modern. The khaki belted-back suit was made in Brooklyn during the 1930s, not too far from the fairgrounds, by Irving ‘Manny’ Miller, and is paired with a modern version of a ‘duplex’ hat crafted by master hatter Blakesby Hats; the shoes are 1930s as well. John’s shirts are a bit older than the suits, dating – like the collars as well – to the 1920s. His sticks are original souvenirs with decals celebrating the 1939 World’s Fair. n
Colleen wears: Psychedelic 1960s tights Courrèges dress Clear 1960s gogo boots 1960s cap based on the ‘Snoopy cap’ of the Apollo astronauts
Colleen wears: 1960s Japanese michiyuki (a ‘walking out’ jacket) Modern interpretation of Jane Birkin’s Courrègesdesigned bikini from the film La Piscine Tall 1960s leather boots 1960s brimmed beret
John wears: Khaki belted back suit by Irving ‘Manny’ Miller Duplex hat by Blakesby Hats 1930s shoes
1920s shirt and collar
Original 1939 souvenir World’s Fair walking cane
Chris Sullivan on the peaks and troughs of his many decades spent wearing berets, with a potted history of this French titfer
Iam beret. My logo is a beret. I have sported said lid, through thick and thin, for longer than I care to recall. I am thus synonymous with the item and, as such, have gone so far as to paint a series of 24 artworks entitled Man With Beret. When it comes to this most noble of all millinery, I am certainly no whimling. The most adaptable headgear, I have employed the beret to complete some of my most favoured and frequently visited looks: Gallic 1930s crooner with Oxford bagged three-piece-suit and bow tie; Spanish Civil war anti-Franco fighter with baggy corduroys, mismatched waistcoat and collarless shirt; fifties jazz cat in double-breasted peak lapel peg trouser suit with hand painted scrambled egg tie; the beat look with chinos, USAAF leather bomber and work shirt, French with striped Breton Tee; punk with Viv Westwood black bondage suit; and urban revolutionary in
“At one point Christos Tolera and I both chose to wear berets and had to stand behind the decks like the Thompson Twins of Tintin fame. Another night we had Tolera, Kevin Rowland of Dexy’s and yours truly, all behind the decks in berets. We might have been Tweedle
Dee, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Don’t”
Che Guevara army greens and work boots. I could go on, but you get the picture.
I have about 20 berets, mainly black, navy and brown although I have sported red, pale blue, green and grey in the past. At one point, after my DJ partner and fellow beret fiend Christos Tolera and I both chose the article and had to stand behind the decks like the Thompson Twins of Tintin fame, we arrived at a pact whereby he
who first announced his intention to don the beret that night would disallow the other from doing the same. Before that night we had Tolera, Kevin Rowland of Dexy’s and yours truly all behind the decks in berets. We might have been Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Don’t.
The Beret has a rather beguiling history that goes back to over 2000 BC and was worn but the Minoans, Romans and Etruscans. But the universally accepted version of the item that we all now recognise as the beret came from Béarn, a vicinity at the base of the Pyrenees that borders Spain and the French Basque Country, whose shepherds knitted the hats from merino wool, which then shrank to one’s head size in the all too pervasive rain. The tradition was that little boys of 10 received their first beret as a mark of their entering the adult world, while the item’s resemblance to the Scottish Tam is attributed to the influence of Basque sailors. It’s also said that the name was coined by Napoleon Bonaparte during a visit to Biarritz, whose workers displayed that tuque, and ever since the nomenclature ‘béret basque’ has entered the lexicon of sartoria.
The beret was first commercially produced in the middle of the 1600s by hand, then hit the production line in the 19th century via BeatexLaulhere, who began production in 1810.
“The universally accepted version of the item that we all now recognise as the beret came from Béarn, a vicinity at the base of the Pyrenees bordering Spain and the French Basque Country, whose shepherds knitted the hats from merino wool, which then shrank to one's head size in the all too pervasive rain”
The author in one of his twenty berets in all the colours of the rainbow
In 1889 the French Alpine Troops adopted the beret, and by the twenties the beret in France and Spain was the equivalent of the flat cap in the UK – a working class staple.
The item is made by knitting undyed wool yarn into a flat pancake, the outer thread pulled to create what might resemble a shower cap. This is washed and then soaked for eight hours, allowing the loosely knit stitches to tighten into felt. It is then loaded into a washing machine and dyed and shaped using two half round metal stretchers until the desired shape is achieved. The final process is the addition of the distinctive leather band, though I prefer it without. It is usually the militia who have adopted the leather band and the drop-down tassel at the rear.
But for many, the beret has meant freedom. In WWII, French Resistance movement the Maquis wore the Basque beret purely because it was the most common French headwear and would not cause suspicion. In the Spanish Civil War of 1936-39, right wing monarchists still wore their red beret with tassel while their enemies –Republican, communist and anarchist militias and the International Brigade – wore a black or navy blue beret (the traditional headgear of Spanish workers) or a khaki military-style beret. Ernest Hemingway donned a beret during the
conflict on the side of the International Brigade. Another great advocate of the lid was the UK’s Field Marshall Montgomery, who predated the UK beatnik style by teaming said item with a duffel coat. Che Guevara, true to the tradition of the left, wore it black and thus caused the beret to become the universal emblem of the left wing revolutionary guerrilla fighter.
After Che Guevara’s reign of the sixties as king beret wearer, there came a decade with some of the worst sitcoms known to man, one of which was Some Mother’s Do ’Ave ’Em, starring the supremely irritating Michael Crawford as fey milquetoast Frank Spencer, camp as a pair of pink marigolds, accident prone and spewing out inane catchphrases. His signature outfit of black beret and a 40s style trench coat were items I was oft to wear. If I had received a pound for every person who yelled “Ooh Betty!” to me I could have put a deposit down on a broom cupboard in Knightsbridge.
Then to add injury to iniquity out came yet another sitcom in which said bonnet was almost the star. Citizen Smith (1977-80), albeit from the fine sitcom quill of Only Fools and Horses creator John Sullivan, set the tiger amongst the turkeys. Robert Lindsay played Wolfie Smith, a left wing revolutionary and leader of the Tooting Popular
Front, whose maxim was ‘power to the people’ with the requisite clenched fist salute and the iconic black tuque. I had ditched the beret due to Frank Spencer but picked it up again during punk, but then the jibes followed. If you wore a beret you were considered a communist or a fan of Johnny Rotten, neither of which went down very well.
After punk fizzled out I stepped out into the Blitz club, where my beret truly came into its own, but my penchant was never for that that big floppy article so beloved by Basques and silly New Romantics. Mine was a small tight beret that I always shrank to fit my head by boiling it in hot water and then worn while still wet to stretch to my head size. During the heady days of the early 80s, my thematic conceit went into high gear and I found myself emulating that great director Fritz Lang, by sporting a monocle avec beret and bow tie, or even emulating the rather more camp big old Orson Welles with bow and a cloak.
And then came the bebop years. In the bowels of my local library I discovered dusty albums by Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonious Monk, pictured on the sleeves resplendent in beret, double-breasted suits with fat ties, goatees and horn rimmed spectacles. This was the opposite of the New Romantic big shouldered frilly shirted popinjays. We started seeing girls dressed like Faye Dunaway as Bonnie Parker or Juliette Greco. A few years
later we started the Jazz Room at my club the Wag, where Blue note bebop was at the fore, and so the beret became a cypher for all that was hip and groovy and excellent.
And while all this was going on, in New York The Guardian Angels wore red berets in their vigilante quest to patrol and police the city’s subways and streets. They later spread to over 130 cities and 13 countries worldwide. A rather right wing, almost partisan organisation led by the outspoken Curtis Sliwa, who faked subway rescues in New York City. In 2021 his Guardian Angels were caught on camera harassing and attacking protesters as they returned from a Stonewall Inn protest. The beret has forever attracted strange bedfellows.
The only downside of the beret is that, being 100% merino wool, they are far too broiling to wear in any temperature over 22 degrees, so for decades I have searched in vain for a summertime beret. But now, Chap devotee, beret fiend and all round dandy Max Newman (right) has produced a perforated summer beret. I have tried and tested them and can attest that they are the perfect seasonal headwear paradigm.
Long live le béret and all who sail in her. n
Original French Berets: www.laulhere-france.com
Max Newman – find his Summer berets on Instagram @7inchmax
Gustav Temple on the colourful bounty that has resulted from The Chap’s collaboration with silk maestro Geoff Stocker
PHOTOGRAPHY: ROSS ROBERTSON
MODELS: LIV BULLOCK @SOFT_HIT MARS DILBERT @LIFE_ON_MARS96
SILKWEAR: GEOFF STOCKER/THE CHAP
Our previous edition alluded to the meeting of minds over bolts of silk that started a collaboration with silk accessory maker Geoff Stocker. Initially we chose a modest selection of items from his archive of neckties, pocket squares and ladies’ headscarves and made them available to our readers. But this was just the warm-up. Once we realised that the language we spoke, of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings, of unfurled umbrellas and carefully knotted bow ties, it was clear that the next step would be to bring about the manufacture of some brand-new silk accessory designs.
Reader, these new designs are spread right beneath your eyes, photographed on a sunny summer’s day by Ross Robertson. Models Liv and Mars expertly knotted the new Chap/Stocker headscarf about their finely coiffed heads, while Gustav Temple himself – in the absence of anyone else suitably attired nearby – modelled the two new pocket squares. n
Brolly Dolly ladies’ headscarf and both new pocket squares are are now available from www.thechap.co.uk
www.geoffstocker.com
LIV (LEFT) WEARS: Green Brolly Dolly Headscarf
MARS WEARS:
Peach/Blue Brolly Dolly Headscarf
GUSTAV WEARS:
Deco Brolly Pocket Square
Suit by Pratt & Prasad
Tie by Tootal
GUSTAV WEARS:
Deco Brolly Pocket Square
Suit by Walker Slater
Shirt by TM Lewin
GEOFF WEARS: Winged Brolly Pocket Square Jacket from County Clothes, Bexhill Shirt by Charles Tyrwhitt
As I write this, I’m staying in England’s beautiful Lake District hearing the rain beat down outside my window – British summer holiday weather. Like it or not, that rain is essential to two of the British made products I wanted to tell you about.
There’s nothing like a traditional heavy-knit jumper for that very British relaxed style that is copied around the world. Glencroft is a family business
that has been making country clothing using local manufacturers since 1987. The Clapdale Wool Project was started in 2021 by Glencroft’s Edward Sexton to source local wool yarns for tweeds and knitting wools. He worked with farmers near their North Yorkshire base to collect wool, which was then scoured (cleaned), carded and combed (processes for straightening the fibres) and spun. The aim was to ensure that farmers received a reasonable income from fleeces which would otherwise be worthless.
I was sent a sample of the Thwaite (from the local Norse name for a meadow or clearing) jumper made from these locally sourced wools. It arrived well-packaged with a booklet outlining the project, a sample of the raw wool used to make the jumper, a 100g hank of yarn for any future tuning repairs, darning needles, a cedar ring to keep off moths and a photo print of William Dawson, from whose sheep the wool originated. I love this highly personalised approach, which makes clear the origins of the jumper and the work that has gone into creating it. The jumper itself is quite heavy, fairly soft and has that faint lanolin smell that only the best knitwear has. The project supports many local businesses and has produced a jumper of the highest quality that, despite the costs of production, still costs less than many designer name products made cheaply and less sustainably overseas.
The sheep that produced Glendale’s wool depend on the lush grasses watered by the rains of Yorkshire’s Dales. Moving from wool to whisky, the products of The Lakes Distillery in Cumbria, not too far over the hills from Glendale’s base, also rely on the local rains. Anyone who visits the Lake District will know that rain is a reliable characteristic of this area, with its beautiful lakes and fells (another word with Norse origins). The distillery makes its spirits from water from a borehole sunk in the field next to the stone-built converted Victorian dairy farm near Bassenthwaite Lake in the North Lakes.
The distillery was opened in 2011 by Paul Currie, who felt instinctively that Cumbria was as ideal place to make whisky. It has the water, the sense of place (I always associate whisky with
wilder, rugged places) and creative people used to making things from the harsh landscape in which they live. The Lake District has developed a reputation as a foodie’s paradise, with some 13 Michelin stars spread over eleven restaurants in the area. Those driving north on the M6 discover the richness of Cumbria’s foods if they stop at the farm shop and restaurant at Tebay Services, where most of the products on sale are locally sourced. Shrimps from Morecambe Bay, Herdwick lamb, foraged fruits and fungi and sticky toffee pudding are just a few of the many culinary delights from the area.
Shown around the distillery, I was impressed by the enthusiasm and passion shown for the whisky making craft. The single malt whiskies are developed by a process of ‘élevage’, in which the whisky is constantly refined as it matures. The Whiskymaker’s Special Editions are made to reflect certain themes: a recent collaboration with Simon Rogan of Cumbria’s three Michelin Star L’Enclume Restaurant in Cartmel, captures the spirit of Cumbria. The core collection of Whiskymaker Reserve single malts, from No.1 to No.7 (due soon) trace the distillery’s creativity as its potential unhindered, as a young distillery, by any inflexible house style.
The formula works. In 2022 The Lakes Distillery’s Whiskymaker’s Reserve No.4 was declared World’s Best Single Malt by World Whiskies Awards. I have about a centimetre left in my bottle of No.4, bought a few years ago (I drink my whisky slowly and savour it) and it was delicious. Lakes’ whiskies are matured in sherry oak casks and have a diverse complexity and, while each edition varies greatly from the others, there is a common thread
that’s hard to define, other than to say that it’s a certain richness and depth that reflects the creative character of the brand. There is not a harsh whisky to be found; some have a lightness for easy enjoyment, others have flavours that go on and on.
2023 saw much ceremonial, the sad event of a royal funeral and the happier one of a coronation. The array of uniforms was dazzling. We tend to forget that their complexity relies on rare tailoring and sewing skills that deserve recognition. I wanted to mention just one of the crafts people responsible for some of the displays of magnificence. Dege & Skinner’s military tailoring specialist Sarah Wilkinson joined the bespoke tailoring and shirt-making company based in Savile Row in 1983. During her four-decade career she has worked on some striking pieces of military tailoring, including uniforms for the Royal Family, The Yeoman of the Guard, the Guards regiments and The Royal Company of Archers, which acts as the Sovereign’s official bodyguard in Scotland. She was a trailblazer for women working on Savile Row and has been forty years at Dege & Skinner, who hold the Royal Warrant for work on these specific and historic uniforms.
Finally, as autumn moves towards winter, we welcome the return of the tweed season and the perfect excuse to wear a suit again. I’m delighted that Cordings of Piccadilly asked me again this year to create a few products for a small Grey Fox
collection. As Chap magazine goes to press the collection isn’t yet fully ready, but I can show early shots of the grey herringbone suit that I designed for formal wear or as casual separates. In these days of declining suit use, we felt we should offer something that could be used for many purposes, for both work and play. The tweed isn’t too heavy and has all the softness and comfort of that cloth, making this a suit for everyone.
For those with an interest in the tailoring side, the jacket is ‘three roll two’ – the top button is concealed on the roll of the lapel, allowing the top button to be used if needed, but allowing the jacket otherwise to look like two-button (preferred by some to the more traditional three-button jacket). It’s considered rather US preppy/Ivy League, but I suspect its origins go back much further than that. The collection will also contain another brushed Shetland jumper (as last year’s examples were very popular), a knitted tie, some unusual but rather natty horizontal wale corduroy trousers and a gorgeous check wool coat. These should have appeared on Cordings’ website by the time this appears in print.
Finally, this year saw the passing of that tailoring great, Edward Sexton (no relation to Glencroft’s Edward Sexton, above) who from the sixties did so much to drag Savile Row into the modern era. I had the pleasure of meeting Sexton a few times and interviewing him for my blog. A modest man, he told me that he learned something new every day and he claimed that he had never made the perfect suit, which must have made him the perfect tailor. Wisdom there for us all. n
www.bossmorris.com
What led you to decide to start a new Morris side?
We weren’t on a mission to change the perception of morris. I got into morris dancing in 2006 when I was living in London. I went to an evening class at Cecil Sharp House led by a lovely chap called John Russell, who was a member of The Beaux of London City, a traditional morris side. Some friends of mine and I set up the Belles of London City and it kind of took off from there. When I moved back to Stroud in 2011, my sister Kate joined in and so Boss Morris evolved from that.
We’re not as unusual as people think in being an all-women side. It’s a bit of a myth that morris is just men with beards and hankies. Ever since the
“This idea that morris is English is not necessarily true. It’s an amalgam of lots of different traditions and cultures, and that expresses how I feel as a British person. I’ve been dancing in Spain a few times at folk festivals and there’s folk dancing there that is a kind of cousin of morris”Photograph: ©Becky Morris Knight
Photograph: ©Becky Morris Knight
seventies folk revival, women have been doing the real pioneering in morris dancing.
We explore lots of different avenues. The bedrock of the side is the beautiful traditional morris melodies, which are at the heart of what we do. We’re so lucky to have some leading lights of English folk music living locally, like Sam Sweeney, Rob Harbron and Miranda Rutter, and they play for us. And over the years we’ve been asked to dance morris to other band’s tracks. Morris can be danced to virtually any beat and it has led to some pretty amazing collaborations with bands like Orbury Common, Alex Rex, Wet Leg and Hot Chip. The traditional morris steps work really well over a contemporary sound. As a development of that we’ve made some morris remixes, so a traditional morris melody has been remixed electronically. My musician partner, Aron Attwood, and also Sam Sweeney, has done some remixes for us, and it means we can do the traditional dance over a much more modern-sounding track. So we can take it to a completely different setting like a festival or a nightclub. We’re planning to make our own album with a much more modern sounding take on morris.
I imagine that the audience you can potentially reach, once you modernise the music, will increase by a thousandfold. Young people can be a bit wary of folk music, but as soon as you put some beats
Photograph: ©Simon Pizzey
“Morris dancing embraces a connection to the outdoors and nature. We’re not a pagan side, but we still get up on May Day at dawn and dance as the sun rises, and that’s kind of a lifechanging thing to do, even though it isn’t a belief system as such”
on it, they prick up their ears. Absolutely! I really like the idea of having these morris remixes and people dancing to them in clubs, not realising it was originally morris music.
Even if they did, I’ve got a feeling they wouldn’t care. There seems to be a recent attraction to folklore and paganism in general. Are you sensing this too?
We’re all sensing that at the moment, perhaps as a reaction to the lockdown and the capitalist society we all have to work within. Morris dancing embraces a connection to the outdoors and nature. We’re not a pagan side, but we still get up on May Day at dawn and dance as the sun rises, and that’s kind of a life-changing thing to do, even though it isn’t a belief system as such.
“Morris was picked up in the early 15th century as a form of entertainment. In the royal courts and palaces, if you wanted to put on a swanky party you’d have morris dancers in. There are records of the palaces paying for fine silken costumes and golden spangles, and they’d be backflipping over swords”Photograph: ©Ben Edge
When you say you’re not a pagan side, are you saying that there are pagan morris sides?
Oh yes, there are. The good thing about morris is you can make it your own and it can become anything you want it to be. There’s a greater variety now and new sides springing up all over the country.
Can I ask why you felt it necessary to have a statement on your web site saying you don’t support nationalism?
Because in the past there have been attempts to appropriate folk culture by right-wing nationalist groups. We wanted to emphasise the fact that morris is for everybody.
Does the specific Englishness of it appeal to you, or is it just that you happen to be from here and that’s the folklore of England?
It’s not really as English as people think it is. Morris originated as a European dance tradition. I’ve been dancing in Spain a few times at folk festivals and there’s folk dancing there that is a kind of cousin of morris, with similar stepping, sticks and bells. Morris was picked up in the early 15th century as a form of entertainment. In the royal courts and palaces, if you wanted to put on a swanky party you’d have morris dancers in. There are records of the palaces paying for fine silken costumes and golden spangles, and they’d be backflipping over swords. This idea that morris is English is not necessarily true. It’s an amalgam of lots of different
Photograph: ©Simon Pizzey“Morris an amalgam of lots of different traditions and cultures, and that expresses how I feel as a British person. It makes me feel connected to my local community and landscape because we’re marking the changing of the seasons, but we also feel connected globally to the wider folk cultures that are happening all over the world”
traditions and cultures, and that expresses how I feel as a British person. It’s a perfect expression of that. It makes me feel connected to my local community and landscape because we’re marking the changing of the seasons, but we also feel connected globally to the wider folk cultures that are happening all over the world.
So tell me about the masks. Are they influenced by The Wicker Man and the darker side of folklore?
We weren’t born out of a desire to emulate The Wicker Man or Midsomar, but a lot of the ‘beasts’ you’re referring to are an actual English tradition that predates morris dancing. We’re interested in
all that; the hobbyhorses and the Mari Lwyd, all these funny folk creatures. Most morris sides have just one mascot, but we’ve gone a bit crazy and introduced loads of them!
My sister moved to Cornwall and she’s started another new side there called The Wad. They’re another exciting collective; they’re brand-new and have already got some amazing dances, costumes and beasts. My sister was the one who helped develop the Boss Morris look, and then she moved to Falmouth and started her own side. Our parents are both Morris dancers, in another side called Miserden Morris, and my dad’s the foreman – the one who teaches the dancers. But they love the way we’re doing it as well. n
“Later excavations, particularly the one funded in 1968 by the BBC and broadcast live to the nation, showed how the massive mound had been slowly built, layer upon layer over many generations. But no great revelation into the secret of the hill emerged – just fragments of the past, such as antler picks and a couple of Roman coins”
Not long ago, a chap could be relied upon to have a working knowledge of archaeology and the neolithic. Society was so ordered that the eldest son inherited the estate, the second son became a solider, and the youngest a clergyman and amateur archaeologist. You can still see this generation posing in Victorian photographs in provincial museums: stiffly posed with navvies over an ancient tomb on a down that has just been ‘dug’.
I am talking about that most strange of antiquities: a huge mound, constructed over generations in the Wiltshire countryside; ancient to the Romans, perhaps older than Stonehenge, the strangest and most mysterious of all ‘prehistoric’ structures. So far, Silbury Hill has guarded the secret of its construction for around two millennia.
One needs at least a working knowledge of the neolithic to make any sense of this strange
creation. Allow me to explain.
What duffers refer to as ‘prehistory’ can be more accurately split into several periods, of which the most recent to us is the neolithic – AKA the new stone age – primarily because stone structures begin to appear across Europe during this period. This is the era when settlement and farming emerged, and the great monuments, like Stonehenge, can be dated to the end of the period, as the new Stone Age blurs into the Bronze Age.
As far as our own dear island is concerned, neolithic culture spreads from the Orkneys, moving slowly down the country and finding its most sacred landscapes around Avebury and the Salisbury Plain. But these were not the lands of ‘cavepeople’ cavorting in fur bikinis. Sir, they were like you and I in all but their tailoring. Neolithic culture left no writing, so we are forced to interpret their monuments as best we can.
Imagine this: the as-yet-unnamed island is largely wooded, with sparse settlements and a population of around 2,000 people. As far as we can tell, neolithic society would devote time and resources to the construction of ‘monuments’ – earth enclosures or henges – where, we can surmise from the evidence, families met for seasonal gatherings, hunting honey-fed pigs for solstice
feasts. We can reconstruct a complex belief system, perhaps based on the veneration of a goddess and the seasons. The worship of the ancestors whose bones were deposited in communal tombs was also probably a significant element of the neolithic lifestyle.
Silbury Hill is a time traveller from these times to ours. Later myths link it with the legendary King
Sil. The Victorians thought it was a tomb stuffed with treasure and dug tunnels into it. They found absolutely nothing. Later excavations, particularly the one funded in 1968 by the BBC and broadcast live to the nation, showed how the massive mound had been slowly built, layer upon layer over many generations. But no great revelation into the secret of the hill emerged – just fragments of the past such as antler picks and a couple of Roman coins. The tunnels sunk into Silbury did reveal, however, that at the heart of the hill is a mound. Insect remains indicate that work began one summer on open grassland. The weight of the Hill had preserved the clods of grass piled up – perhaps one hot July 2,000 years ago. There is also evidence that the hill might have had at its centre a massive tree trunk, something of a totem pole; perhaps it celebrated a sacred site – not surprisingly, Silbury
Hill lies very near the source of the river Kennet; a mother river; a spring of life; a navel.
Some have suggested that the mound is a representation of the mother goddess herself. As it was built of chalk, it might indeed have shimmered in the landscape like a full moon; presiding over what might have been a matriarchal society. If this is a fantasy of origins, it is perhaps no more far fetched than those who want to see in the Hill a society organised around priests and hierarchies. Reading our present into their past, we can only imagine that there must have been some powerful chieftain directing labour.
What if communal work was sacred? A gift to the goddess or to the community itself? Given
the insights of modern archaeology, the best guess is that the building of the mound was the point itself – indeed, this would correspond with evidence drawn from other henges. The peoples that met there, perhaps on a yearly cycle, worked to repair bank and ditch; depositing, year on year, the remains of the feats they had shared. We could extend this theory to see in the building of Silbury Hill a reminder that there are other ways of living, thinking and being together.
The great Julian Cope’s writings on the Hill are well worth reading. Cope sees Silbury in its landscape; the end point of a pilgrimage to the mother goddess. He has walked the Wiltshire downs, and convincingly argues that the pilgrims would have approached in such a way that the top of Silbury would appear over the horizon, then slip down again, before rising, like the moon itself, as the pilgrims neared the sacred site. A speculative
reconstruction, maybe, but one which plays with the Silbury’s invitation to imagination.
The difficulty is fully to understand Silbury in its landscape; a landscape changing over extended stretches of time. What, for instance, is the relationship between Silbury and that other enigmatic monument, the massive henge of Avebury? A similar question could be asked about those chambered tombs that lie a bone’s throw from the mother mound. The contemporary visionary, dreaming through Silbury’s long time, has to contend with various erasures of its sacred geography, not least the vandalism of the Romans, who cut their straight road through the swirling energies of Silbury’s world.
You can go there today and visit the Hill. But don’t climb it. That would be wrong. If you respect the goddess, she will welcome you and allow you, briefly, to slip out of time. n
Photo: Noelle Vaughn
As the lift doors open and I enter the foyer, I offer an uncharacteristically exuberant “Good morning, sir!” to the seated concierge. A perfunctory grunt is all he can muster in return, his nameplate sitting atop the desk almost in response to my suggestion that this morning may well be good: Asif
I step out of the art deco building where I’ve lived since August 2020 – when, gradually emerging from the first lockdown, rents in E1 were slightly more affordable – and am immediately confronted with one possible reason for the concierge’s apathy. A slate grey sky shrouds the tall buildings surrounding me, and a miserable drizzle causes me instinctively to pull my collar tightly around my neck and hunch my shoulders, as if this will protect me from getting wet. Like Asif, the
“135 years after Jack the Ripper performed his grisly deeds, the cult, the myth, the folklore and the ten-a-penny puns show no sign of abating. If I were to walk for two minutes in the opposite direction, towards the City, I could get a moustache trim or a haircut at Jack the Clipper”
weather greatly affects my mood, and a familiar melancholy replaces my short-lived ebullience. Although, reminiscent of a Dickensian smog, it’s the perfect setting for this morning’s meandering.
One of the many reasons I’m so entranced by this part of the Big Smoke is its rich history. Just to my right is Cable Street, where, on October 4th 1936, a series of clashes took place between Oswald Mosley’s Blackshirts and antifascist demonstrators, including large numbers of the local Jewish community, one of whom (according to Wensley Clarkson’s biography) was the villain Jack ‘Spot’ Comer. Spot’s infamy was cemented in gangland folklore after his role in a street battle very different to the one that occurred on Cable Street. ‘The Fight That Never Was’ (so called because none of the many witnesses were willing to talk to the police) was a knife brawl between Jack Spot and ‘Italian’ Albert Dimes in the Continental Fruit Stores, on the corner of Frith Street and Old Compton Street, in 1955. Within view from where I’m standing, at number 12 Cable Street, is the Jack the Ripper museum. Today I plan to conduct my own personal research by treading in his footsteps.
I head in the opposite direction towards Aldgate East and pass 99 Leman Street, an edifice
originally constructed as the London headquarters of The Co-operative Wholesale Society. The building was formally opened five months after Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee, on 2nd November 1887, with the social reformer and local reverend Samuel August Barnett in attendance. To the average Victorian, this dark corner of the metropolis was outcast London, and it wasn’t until the Oxford-educated Revd Barnett and his wife moved to St. Jude’s vicarage on Commercial Street in 1873 that philanthropists and private charities began to make an impact on some of the area’s major social problems. Whitechapel’s population was then approximately 80,000, 11,000 of whom were dossers and vagrants who often resorted to sleeping in dustbins to keep warm.
Having crossed over from Leman Street, I pass Jack the Chipper, the fish and chip shop now at its new premises on Whitechapel Road. It’s the second Ripper-related establishment I’ve encountered within three minutes of leaving my flat. 135 years after performing his grisly deeds, the Ripper continues to retain his hold on the popular imagination, and particularly that of local business proprietors, it would seem. The cult, the myth, the folklore and the ten-a-penny puns show no sign of
abating. If I were to walk for two minutes in the opposite direction, towards the City, I could get a moustache trim or a haircut at Jack the Clipper, in a building which, according to their website, was a barbershop during the Ripper’s reign of terror. With my barnet neatly coiffed, though, I have no need for a visit to the tonsorialist, and instead continue eastward along Whitechapel Road. Within a few yards I’m standing outside a shop advertising Jack the Ripper tours. Men’s clothier Alberts, briefly home to a Jewish newspaper in the 1920s, is next to Gunthorpe Street, in front of what used to be George Yard, the site of what some Ripperologists still consider to be the Ripper’s first murder.
The jury’s still out on whether Martha Tabram was in fact a Ripper victim. She isn’t included in the so-called Canonical Five – the five murders, all committed in 1888, linked by the police to a single killer. A prostitute like the rest of the Ripper’s victims, Tabram is now thought to have been murdered by someone else, very likely one or both of the soldiers she’d solicited and with whom she was last seen alive. Hers is one of a dozen murders between 1888 and 1892 that have been speculatively attributed to Jack the Ripper.
Mary Ann (Polly) Nichols is conventionally understood to be the Ripper's first victim. She was killed in Buck’s Row, now Durward Street, just off Whitechapel Road. I'd reach it in a few minutes if I were to continue walking straight, towards Mile End. I turn left, however, and pass Jack the Chipper’s previous incarnation on the corner of Osborn Street and Whitechapel Road. The exact spot where, at 2.30am on 31st August, 1888, Polly Nichols was last seen alive.
I continue up Brick Lane towards Hanbury Street, the location of the Ripper’s second murder. The body of Annie Chapman, also known as ‘Dark Annie’, was discovered in the unsecured yard behind 29 Hanbury Street, eight days after that of Polly Nichols. After a three-week lull, two more savage murders were committed in the early hours of Sunday 30th September, within a quarter of an hour’s walk of each other. This has since become known as the Double Event. Elizabeth ‘Long Liz’ Stride was found in Dutfield’s Yard on Berner Street (now Henriques Street). Her body was detected by costermonger Louis Diemschutz, whose pony had shied away from what Diemschutz at first thought was a pile of rubbish in its way.
Less than an hour after Stride’s, the body
of Catherine Eddowes was found over in Mitre Square, a mile west of Dutfield’s Yard. Having spent a few hours in the cells at Bishopsgate, where she’d been placed to sober up after being found drunk on a pavement in Aldgate, she was released at around 1am and headed towards Houndsditch and Mitre Square. Somewhere along the way she met the Ripper. Jack’s fourth murder was the only one to take place in the City of London, so the investigation, unlike the other murders, was in the hands of the City Police, rather than the Met. Having walked the length of Hanbury Street, I make my way towards Spitalfields and the site of the Ripper’s final murder. Mary Jane Kelly was killed in her room in Miller’s Court, off what was then Dorset street, which she rented from lodginghouse keeper John McCarthy. At one time known as the worst street in London, Dorset Street no longer exists, the site now occupied by a modern office block overlooking Commercial Street and facing Christ Church Spitalfields. At 10.45am on 9th November 1888, McCarthy sent his shop assistant, Thomas Bowyer, to collect overdue rent from Kelly. When no answer was forthcoming, Bowyer looked through the broken pane of glass into her room, and was horrified by what he saw.
The photograph of Kelly’s corpse taken at the scene is the last memento of Jack the Ripper's hideous spree.
Theories abound about the notorious serial killer’s true identity and what could have possessed him to commit such gruesome crimes. Was he the dissolute grandson of Queen Victoria, Prince Albert ‘Eddy’ Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale? Or perhaps he was the Queen’s physician, the high ranking freemason Sir William Gull, whose services were enlisted as part of an elaborate cover-up for the aforementioned Eddy, according to conspiracy theory posited by Stephen Knight in his book Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution. The book provided inspiration for Alan Moore’s graphic novel From Hell, the title of which was taken from what was written in lieu of a return address on a letter sent to the Central News Agency, signed by Jack the Ripper and believed to be one of only two letters that could be genuine. Other suspects include the barrister M. J Druitt, Polish barber Aaron Kosminsky and the artist Walter Sickert (also implicated as an accomplice, in Stephen Knight’s theory). More outlandish suspects include Alice in Wonderland author Lewis Carroll, philanthropist Dr. Barnardo, and I’m pretty sure even Oscar Wilde
gets a mention somewhere. But the truth is that, nearly a century and a half after Jack the Ripper prowled and preyed on the prostitutes of the streets that I now tread, we’re no closer to knowing who he was. Maybe we don’t really want to know. The tale would inevitably lose some of its mystique. The myth is far more alluring and probably far less prosaic than the reality.
I enter the main entrance to my building. The ever-present concierge is sitting in exactly the same position, with exactly the same body language and facial expression, as when I left him. I press the lift button and look up to see what floor it’s on. 5... 4... 3... With a little more research, who’s to say that, in a century’s time, it won’t be me that East End flaneurs are writing about, as the man who finally provided the solution to one of the world’s most famous unsolved crimes? As I step into the lift I glance over at the concierge’s nameplate: Asif n
1965’s A Study in Terror was a Sherlock Holmes tale based on the Jack the Ripper story, starring John Neville as Holmes, Robert Morley as Mycroft Holmes, Barbara Windsor as Annie Chapman, Edina Ronay as Mary Kelly and Norma Foster as Liz Stride. The original screenplay was not one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories but was based on the characters he created.
NOT YOUR AVERAGE COCKTAIL CABINET
100
Gustav Temple on some geographical curiosities with which one may fashion familiar cocktails with the added ingredient of international intrigue
Naturally, the first thing one inspects upon ingress to a home not previously visited, whether it belongs to a potential friend, colleague or paramour, is not, as some may assume, the bookshelf or the CD collection, since both these parameters can easily be misread. The books may have been placed there purely to impress visitors, while the CDs may be the leftovers of a doomed relationship. The cocktail cabinet, however, is a much more honest reflection of the householder’s tastes, for upon those glass shelves appears a collection of drinks that one may assume will be poured into the body of said homeowner at some point.
“If there are no bottles at all, anywhere visible in the house, then you still may be dealing with a dipsomaniac who drinks in the morning and has nothing left by the evening. If the host is a genuie teetotaler, then you should leave the house immediately”
If the bottles are a bit on the dusty side and seem to contain congealed substances untouched for decades, then these bottles may fulfil the same role as the CDs and simply be the legacy of a previous occupant. If the bottles are fresh and unopened, but all of exactly the same drink, then the occupant is probably an alcoholic. It is well documented that dipsomaniacs prefer to sink vast quantities of the same brew over and over again, eschewing the inconvenience of sampling the subtleties of new flavours, nor indeed fiddling about with jiggers and cocktail shakers. If there are no bottles at all, anywhere visible in the house, then you still may be dealing with a dipsomaniac who drinks in the morning and has nothing left by the evening. If the host is a genuine teetotaler, then you should leave the house immediately.
We should all know our way around the various spirits usually present in a cocktail cabinet, and be capable of mixing a cocktail or two from whatever is available, which is one way of impressing one’s host. Another way is to bring to the party a drink they have never seen or heard of before, and show them how to make a cocktail with that. There follows a modest collection of unusual tipples from around the world – some of
COSMOPOLITAN
1.5 oz Vodka
1 oz Cranberry juice
1/2 oz Cointreau/Triple Sec
1/2 oz Fresh lime juice
Put all ingredients into cocktail shaker filled with ice. Shake well and double strain into large cocktail glass. Garnish
them unusual merely because the country they come from is not normally associated with that beverage.
Kavka
ABV 46%. 70cl. £45
Starka is a Polish word used to describe the ageing process of leaving pure spirit in an oak cask, originally referring to the tradition of a father filling a cask with home-made spirit and sealing it with beeswax, before burying it when a new child is born. The barrel would then be dug up on the wedding day of that child. In homage to this tradition, Polish vodka Tokaji has been aged in casks previously used for a Hungarian sweet wine known as Tokaji. The base vodka contains plum and apple for added flavour and is aged for 18 months. The result initially tastes slightly flammable, like petrol leaking from an armoured vehicle during Operation Barbarossa. But then the sweeter notes of plum and apple kick in, softening the voyage down one’s throat. These really come into their own when Kavka is used in a sweet cocktail such as a Cosmopolitan, the sharpness of the fruit notes cutting through the cranberry and Triple Sec.
Mackmyra Bruks Whisky
ABV: 41.4%. £56 for 70cl.
Sweden is a country whose most famous exports are muesli, catchy pop tunes and depressing television series about strange people, so what are they doing producing whisky? Perhaps to try and make all the above seem more palatable? Sweden is now seen as a serious contender on the world’s single malt stage, but Mackmyra got there first, founding the country’s first-ever whisky distillery in 1999.
Using local barley, spring water and Swedish oak, Mackmyra Brukswhisky is matured intensely. The smoky recipe has a Swedish signature and is malted and smoked by hand using locally cut peat, together with juniper twigs. A short distance from the distillery, the old Bodås Mine is then used to age the whisky, 50 metres underground.
So how does it compare to its Scottish overlords and Japanese contenders?
There is no question that this is a seriously good whisky, with a peaty smokiness reminiscent of Talisker, leading to a dryness redolent of pebbles on a beach. A slightly salty aftertaste adds to the seafaring notes, making this a superb single malt to drink solo, or in a cocktail with very few other ingredients such as a Rob Roy.
ROB ROY
1 oz Whisky
1/2 oz Sweet Vermouth
A few dashes Angostura
Bitters
1 Cherry to garnish
Shake all the ingredients except the cherry over ice in a cocktail shaker, strain into a martini glass and garnish with the cherry.
Nordés Atlantic Galician Gin
ABV: 40%. £32.95 for 70cl.
Just when you thought you’d had enough of flavoured gins (what’s wrong with the delicious flavour of gin?), colouring the spirit all shades of the rainbow and dousing it with strawberries, raspberries, pineapples, roses, and even – yes, you heard correctly – Jaffa Cakes, along comes Nordés Gin. The Spanish have long been producers of decent gin, but Nordés is the first to come from Galicia, the province on the north-western tip of the Iberian peninsula.
Named after the wind that signals the arrival of fine weather in Galicia, Nordés breaks new ground by being made with a grape-based spirit: white Albariño. These grapes are native to Galicia and northern Portugal and are used in crisp whites such as Vinho Verde. The eleven other botanicals in Nordés Gin include six locally harvested ones: sage, bay leaf, lemon verbena, eucalyptus, peppermint and saltwort, also known as sea asparagus. The botanicals are macerated separately before distillation, resulting in an extremely well balanced base spirit.
The unusual bottle design is inspired by the traditional ceramics of Sargadelos, made in Galicia and synonymous with sharp designs in white and
1 oz Nordés Atlantic Galician Gin
1.5 oz Albariño Wine
3 oz tonic water
1 twist of lemon peel
3 white grapes, skewered
Fill a tumbler or tall glass with plenty of ice. Pour in the Nordés Gin, add the Albariño wine and stir carefully. Add the tonic water, lemon peel and garnish with a skewer of 3 white grapes.
blue colours. The flavour profile of Nordés Gin is decidedly not juniper-forward, instead offering a refreshing and authentic depth with a distinctive herbal aroma contributed by the Albariño grapes.
Carlos I Solera
ABV: 40%. £33 for 70cl.
The Spanish make less of a fuss about Brandy than the French, treating it almost as a byproduct of the more venerated sherry in all its manifestations, from the crispest Fino to the sultriest Pedro Ximenez. For the last 250 years, Carlos I has been produced at the Osborne bodega in Puerto de Santa Maria, part of the Andalucian ‘Sherry Triangle’ that includes Jerez de la Frontera (Jerez is Spanish for Sherry – so the city is actually named ‘Sherry of the Frontier’). Carlos I is one of several drinks named Brandy de Jerez produced in the Sherry Triangle, aged in American oak casks previously used for Oloroso and Amontillado sherries for more than 20 years, providing Carlos I with its deep, woody, sweet flavour. The Amontillado adds almond and hazelnut flavours, while the Oloroso enriches Carlos I with nutty aromas, old oak and tannins, giving it a noble and elegant flavour with notes of vanilla and cocoa.
SIDECAR
1.5 oz Brandy
1/2 oz Cointreau or Triple Sec
1/2 oz freshly squeezed lemon juice
Orange twist for garnish
Shake ingredients over ice in a shaker and strain into a coupé glass. Garnish with an orange twist.
1 oz Axia Spirit
3 oz tomato juice
Dash of Worcestershire
Sauce
Pinch of celery salt
Pinch of black pepper
Juice of half a lemon
Dash of Tabasco sauce
Fill a Collins glass with ice and set aside. Add all ingredients to a cocktail shaker with more ice and shake well. Strain into the prepared glass and garnish with a sprig of celery and a lime wedge.
Axia Spirit
ABV: 40%. £32 for 70cl.
In Greece, mastic resin has been extracted from the Mastiha tree for centuries, used as an antioxidant and snakebite healer. Twice a year, the locals slice the bark of the Mastiha tree, milk the sap and leave it to dry in the wind to form crystal ‘tear drops’. These crystals are then cleaned and
transported to the Plomari Distillery. There they are blended with alcohol and twice distilled, to produce the extra-dry unsweetened white spirit named Axia.
Hippocrates recommended mastic resin to prevent digestive problems, colds and as a breath freshener. Mastic liquors were widely consumed as a tonic during Roman times. Alcoholic spirits flavored with mastic resin have been common in Greece since the 18th century.
Axia’s low sugar content has been distilled to bring out notes of cypress, rose and bergamot. Its nearest alcoholic relative is gin, though Axia is much drier and sharper. There are notes of cut grass and menthol, with a mineral, slatey hint on the nose. On the palate, Axia releases citrussy notes with a buried sweetness, while finishing with a pine aftertaste.
Axia Mastiha works equally well straight up or on the rocks with tonic, and as the base of several cocktails.
2 ounces bourbon
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon water
3 dashes Angostura bitters
Garnish: orange twist
Add the sugar and bitters into a mixing glass, then add the water and stir until the sugar is nearly dissolved. Fill the mixing glass with ice, add the bourbon, and stir until chilled. Strain into a rocks glass over one large ice cube. Garnish with an orange twist.
ABV: 47% 70cl. £45
You could be forgiven for never having heard of the Reverend Elijah Craig, despite having bottles of Maker’s Mark, Buffalo Trace and Woodfords Reserve in your cocktail cabinet. Known as ‘The Father of Bourbon,’ the Reverend Elijah Craig established his distillery in 1789 on the banks of Elkhorn Creek in modern-day Georgetown, Kentucky. Elijah Craig is credited with being the first distiller to age his wares in charred oak barrels. The clear, unaged corn whiskey was transformed into a bold amber liquid with a distinctively smooth flavour that makes Bourbon what it is today.
Elijah Craig
Bourbon is produced by Heaven Hill Distillery,
America’s largest independent, family-owned distillery and the world’s second-largest holder of Kentucky Bourbon. Elijah Craig is a nononsense bourbon that glides down the throat as smoothly as a Kentucky sunset, with a deep, dark, mysterious sweetness that lingers on the palate long after sundown. n
The recent news that HSBC – perhaps Canary Wharf’s most iconic inhabitant – is to vacate the area, opting instead for a base in the City, has shaken up London’s financial district. With the recent opening of the Elizabeth line, this once far-flung area has become easily accessible from the centre of town, and a plethora of new restaurants and bars has meant that a place once ridiculed as being little other than a playground for City boys is now making significant strides towards being somewhere that those of us not of the pin-
stripe suited, red braces wearing, briefcase-wielding classes would actually want to visit.
And if you’re looking for a perfect reason to head over to Canary Wharf, the arrival of the fifth in the estimable Blacklock group is more than enough of an excuse. The carnivorous establishments see themselves as subtly different to the steak-heavy likes of Hawksmoor and Goodman. Of course there are superbly cooked slabs of cow, but the whole idea behind Blacklock is that it is a recreation of a traditional chophouse, rather
“Of course there are superbly cooked slabs of cow, but the whole idea behind Blacklock is that it is a recreation of a traditional chophouse, rather than simply another steakhouse, and priced in a considerably more kindly way than most of its rivals and peers”
BLACKLOCKCANARY WHARF, 5 FROBISHER PASSAGE, LONDON E14 4EE www.theblacklock.com
than simply another steakhouse, and priced in a considerably more kindly way than most of its rivals and peers. It would be very easy to visit Blacklock and have a substantial lunch, complete with a drink, and leave with your wallet no lighter than £20; an amount, in these financially troubled times, that would barely buy you a plate of chips at some other restaurants.
We turn up hungry at the dark wood-hued interior, and in the mood to be guided; the superbly professional and witty manager Chris tells us to put
ourselves in his hands, and we are only too willing. Which is just as well as, over the next couple of hours, we enjoy a whistle-stop tour of the Blacklock menu, over what amounts to a five-course bonanza. It’s a wonder that we’re still sentient at the end of it. ‘Pre-chop bites’, accompanied by a schooner of Tropical Cyclone IPA, are delicious nibbles of potted meat and egg and anchovy, keenly priced (£3 for three) and the perfect appetite-whetter. Then it’s into the starters; pig’s head on toast with gravy is sublime, as are a selection of skinny chops,
served on flatbread. A couple of lamb cutlets and pork loins, accompanied by a well-chosen glass of Montepulciano, and we’re thoroughly enjoying ourselves; this, I say to my friend Catherine, is how lunches ought to be.
Up to this point, we have avoided gluttony. But then the main course arrives, and we both let out inadvertent yelps, as an enormous, superb porterhouse steak comes to our table, with sides of everything from beef dripping chips and bearnaise sauce to a heritage tomato salad and kale and
“I manage at least a couple of mouthfuls of the white chocolate cheesecake, washed down with a glass of Sauternes apiece, and then a cocktail trolley appears (a cocktail trolley!) with Old Fashioneds tempting us”
parmesan. And, lo, there is also a bottle of Malbec brought over to us, a particularly fine Bodega Luigi Bosca variety. I glance over at Catherine – a distinguished producer and writer – and she looks at me – a layabout and dilettante – and we both remark that it’s a good thing that neither of us is going to be doing any work that afternoon.
We eat enough of the steak not to bring shame on ourselves, and it’s sublime. Even though we’re both slightly hors de combat now, I manage at least a couple of mouthfuls of the white chocolate cheesecake, washed down with a glass of Sauternes apiece, and then a cocktail trolley appears (a cocktail trolley!) with Old Fashioneds tempting us. Well, it would be rude not to, frankly. By the time that we emerge, squinting and blinking and sated in the mid-afternoon air, we can safely say that the latest Blacklock is enough reason of itself to head over to Canary Wharf. And, frankly, long may it remain so. n
Gustav Temple looks for less expensive alternatives to famous colognes, as an alternative to purchasing their inferior imitations
There is a growing trend, mainly fuelled by social media, for companies to launch new fragrances based on existing scents from the big perfume houses, but for a fraction of the price. Love the idea of Eau Sauvage by Dior but don’t love the £69 price tag for 50ml? Then whizz over to Jubilee Scents, The Essence Vault or countless other purveyors, and snap up an imitation for £19.99.
These companies don’t, however, call their wares ‘copies’. Rather their perfumes and colognes are ‘inspired by’. There are now so many of them that you can get virtually any popular fragrance
“If you can find cheaper bread, petrol, airline flights, copier paper, paper clips and screenwash for your windscreen, then snap them up, but when it comes to what you splash on yourself to smell good, only buy the good stuff”
ever made in imitation form, usually in plain, simple packaging, so that whether you’re buying Chanel No.5 or Le Male by Jean-Paul Gaultier, it will come in the same square bottle with a simple black or white label.
Will the scent be identical, despite the lack of glamorous packaging that makes owning a bottle of iconic scent something a little bit special? Will it sit on the shelf in your bathroom, reminding you of a romantic evening, your first date or the day you broke the bank at Monte Carlo?
Or will your bottle of fake Black Opium simply be another white label next to all the other white labels on the shelf, which you can proudly gaze at in the knowledge that you paid £19.99 for each and every one of them?
Some things are expensive for a reason. You wouldn’t expect to get a bespoke suit of Savile Row quality by dropping into a local tailor while on holiday in Bangkok (believe me, I’ve tried, with disappointing results reflecting the miniscule price tag). It is true that scents from the big perfume and
fashion houses are on the pricey side, but whoever declared that we are looking for bargains when it comes to smelling good? How many times do we need to buy the stuff anyway? I was once given a bottle of Noir by Tom Ford and it lasted about two years, because I only wore it on special occasions (ie whenever I met the person who had bought it for me). Unless you’ve got only one bottle of cologne which you wear for every occasion (and there is nothing wrong with that), you are likely to have three or four, or even more, bottles lined up on the shelf, each with its lavishly designed bottle or box reminding you of what the smell stands for and what it represents to you.
And it isn’t just the packaging you’re paying for. Those perfume houses went to a great deal of trouble to get the right notes into that bottle. They had the wherewithal to employ the greatest noses in the industry, and they had the opinions of fashion designers who would have had a lot to say about the eventual choice of fragrance that bore their name, such as Christian Dior, Tom Ford et al.
In short, fragrance is one of those things, along with wine, whisky, clothes and motor cars, that is simply not worth trying to bargain for. If you can find cheaper bread, petrol, airline flights, copier paper, paper clips and screenwash for your windscreen, then snap them up, but when it comes to what you splash on yourself to smell good, only buy the good stuff. Or try some of the newer brands of fragrance. Below you will find reviews of scents by two new companies, both with very different approaches to the mystical stuff of scent, and neither of them trying it on with their customers by charging eye watering prices.
Founded on the Plowden Estate in rural Shropshire, Plowden & Fallow claim to be inspired by history, folklore and eccentric characters in the creation of their scents. There is no denying that Chappism seeps like honeydew from the labels and bottles of their branding, with names like ‘Debonaire’, ‘A Masquerade’ and ‘Squire Jack’, and photography
that conjures up a life spent around roulette tables and cocktail bars. But are the scents as good as they promise to be? We sampled two of the Plowden & Fallow fragrances and found that they had wonderful stories to tell us.
Inspired by ‘Mad’ Jack Mytton, a notorious aristocratic roustabout whom we have covered previously in The Chap, Squire Jack has top notes of Bergamot, Lavender, Cardamon and Nutmeg, middle notes of Frankincense, Geranium and Orris, on a base of Vetiver, Musk, Cedar, Oakmoss, Sandalwood and Amber.
What this all adds up to is indeed the scent of a libertine, in fact not a million furlongs by thoroughbred bloodstock from our very own Flaneur fragrance. The damp woodiness in the base cuts through the florals, bursting into a fragrant splash of joyous spice that immediately transports one from the drawing room to the opulent Bedouin harem, where more pleasures await.
Summer fades on a dusty promenade in a coastal Italian resort that was once host to the sixties jet set and is now a quieter affair; a town where elderly film directors come with their grown-up children to escape the hullaballoo of Rome. Along the promenade ambles an elegant figure, crisp white linen trousers flapping over a tatty pair of loafers, a
pink sweater flung carelessly over the shoulders of a baggy but perfectly ironed lemon yellow shirt. This is Luciano, once the toast of the town and now in his dotage, yet still aware of the glances from women seated at cafes who should know better. Luciano sighs and keeps walking, wafting the gentle scent he sprayed on earlier that morning and which still makes him feel young: the scent of Debonaire.
A more different approach from Plowden & Fallow to the peddling of brand-new scents could not be dreamed up than Thomson Carter. This fledgling company, founded only this year by 27-year-old entrepeneur Connor Martin, aims to provide powerful fragrances for men and women that don’t cost the earth and with scents that linger for over ten hours. The packaging and branding is unashamedly aspirational, suggesting a life of luxury probably enjoyed by few of their customers. The names are redolent of made-up places where the champagne never stops flowing: Rouge Avenue, Bois De Santal, Smoke & Mirrors. Bois De Santal is actually French for Sandalwood and there is plenty of that in most of the men’s scents.
We chose to sample Smoke & Mirrors because it sounded the most traditional of the men’s range and features manly notes like Sandalwood, Musk and Leather. Sure enough, it radiates a deep, earthy masculinity, gently releasing woodier top notes as the day wears on. Thomson Carter’s claim for the scent to last up to ten hours is accurate; in fact the musky aroma of Smoke & Mirrors was still there the following morning. A scarf worn three nights previously retained its virile smell. Smoke & Mirrors also reacts well to the skin, the scent evolving considerably as the first few hours pass of wearing it. It received a positive reaction, especially from the ladies, and there is not much more one could ask of a masculine scent. n
On Tuesday 2nd June 1970, a driver was testing a car he had designed at Goodwood Motor circuit. The Sussex venue was fading into decay at that time, its heyday long gone and its rebirth as the home of immersive historic racing still decades away. At around midday, he was travelling at over 150mph down the Lavant Straight when the bodywork failed and, suddenly deprived of aerodynamic downforce, the car span across the infield and crashed against the base of a marshall’s post. The experimental Can Am car was destroyed and Bruce McLaren was dead. This was a time when
fatalities in motor racing were not uncommon, but it sent shockwaves across the sport and is still remembered by petrolheads today. This was not to be the end of McLaren’s eponymous marque though; it was instead simply a painful pivotal moment and the team would instead grow to become dominant in F1 and the manufacturer of extraordinary road cars.
Bruce’s own story started on the other side of the world to England’s South coast, in Auckland, New Zealand. He built his first car with the help of his father at the age of 15, this being an example of the ubiquitous Austin 7 special. Mentored by
future F1 champion and fellow Kiwi Jack Brabham, McLaren’s natural driving ability and engineering expertise saw him rise rapidly to become the youngest Formula 1 winner at the time with his victory at the 1959 US Grand Prix. By this point he
had moved to the UK and was driving for Cooper. More successes as a driver followed, including a win at the 1962 Monaco Grand Prix, but the founding of McLaren Motor Racing Ltd a year later revealed where his ambitions lay. A number of designs for various formulae were produced by the new company, but those most readily associated with these early days were the monstrous and near unbeatable Can Am cars.
Can Am rules resulted in cars with a minimum amount of bodywork, grotesque aerodynamic aids and V8 engines of over 8 litres –a combination that still sets the heart aflutter when they thunder past during historic race meetings today. The company rapidly built a solid reputation based on Bruce’s inherent understanding of physics coupled with his practical hands-on approach. While testing one car, a loose filler flap and the way it moved as speed increased led to his forming
“Can Am rules resulted in cars with a minimum amount of bodywork, grotesque aerodynamic aids and V8 engines of over 8 litres – a combination that still sets the heart aflutter when they thunder past during historic race meetings today”
a new instinctive understanding about the airflow over the nose. Calling into the pits, he cut extra vents into it with a pair of tin snips, went out again and immediately knocked a second off his lap time. The future was looking bright – but then came that fateful crash. Denny Hulme galvanised the team as best he could, but their last Can Am title came in 1971. Although success in this series became ever more elusive, a change in focus saw the single-seat side of the operation gain momentum.
McLaren saw high points in F1 in the 1970s, with the world championships for Emerson Fittipaldi and James Hunt in particular, but exmechanic Ron Dennis would lead the cars from Woking to sustained glory during the following decade. Niki Lauda, Alain Prost and Ayrton Senna took seven driver’s titles for McLaren between 1984 and 1990. Mika Hakkinen scored back-toback championship victories at the end of the last century, and Lewis Hamilton a further one in 2008. The marque has also amassed eight constructor’s titles over the years and, despite being at the back of the grid recently, a resurgence with Briton Lando Norris at the head serves to give hope to the faithful in 2023.
Away from the tracks, Bruce had wanted to produce a road going car, building a brace of M6 GT prototypes in 1969. Sadly, his passing brought this project to a close but, as it was based on the Can Am racer with a mid mounted 370 horsepower V8, you have to wonder how many potential customers would have been capable of keeping it out of the hedgerows on the jaunt down to Cannes. Certainly not a car in which to waft the other half off to lunch in, but predicting the track day special of the 21st Century. McLaren as a company would eventually fulfil his dream in 1992 with the iconic F1, a car far more sophisticated than the M6 GT. Famed Formula 1 engineer Gordon Murray produced a design obsessively focused on the driving experience, with the lucky owner sitting in the middle of the three-seat cabin. BMW provided the V12 engine, which was surrounded by gold foil to reduce heat transfer, and Peter Stevens clothed all this in bodywork that was both understated and highly efficient. Still seen as one of the greatest ever road cars, it even took a surprise win at Le Mans in 1995 and remains the fastest normally aspirated road car ever built.
After a production run of a mere 106 examples, there was a pause of 13 years before the MP4-12C was launched. Spectacular high
performance cars had been created for Mercedes between then, but this was the definitive rebirth of the McLaren brand. Like the F1, it had a carbon fibre chassis and mid-mounted engine, but the two-seat cabin was more conventional and, all things being relative, some of the uncompromising exoticism was exchanged for a wider appeal. Despite the startling performance, it was seen as a little underwhelming in a market more used to the flash of the Italian-bred supercars, but it could be argued that time has brought a greater appreciation of its virtues.
2015 saw the MP4-12 put out to pasture and a proliferation of new models spread through three tiers: Sports, Super and Ultimate. The most accessible are the Sports, while those that come under the Ultimate banner, such as the Senna, P1 and Speedtail, are very much the stuff of dreams.
McLaren the company has come a long way since Bruce arrived on British shores in 1958, but the continued application of a philosophy that focuses on detailed engineering in depth has kept
them in Formula 1 through good times and bad. It has also led to a series of road cars that have earned a reputation for placing the driving experience at the centre of the design, quite literally in the case of the F1. As legacies go, that is a remarkable one for a man who died half a century ago at the age of 32, but perhaps not entirely unexpected when you look at the principles on which he founded his company. n
McLaren Automotive’s change of tack in 2015 gave them the opportunity also to develop a new design language, one that has been perpetuated through all of their subsequent cars. There are now numerous combinations of chassis and running gear available (new and secondhand), each of which have multiple variations themselves. As a guide to navigating your way through the bewildering array of McLaren’s products, the model number indicates engine power, while the suffix denotes the states of tune and levels of weight saving. To confuse matters further, certain models are given names. There are however common aspects throughout, a thread that ties all McLarens together in a more cohesive way than is usually found across one manufacturer’s range.
Any expensive supercar will give you an experience beyond the lesser, more common fare found on the roads. If you are fortunate enough to be able to invest in one, then the choice may be easy. Perhaps, ever since you saw a James Bond film, you wanted an Aston Martin; or possibly only a scarlet Ferrari will do? If you have no hard allegiance though, you need to start looking at the differences between the cars on offer and, if you are a keen driver, that means McLaren will always be a contender. The particular model will simply be down to where exactly your priorities lie and how big your budget is.
The current styling may generically look awkward in photos, but resolves itself when seen first-hand, due to the diminutive nature of the car. Although undoubtedly a poster car for many an adolescent, the priority is not to look good on the bedroom wall. Balancing the need for low drag and high downforce with a good-looking car is the game all stylists play. However, the McLaren’s air scoops, consisting of deep sculpted channels buried in the car’s flanks, stand testament to a bias for function over form. In Woking it appears that Bauhaus refinement trumps Latin frivolity every time.
Inside the cockpit, the lack of switches is highly noticeable, especially on the steering wheel. Three simple combined switches and control knobs on the centre panel allow the selection of dynamics and performance delivery to suit your mood – but that is all. Everything else is controlled via the touchscreen. Distractions from the experience behind the wheel are positively discouraged. Just as much attention is paid to the environment in which you find yourself, with the top of the windscreen unusually high but therefore out of the line of sight. Just as advantageous for some, low sills afforded by the clever application of load paths through composite mean this is one high-performance vehicle that can be entered and exited with decorum, even while wearing a summer dress or a kilt.
With so much choice across the cars produced, nominating ‘the best’ is an absurdity. However, there are two that stand out for me. The Senna GT is a track-only demonstration of what the design team can do when let loose, and could be considered as the ultimate McLaren. However, the ultra quick Speedtail seems truly to tap an elegant design flair that transcends and thereby coalesces all considerations and requirements into a seamless whole. It is utterly sublime.
I would like to extend my thanks to McLaren Manchester for the time and help given during the preparation of this article www.manchester.mclaren.com
Ilove Jon Pertwee, the third Doctor’s outfits. Lovely velvet jackets and frilly shirts, I feel a connection to him. Our Doctors are the only two who dress like sluts.” Ncuti Gatwa, the 15th Doctor.
After an interlude that for some reason sees the return of David Tennant’s 10th Doctor for three specials, Gatwa will debut in the role of the Doctor this Christmas. With budgets now boosted by the involvement of Disney as co-producers, Doctor Who may now have finally said goodbye to its association with budget special effects, and see an enhanced costume budget for the new Doctor.
Just as well, since the actor has expensive tastes. “The day Russell (T Davies, showrunner) invited me to meet everybody, they asked me what sort of costume I wanted. I showed them this Ralph Lauren
“Even better was that this is what Jon Pertwee wore in real life, using his own wardrobe for the first photoshoot as the Doctor in 1969. The result was a blend of early 1970s raffishness and Edwardian gentleman; Jerry Cornelius meets Adam Adamant, with a hint of Christopher Lee’s Dracula”
collection that was in partnership with Historically Black Colleges in America. I love those pieces, they’re so preppy and so black. But then they asked what else, because they’d been thinking about lots of outfits, almost a different one each week. Which is new. I love it! The Doctor has travelled all of time and space; they’re going to have a sick wardrobe.”
And with Gatwa’s adoring praise (although ‘slut’ may be a little wide of the mark) regarding Jon Pertwee’s third Doctor ringing in our ears, what better time to revisit my personal favourite incarnation of the Gallifreyan space/time drifter.
I confess not to be a regular viewer of the revived series; in fact, I gradually disengaged towards the end of Tom Baker’s long run (19741981). After all, it’s essentially a kids’ show, and when I hit my mid-teens I had a lot more on my mind than silly monsters and daft plots, although the occasional comely assistant (step forward Nicola Bryant’s Perpugilliam ‘Peri’ Brown) would draw my attention back to Whovian affairs.
“So you’re my replacementS – a dandy and a clown.”
William Hartnell as #1 in The Three Doctors (1972), addressing Jon Pertwee and predecessor Patrick Troughton.
Although all Doctors had their unique sartorial quirks, Pertwee’s third incarnation (the first in colour, excluding the Peter Cushing movies)
easily tops the list as the best dressed, not least because he regularly changed his outfit during his stint (1970-74, second in length only to Baker) in the role. He also avoided the terrible tailoring of Doctors 5 (Peter Davison), 6 (Colin Baker) and 7 (Sylvester McCoy), who variously preferred cricket sweaters, Riddler-style motifs and self-consciously Harlequin-esque patchwork outfits.
Pertwee favoured velvet suits, ruffled shirts, jabots, capes, bow ties and very nice fitted black leather boots and driving gloves. And even better was that this is what the actor wore in real life, using his own wardrobe for the first photoshoot as the Doctor in 1969. The result was a blend of early 1970s raffishness and Edwardian gentleman; Jerry Cornelius meets Adam Adamant, with a hint of Christopher Lee’s Dracula when togged out in his black and red ensemble.
Another plus point for me was the baddies in the Pertwee-era Doctor Who – a time which saw the introduction of The Master, the Autons, Sontarans, the Silurians, the Sea Devils and, my personal favourites, The Daemons. This bunch of demonic miscreants drew, to my mind, inspiration from Nigel Kneale’s Quatermass & The Pit and folk horror films popular at the time, in the story of an archaeological dig at the infamous Devil’s Hump in the quaint village of Devil’s End, which unearths an ancient evil – as opposed to the usual old clay pipe or discarded comb. The Daemons features the now classic
scene where Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart (Nicholas Courtney) orders one of his UNIT troopers to unleash fire at one of the capering winged imps: “Chap with wings there. Five rounds rapid!”
Fellow Gallifreyan the Master, who continues to plague the Doctor, also features in the final 5-episode story in season 8 (1971), played by Pertwee’s close friend Roger Delgado, whose death in a car accident in 1973 was cited by the actor as a reason for him deciding to leave the
show the following year, coupled with the lack of a substantial pay rise. Delgado was replaced by several noted thespians, including Anthony Ainley, Eric Roberts, Derek Jacobi, John Simm, Michelle Gomez and Sacha Dhawan.
And, pre-empting the X-Files by decades, Pertwee’s tenure was principally confined to Earthbound stories, as his Time Lord superiors had exiled The Doctor to Terra Firma for various misdemeanours, although by later seasons he was once again given free rein to roam the spaceways. During his exile on Earth, the Doctor worked closely with UNIT (United Nations Intelligence Taskforce) in investigating strange phenomena and inexplicable events. Mainly, it must be said, in the Home Counties.
As a personality, the Third Doctor was more three-dimensional than some other versions; he could be alternately kind, querulous, chivalrous, patronising, short-tempered, humorous and arrogant. Despite this, he managed to inspire a strong degree of loyalty and affection among his companions and allies. Not exactly a father figure, but certainly not the eccentric penny-whistling tramp of Troughton’s previous Doctor. Or the
occasionally borderline sociopath of Tom Baker’s cheerfully unhinged interpretation.
Pertwee the man hailed from ancient Huguenot noble stock; he once claimed that he should really be styled ‘Jon de Perthuis de Laillevault’ but was happy to mix it with the proles. A seasoned raconteur, Pertwee always provided good value on the chat show/Doctor Who convention circuit, playing up his imaginary rivalry with Troughton. Like Troughton, and Doctor #5 Peter Davison, Pertwee had offspring who also achieved acting fame, in his case son Sean, who is rarely off our screens. Davison’s daughter Georgia is married to Doctor #10 David Tennant.
Pertwee worked with 007 creator Ian Fleming in Naval Intelligence at one point during WWII, where he “did all sorts. Teaching commandos how to use escapology equipment, compasses in brass buttons, secret maps in white cotton handkerchiefs, pipes you could smoke that also fired a .22 bullet. All sorts of incredible things.” He also claimed a nice sideline in flogging off Winston Churchill’s old cigar butts – and deliberately muffing an interview to be a liaison with the Free French (no fan of De Gaulle he), only to find he had missed out on a posting to Tahiti.
Of course, no article on Pertwee could be complete without a mention of his other most famous role, an almost anti-Doctor (in terms of both intelligence and dress sense), the TV series version of Barbara Euphan Todd’s Worzel Gummidge (ITV, 1979-1981, C4, 1986-1989).
Whereas Pertwee’s Third Doctor would expound on weighty matters such as how to, “reverse the polarity of the neutron flow,” Gummidge had more mundane concerns, chiefly the acquisition of, “A cup o’ tea an’ a slice o’ cake.” If not forthcoming, he would angrily exclaim, “I’ll be bum-swizzled.” Regarding attire, the contrast could hardly be more marked, the dapper Doctor vs the dishevelled scarecrow, in his pocket a field mouse instead of a sonic screwdriver.
Rather than senior Time Lords, Gummidge was overseen by his kindly creator The Crowman, played by Geoffrey Bayldon, best known as scatterbrained time-travelling medieval wizard Catweazle
With Ncuti Gatwa following in Pertwee’s footsteps as a Dandy Doctor, could he also one day essay a Gummidge-type character? Only The Time Lords know. And, presumably, Gatwa’s agent. n
“Bazball is about intent, going hard, making positive decisions in attack and defence. It’s about taking it to the opposition, entertaining the crowd first and winning second, and holding one’s nerve. On one level, all it does is bring the quick scoring, bish-bash-bosh of shorter forms of the game into Test cricket”
The cover of that fine book from 2016, How to be Chap, features this description of its scope, purpose and contents:
“The surprisingly sophisTicaTed habiTs, drinks, and cloThes of The modern genTleman … rebelling againsT The mainsTream and avoiding all sporTs –excepT for crickeT, of course.”
English cricket has recently undergone its very own rebellion against the mainstream, an electroshock that threatens to subvert everything and rewrite how the game is played, in and by the country of its genesis. The rebellion is known as ‘Bazball’ and – apart from its decidedly unchappish moniker –your correspondent is here to argue that this new way of playing the game is very much aligned with the values of the modern gentleman. And all that it threatens is to breathe sustainable longevity into the game’s finest manifestation – the five-day Test Match – a format that was in danger of losing status as fast as it was losing spectators.
Cricket historians are generally agreed that the Golden Age of cricket was the late Victorian/ early Edwardian period from 1890-1915. Beyond England’s omnipresent W.G. Grace, the chief exponents of exciting, quick-scoring, take-it-to-theopposition cricket came from a land down under. The epitome of this pugnacious, entertaining style was channelled by the derring-do of two Australians, Clem Hill and the Chappishly named Victor Trumper. Trumper was – by all accounts –the most stylish and versatile batter of this Golden (if deeply unmediated) Age. Hill and Trumper had no truck with gently accumulating a total. Their mantra was entertainment via cut-and-thrust. The new spirit of cricket also comes from antipodean shores, this time from the rather more self-effacing and modest New Zealand. When Brendon Barrie McCullum – the ‘Baz’ of Bazball – became head coach of the England men’s cricket team in May 2022, it was clear
that the prevailing moribund and parlous state of the Test team needed to change. Quite how much things would change – and with quite how much immediate impact – wasn’t anticipated,
particularly because the rebellion against the status quo was almost entirely mental. No new diets. No SAS-style bootcamps. Simply a new attitude, or constellation of attitudes, designed to reinvigorate Test cricket in the face of the onslaught, media and public domination of shorter forms of the game. Ironically, the mentality and its impact of style of play wasn’t the blueprint or template McCullum had wrought on his native New Zealand when he was skipper of the Black Caps, though he did know how to score, and score big.
The essential characteristics of Bazball are all about mindset and the consequences that a positive attitude can have on behaviour and performance. Bazball is about intent, going hard, making positive decisions in attack and defence. It’s about taking it to the opposition, entertaining the crowd first and winning second, and holding
“By embracing individuality, fun, and joie de vivre – by removing the fear of failure and encouraging dynamic and innovative freedom of expression – the pressure is piled on to the opposition. This approach has infected the whole team, even those characterised as classical purists of the game”
one’s nerve. On one level, all it does is bring the quick scoring, bish-bash-bosh of shorter forms of the game into Test cricket. If the technical skills required to hit six after six after six can be applied in Twenty20, then why not during a Test Match, too? The arena, the players, the tools of the trade are the same. So why should slavish convention dictate that we follow the Boycott playbook of accumulating runs in ones and twos, “No flashy stuff; no Calypso cricket”?
By embracing individuality, fun, and joie de vivre – by removing the fear of failure and encouraging dynamic and innovative freedom of expression – the pressure is piled on to the opposition. This approach has infected the whole team, even those characterised as classical purists of the game. For instance, England’s finest batter, Joe Root, is a textbook exponent of late cuts and cover drives, hooks and pulls. But he also plays the most sublime reverse ramps or scoops for six, accelerating the run rate and plunging world-class
A NOTE ON ETYMOLOGY:
Baz is Brendon McCullum’s nickname, the diminutive of the already diminutive ‘Barrie’, his middle name. Ball – well, I think that’s self-explanatory. The term ‘Bazball’ was first coined by cricket writer Andrew Miller in May 2022, shortly after McCullum’s appointment, in an episode of the Switch Hit podcast.
bowlers into a cold sweat and a slough of despond about where to bowl next.
McCullum is not a lone general imposing a new way of thinking on the England team. He is ably supported in the lines by his Captain Stokes, Big Ben, the boys’ own hero of many an improbable comeback or victory, from the World Cup final against New Zealand to the 135 he scored in 2019, to singlehandedly snatch victory from the Aussies at Headingley, an innings that turned the tide of that year’s Ashes. Together, Stokes and McCullum have instituted a new philosophy of cricket to England.
In the year before McCullum and Stokes took over, England had played 14 Test matches, won but one, lost a hateful eight, and drawn a yawninducing five. In the year-and-a-bit since, they’ve played 18, won 13, lost four, and drawn but one
– the soggy Old Trafford affair against Australia in this summer’s Ashes, which England were odds-on to win, but for two days of stereotypical Mancunian rain. A draw is a bore, and England always go for the win. This change in mindset has seen them chase down record fourth innings tallies against South Africa, New Zealand, India, and Pakistan in the past 12 months, including an extraordinary 378 – for the loss of just three wickets – against India at Edgbaston last July. Both Root and Marmite Johnny Bairstow ended that canter of a run chase undefeated with big and rapid centuries.
Indeed, one of the biggest impacts of Bazball is its impact on how quickly England score their runs. At more than 4.5 an over, this makes them the fastest scoring team in history, and typically about a run-anover faster than any other Test-playing team currently. Scoring faster is both more intimidating and more entertaining – and England’s rate in many innings is more than five (and against Test newbies, Ireland, it was well over six earlier this summer). It also gives the team’s bowlers more time in the game to take the 20 wickets they need in order to secure victory in a Test match clash.
In the opening exchanges of the ultimate test of Test match cricket – in England’s biennial Ashes confrontation with the Australians – some sought to question whether Bazball had the chops to deliver. Bazball antagonists – including the cricket establishment, most vocally the BBC’s cricket correspondent, Jonathan Agnew, and cantankerous former England captain Michael Vaughn –repeatedly blamed Bazball and its “entertain rather than win” mantra for the first two defeats in the series. Indeed, the Edgbaston and Lord’s tests were games that England could – should – have won. Agnew, in particular, had talked about the need to return to “proper” cricket for games three to five.
Yet as the series progressed, a Bazball-powered England prevailed. First there was a thrilling victory at Headingley, keeping the hopes of regaining the Ashes alive; a victory for the tourists in the leafy Leeds suburb would have given them an unassailable 3-0 lead in the five-match series.
If England hadn’t won the game in Leeds, the obituaries for Bazball would have dominated sports as well as leader columns. As it is, the approach
appears to have turned the tide in the series, and the positivity of Bazball may well have lurched that slippery phenomenon of ‘momentum’ in England’s favour. Asked by Agnew after Headingley if England could win the last two games and regain the Ashes, Captain Stokes answered: “Yes – of course! No hesitation.”
Then, a potent batting performance at Old Trafford – including a cutting, thrusting 189 from just 182 balls from opener Zak Crawley – saw England amass almost 600 runs in just 108 overs. They were halfway through skittling the Aussies for a second time when two days of rain set in. Even Bazball couldn’t change the weather, but the renewed vim and vigour of the England team saw off Australia in the final test at the Oval to level the series.
Although this meant the Aussies retained the urn, the draw was most definitely a winning draw. And – though he announced his retirement
from the game during the final test – England’s Stuart Broad epitomised the McCullum-Stokes philosophy in the embers of his career. Surely there will not be another whose last shot as a batter sails into the crowd for six and whose last ball as a bowler is a wicket-taking, serieslevelling outswinger?
Bazball’s success in the Ashes means it is most definitely here to stay – provided it continues to deliver both entertainment and success. This will require more players than just Stokes regularly turning in match-winning performances – and there’s evidence of this from Crawley, Brook and Pope among the batters, as well as the rejuvenated Woakes and Wood among the bowlers (who also bat). All of them rebels against the mainstream.
If only we could come up with a new, more chappish name for it. Answers of a postcard –or even via electronic mail – to the usual address, please. n
David Bramwell offers an alternative trio of folk horror offerings to replace the canonical three observed by most horror cineastes
“An overriding theme in folk horror is that strange things from the past are best left in peace. Instead, let’s crack open the folk horror narrative and release the pagan as hero”
The late sixties and seventies marked a blossoming in TV and film of an amorphous genre that has since come to be known as folk horror. Themes tied to the genre include folklore, pantheism, magic, paganism, witchcraft, rites and rituals, cults, animism and objects unearthed from the past that are discovered to be imbued with dark magic. Geography is important too; the sense of isolation, the uncanny quality of rural places and the arrival of an outsider. Folk horror narratives tend to take place in remote communities outside of modernity and rarely end well for an outsider protagonist Classics of the genre include Children of the Stones, The Stone Tape, The Shout, The Owl Service, Red Shift and the BBC’s adaptations of MR James’ ghost stories. But the three films from that period that are seen as lynchpins of the genre –and have come to be known as the ‘unholy trinity’ – are Witchfinder General (1968), The Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971) and The Wicker Man (1973).
What unites the ‘unholy trinity’ are themes of paganism and witchcraft, remote rural settings and their shocking and violent endings. There is, however, plenty that sets these films apart. Witchfinder General is alone in being based on historical events. The Wicker Man is the only one set in the present; the other two are set in medieval times. The Blood on Satan’s Claw presents a world in which supernatural forces are real; the others do not.
“The discovery of a grotesque furry skull with one intact eye leads to demonic, highly sexualised frenzies amongst the local youth in a backward (even for the time) 18thcentury English village. Can district judge Patrick Wymark put a stop to the cult’s activities and prevent the resurrection of chaosmonster ‘Behemoth’?”
A more fundamental problem with their allegiance is that Witchfinder General and The Blood on Satan’s Claw fail to reach the psychological depths of The Wicker Man. They are – to be blunt – inferior films. The Blood on Satan’s Claw abounds with bumpkin accents, pound shop props and cheesy special effects. Its plot is clunky and unsatisfying; the acting is often wooden. Witchfinder General is a shallow and flimsy retelling of a brutal and complex period of British history. There are jarring dollops of Mills and Boon chutney, as we’re subjected to
As The Wicker Man builds to its final climax, the terrible ritual is revealedlong scenes of a dashing square-jawed Ian Ogilvy galloping through fields to rescue his hapless damsel-in-distress-fiancé Sara. Witchfinder General’s only real saving grace is its shocking ending, when Ogilvy finally gives in to his brutish urges.
Yet The Wicker Man, despite Lindsey Kemp’s terrible Scots accent, occasional Carry-On style dialogue and a knocked-up-by-the-propsdepartment Hand of Glory, remains a tense, psychological thriller, bears an iconic and timeless soundtrack and possesses at least one female character – Miss Rose – with agency and strength of character. Unlike the decidedly inferior films hanging onto its coat tails, it really does stand up to repeated viewing.
What if, instead, we take a different journey; a less travelled path? What if we were to keep The Wicker Man but select a different pair of films to complete the unholy trinity, ones that are still separated by just a handful of years but that are all based in the present, each with a focus on a single isolated place imbued with some strange magic, each presenting a lone protagonist battling against dark forces forces – both inner and outer – that, together, take us on a journey of death and rebirth? An overriding theme in folk horror is that strange things from the to past are best left in peace. Instead, let’s crack open the folk horror narrative and release the pagan as hero.
Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs was released in November 1971, drawing mixed reviews for its provocative portrayal of violence, dark libidinous forces and toxic masculinity. Even those who hailed it as a ‘masterpiece’ didn’t necessarily wish to share Pekinpah’s vision of the brutal, animalistic and sadistic urges that he saw simmering below the surface of his fellow man. But perhaps we may unpack a slightly different perspective on this dark
and violent film through its presentation, not only as an overlooked classic of folk horror but also as a story both similar and in stark contrast to The Wicker Man, and a film that may serve far better in a new unholy trinity. Straw Dogs is set in the remote rural Cornish village of Wakeley (St Buryan) and begins with the arrival of effete American academic David Sumner (Dustin Hoffman) with his wife Amy (Susan George) into a closed and isolated community. In the first scene in the local pub, we learn that it is not the local magistrate who carries weight in this community, but the brutish figure of Uncle Tom at the bar. “We take care of our own here,” he sneers at Sumner.
Repair works on the roof of the couple’s outhouse brings David and Amy into regular contact with four young men from the village. Amy, we learn, grew up in the village – the house had belonged to her father – and had once been the lover of one of the roofers, Charlie. Unlike the men on Summerisle, however, in Wakeley these men are irreverent, loutish, lascivious and untrustworthy. As weeks pass, work on David and Amy’s roof drags on and the workmen become increasingly disrespectful and inappropriate towards David and Amy, culminating in Amy’s discovery that their cat has been hanged.
When we return to the pub a second time, there is a growing sense of a storm brewing as Sumner fails to confront the four roofers for felicide. As he starts to leave the pub, the men break into a bawdy song, echoing Howie’s sense of alienation from the residents of Summerisle when they too break into song. In both films we can recognise Howie and Sumner as buttoned-up strangers in a hostile land. Unlike Howie, Sumner is a coward. Howie may be increasingly bamboozled by the residents of Summerisle but he is stoic, brave and determined to prevent the terrible crime he perceives is about to happen. Sumner remains impotent, unable to act.
While he might have found an ally in the local vicar – who pays the pair a visit at the house – Sumner has no time for faith. And, like the magistrate, the vicar has little sway in the community either. This again is in sharp contrast to Summerisle, where the residents seem deferential to the authority figure of the laird. The impression we get of the island community here is one of harmony, joy and mutual respect. And, of course, of sexual liberation. In both Straw Dogs and The Wicker Man, sex and libido are key themes. On Summerisle, carnal pleasures appear to be nurtured in a spirit
of freedom and co-operation. Had Howie himself surrendered to Willow’s seductive powers, a night of passion would have removed one of the key qualities needed for his sacrifice – his virginity –and hence reversed his fate. A classic trope of horror films is that carnal acts usually lead to death; in The Wicker Man it the failure to have sex that is Howie’s undoing.
As with The Wicker Man, there is nothing supernatural in Straw Dogs. Yet what of the village itself? Might we read the film as if the whole community were possessed of some malevolent, lascivious force? Almost from the start we see the four workmen on Sumner’s roof lusting after Amy. That she is a little bored in her marriage and does little to discourage a spot of voyeurism is suggested in a couple of scenes. Another scene in which she deliberately changes some of her husband’s blackboard equations out of spite suggests that she is still imbued with residues of the village’s dark forces herself.
Later, when David goes shooting with the villagers and left abandoned on the moors, we see him kill his first bird and fondle its corpse with regret. He looks out over the moor and sees
it as place of malevolence. It is during this time that Amy is violated, first by her former lover Charlie, then by one of other workmen, who turns up armed with a shotgun. At first Amy fights off Charlie, then appears to relent and enjoy it, reaching up to kiss him. The misogynistic idea that ‘no sometimes means yes’ makes this scene deeply problematic for many viewers, and is as shocking today as when first seen in 1971.
As The Wicker Man builds to its climax, the terrible ritual is revealed. Howie goes to save an innocent young girl from murder but finds it is he, the outsider, who is to be sacrificed in a ritual fire. Straw Dogs starts to build to a climax during an innocuous event in the local village hall, in which we are again reminded of the impotence of the local magistrate and vicar. Slipping out in search of some fun, Tom’s young niece goads village simpleton Henry Niles to show her some attention. Not knowing his own strength, he kills her in a deadly embrace. Her disappearance quickly results in a lynch mob.
Unaware of his crime, Sumner offers Henry refuge and soon finds his own home under siege from the men of the village. When the magistrate
comes to stop them he is shot dead. As the danger escalates, Sumner finally cracks and resolves to protect Henry and his home at all costs. Amy is less willing to protect Henry and tries to hand him over to their attackers – perhaps showing her affiliation with the malevolent spirit of the village.
Whereas The Wicker Man’s Howie is led like a lamb to the slaughter, Sumner triumphs against his aggressors, leaving a bloody trail of destruction in his wake. Both Sumner and Howie had set out to protect a stranger; Sumner succeeds; Howie is deceived. Both remote communities intend to commit murder. For the residents of Summerisle, it is a blood sacrifice to the Gods of the harvest. For the men of Wakeley, it is the vengeful act of a lynch mob that results in the unintentional death of the magistrate and, ultimately, themselves.
In the closing scene of Straw Dogs, Sumner smiles after bundling Henry Nile into his sports car. It’s a strange, secret, sinister smile; the smile of someone who has participated in violence and murder and found that he enjoyed it. In a remote Cornish village, Sumner may have won the battle but he has lost the war. The dark malevolent forces of the village now have him in their powers.
On the final leg of our journey to create a wholly new unholy Trinity, let us conclude with a film (actually 90 minute BBC Play for Today) from 1974 that may yet be the only openly pro-pagan narrative in the canon of folk horror. It warns against romanticising our traditions of the past, of making judgement about different forms of sexuality, of the dehumanising effects of market forces and the dangers of censorship.
Penda’s Fen opens with the bombastic sounds of Elgars Dream of Gerontious. We see pastoral scenes of England and hear the voice of the film’s teenage protagonist Stephen declaring, “Oh my country, I say over and over, I am one of your sons. Yet how shall I show my love?’”
Stephen is presented with all the trappings of a white privileged public school boy growing up in middle England and the son of a parson; he is a pious, moralising and fiercely Christian. Stephen has nothing but disdain for the outspoken local socialist playwright.
“Is it strikers who pillage our earth for their own gain?” asks Mr. Arne at a village debate in the
local pub. Stephen sits glaring at him, arms folded and mouth puckered, and later declares to his parents that Arne and his wife must be ‘unnatural’ for their inability to have children.
But Stephen himself is plagued with something ‘unnatural’; a burgeoning sexuality that finds him racing downstairs to get a glimpse of the milkman every morning.
He begins to have wet dreams and wakes to find a demon sitting on the edge of his bed. When he discreetly asks his father for advice about his dreams, reading the subtext his father describes a dream as a ‘buried truth’ and tells Stephen to act upon that truth. His father, we soon realise, is as liberal as they come, with a real passion for the more unorthodox, archaic versions of Christianity and religion. “The Universe is a battlefield between forces of light and dark,” he tells Stephen, echoing an old pagan creation myth.
“As Penda’s Fen progresses, it becomes more hallucinatory. Stephen is visited by an angel at the lakeside. He meets his hero Elgar in an old WWI shelter, who shares a musical secret with him.
In a disturbing scene, Stephen witnesses the young and innocent having their hands chopped off at a blood ritual, and is beckoned to join them by a puritanical couple”
On his 18th birthday, Stephen learns that he is adopted, further proof of his lack of purity. It helps softens his point of view on the childless Arnes next door and he confesses his homosexuality to Mrs Arne. At school Stephen is metamorphosing from uptight, conservative goody-two-shoes to being an outsider.
As Penda’s Fen progresses, it becomes more hallucinatory. Stephen is visited by an angel at the lakeside. He meets his hero Elgar in an old World War One shelter, who shares a musical secret with him. In a disturbing scene, Stephen witnesses the young and innocent having their hands chopped off at a blood ritual in an estate grounds and is beckoned to join them by a puritanical couple (modelled on two prominent Christian conservative activists of the time, Mary Whitehouse and Malcolm Muggeridge.).
Key to the film is a long conversation between Stephen and his father as they walk the Gloucestershire fields at dusk and discuss paganism. His father tells Stephen that Christianity went to war with the old gods and that these unchanging elemental gods, “By whom this earth is haunted,” interest him. “Pagan means belonging to the village,” his father tells him. “Some sneer
at it but it works. The scale is human. People can relate to it. Revolt from the monolith, come back to the village,” he adds, evoking some of the spirit of Lord Summerisle. Stephen’s father ultimately encourages his son to have the courage that he himself lacked to fight for what he believes in, no matter how unpopular it might be.
When the couple come for Stephen – as hallucinations or otherwise – wooing him as the new messiah and all that is ‘British, pure and good’ – he rejects them. “I am nothing pure. My race is mixed. My sex is mixed. I am woman and man. Light with darkness. I am mud and flame.”
The couple try to kill him, until Stephen evokes King Penda, who materialises in a magician’s puff of smoke and flames, complete with crown and chair, on the hilltop. King Penda helps Stephen do battle with the societal forces that threaten with their puritanical values, with their enslavement to the machinery of industry, to stinking traditions and to the power of the establishment, ultimately awakening his true nature. n
PENDA'S FEN I is available on dvd and BluRay from the BFI
Reviewed by Gustav Temple
Slightly Foxed is an independent book publisher and literary journal that republishes out-of-print titles they feel are worthy of reissue. Blood Knots was originally published by Atlantic Books in 2010, but Slightly Foxed has turned it into a clothbound classic in a limited edition of 2000 (although it may come out later as a paperback). So who is Luke Jennings and what is a blood knot?
A blood knot is a common fisherman’s practice of tying one line to another, but this book is about much more than fishing – alright, it is about fly fishing, primarily, but the topic wraps itself around Jennings’ schooldays in the 1960s, his relationship with his decorated WWII hero father, and his piscatorial mentor and inspiration, Robert Nairac, a charismatic teacher, fly fisher and falconer who reads like someone out of an Evelyn Waugh novel.
Jennings is a journalist and author, best known for penning the Villanelle novels on which the television series Killing Eve was based. One might initially not see any connection between fly-fishing and Russian contract killers, but wait: “This time I carried the hawk, awed by her lethal beauty. She saw everything long before we did; there would be a tightening of the talons, an intensifying of the amber gaze, a readying lift and fall of the wings.”
The possibility that the 13-year-old Jennings, mesmerised by the ruthless killing instinct of the hawk, began to percolate the idea of a cold-
blooded, attractive female contract killer who could form the backbone of a series of novels that he would write when he was older seems not beyond credibility. Who cannot see Villanelle (or indeed Jodie Comer as the TV character) in the following lines:
“And then, without fuss, she lifted her wings, rose from the branch and, with talons and jesses streaming, seemed to slide down an incline of air. There was a brief, unseen commotion and the silvery sound of her bells. We found her in a nest of bramble, mantling the rabbit with her wings. One talon was clamped around its skull and the other sunk deep into its flank.”
Vegetarians will also find plenty to enjoy in this wonderful, beautifully bound book. The descriptions of the English countryside shimmer with wonder and mystery, even touching on the mystical in parts:
London, where the book opens during his quest for an enormous pike. The icy cold, all-night vigil for this mythical monster leads Jennings to meditate on the Chaos Magic practices of 16th century occultist John Dee, though he cautions against getting too involved. “Specimen coarse fish are one thing, the Dark Lord of Entropy quite another.” If you are not remotely interested in fly-fishing, this book will still enrich your life, and by the end of it, you will probably find yourself wondering whether it’s time to learn how to tie a blood knot and head for the river.
By Christopher Wallace (Ecco, £25)
For a good chunk of the last century, artist Peter Beard was for many men the template to emulate. Gadding about Africa as if it were his playpen and boulevarding with the Rolling Stones, he
“There’s that sudden, intense spirit of place you sometimes experience in the English countryside, the hair-raising sense of the numinous. You turn a corner, and some configuration of contour, light and shadow stops you in your tracks. You’ve never been here before, but you know the place, and it calls out to you, reaches into your deep memory – its message one in which rapture and the ache of loss are inextricably entwined […] Fishing, more than any other activity, takes you to the places where such things happen.”
The places that fishing takes the author range from bucolic babbling brooks in Hampshire to menacing fly-tipped junkyards in inner
“Until that moment I had thought of angling as a process of making the invisible visible. Of drawing some dazzling, metalled creature from darkness into light, like an impulse from the subconscious. But here, to my 11-year-old self, was a new paradox: an object of maximum desire yet utterly unreachable”
swashbuckled, seduced, stuck the drink away and if you had any coke he’d have that off you too. Celebrities flocked and models were whisked to the Kenyan compound. But ‘Twentieth Century Man’ is not a compliment – Beard has a full house of unfashionable attitudes that would guarantee cancellation now that the calendar has moved on. But his art still commands a price, just as his life still commands attention, hence this lively biography.
Born to Manhattan wealth and determined to avoid the dreary schedule of his Wall Street father, Beard’s looks, charm and impeccable society pedigree brought commissions as a fashion photographer while still at college. Encountering Africa in 1955 was the great revelation though, and became the focus of most of his energy, in art, conservation and debauchery (one description of him was “half Byron, half Tarzan”). As tastes changed, he didn’t, and he came to offend as many people as he dazzled (to designer Tom Ford: “Thank God you’re not a fag like all the other designers”) and he died in keeping with his superannuated wilderness superman brand. Wandering into the forest behind his Montauk estate without his heart meds in 2020, his body was stumbled across by a hunter several days later.
By Elizabeth Winkler (Simon & Schuster, £20)
If you’re ever in need of a fight, one of the easier ways to summon an opponent is to cast doubt on the identity of Shakespeare, as American journalist Elizabeth Winkler found when she wrote a piece for the Atlantic in 2019, provocatively titled, Was Shakespeare a Woman?
“If I had known in advance just how brutal the attacks would be, I would probably have pulled the article,” she writes, yet she’s got the old tin helmet out again to investigate why the keepers of the Shakespeare flame so stubbornly refuse to recognise that William of Stratford’s biography doesn’t match his output. Or, quoting high-profile
sceptic the novelist Henry James, “He could not reconcile the author who emerges from the plays – the sophisticated, multilingual artist steeped in renaissance learning – with the vulgar Stratford businessman, narrowly focused on the bourgeois pursuit of money and real estate.” Where did the Stratfordian, for whom we have no record of his even going to school, acquire such intimate knowledge of Italy, for example? Or French court ritual, soldiering, the law, or ancient Greek? The public reaction to his death was weirdly muted for such a major figure, and his will made no reference to literary bequests – so what’s going on? While the high priests of the “Shakespeare was Shakespeare” school put their hands over their ears, the supporters of other candidates are less shy with their evidence and, just as in a gripping thriller, there’s a strong case for every suspect as the guilty party.
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For those not familiar with their Native American geography, Cahokia was the largest city north of Mexico in the centuries prior to Europeans discovering the continent. As the commercial heart of Mississippian culture – named for the river, not the state – it disappeared about a century before Columbus’ western adventurings. All that remains today is a series of gigantic hand-constructed ceremonial mounds, in what is now southern Illinois, some containing bodies seemingly specially executed for the occasion. Cahokia Jazz imagines a scenario where this culture didn’t vanish inexplicably, but survived the pandemics, genocide and deception visited on so much of the Native population to achieve statehood of its own. How might such a people get by in the United States of 1922, an overwhelmingly noir climate of incessant smoking, Tommy guns, city corruption, dames, ragtime, newsmen and prohibition? And what would it take to hang on to what they’ve got when menaced by corporate America, with
friends in the Ku Klux Klan and whoever else has been seduced onto the payroll?
Business opens with a familiar noirish scenario: a pair of Murder Squad detectives taking in a gruesome crime scene. On the roof of a municipal building, an unknown man appears to have been ritually slaughtered. He reached the roof under his own steam, and amidst the gore are fragments of glassy black stone. It doesn’t take long for officers Drummond (white, jaded) and Barrow (mixed race, orphaned) to discern the outlines of a killing from the ancient Aztec school of human sacrifice. This is the sort of abomination the Native, or takouma , people are unfairly associated with. The work, perhaps, of
“For a prohibition era murder thriller, a genre that has been worked to death, brought back to life, then battered senseless again, Cahokia Jazz is a refreshing take, one that resonates with the nasty state of American politics today, where greedy self-interest works hard to exploit raw racial divisions”
a maniac engaged in some lurid score settling? Or maybe an act of provocation, designed to stir trouble? Whatever it was, “it was not a standard death” and the white press grabs the opportunity to stir some trouble of its own. Before they can get round to slapping some leads out of the usual suspects, Barrow gets an introduction to takouma royalty, a regional head of state who combines symbolic supernatural power with down-and-dirty City Hall realpolitik, a man who understands exactly what sort of ugly strategy might be behind a headline-grabbing rooftop murder.
Drummond is the kind of cop for whom being on the take is all part of the profession, while Barrow is not quite sure if he’s cut out for the law enforcement life at all and needs to process where his own priorities lie. They may include that other great noir career path, in jazz piano. For a prohibition era murder thriller, a genre that has been worked to death, brought back to life, then battered senseless again, Cahokia Jazz is a refreshing take, one that resonates with the nasty state of American politics today, where greedy self-interest works hard to exploit raw racial divisions. And where discovering who benefits is rarely a relief to know.
By James Wolff (Bitter lemon Press, £9.99)
While the fashion credentials of corduroy suiting went missing after a moment in the sun in the late sixties, the be-corduroyed Leonard Flood, an awkward member of the British intelligence services, is quite happy for others to think him a geography teacher. He has come to spying from an unconventional direction. Not for him a tap on the shoulder at a Cambridge sherry appreciation. He drifted through various jobs and filled in an application out of curiosity. He’s now been with the spooks
for seven years and people underestimate him at their peril. Here, his boss Charles Remnant wants him to take a turn at “gatekeeping”, or spying on the spies to ascertain if they themselves pose a threat to national security. His first case concerns an officer who retired a year ago from the vetting department – the people who decide whether candidates have a background appropriate to the profession. This Willa Karlsson has been in a medically induced coma for a month. The “suddenness, complexity and severity” of her symptoms suggest a poisoning of state-level sophistication – the type of assault where inevitably “thoughts turn to Moscow”. Yet why would they want to assassinate a retired HR functionary? As a suspicious cynic, Flood knows the task is not what is says on the tin.
Russia’s
can it afford the association? Sharman was at Oxford in the 90s, tutored by an embittered old whisky sponge with friends in high Conservative places, who now seems to have been funding his far-right vision with Russian cash. Sharman knows the oligarch –Sidorov – of old”
As Oxford finds it intolerable ever to stand in Cambridge’s shadow, A Spy Alone asks: where was O’s version of C’s epic Soviet spy ring? Did it really not have one – or was it just never unearthed?
Author Charles Beaumont
claims “two decades and four continents” of undercover MI6 employment, and his debut is very much at the arid end of espionage (less glamorous than the peacocking of James Bond), where even the tiniest fragments of intel require tremendous persistence and mental processing power to access. Simon
Sharman is former British spook turned freelance (read: disillusioned and with cash flow problems), hired to look into a “mid-table oligarch” who has made a large donation to an Oxford college. The college is desperate for the cash, but given Russia’s current unfashionability, can it afford the association? Sharman was at Oxford in the 90s, tutored by an embittered old whisky sponge with friends in high Conservative places, who now seems to have been funding his far-right vision with Russian cash. Sharman knows the oligarch – Sidorov – of old. The Russian is also former intelligence, and used to take a train to Oxford, walk the same route around town and return to Paddington, having done apparently nothing. These are the kind of dead-end scenarios Sharman is faced with decrypting, which painstakingly lead to three unavoidables: Russians like to spy, the British will do anything for money, and Oxford was a place where those rivers somehow met. n
“The college is desperate for the cash, but given
current unfashionability,
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Solutions to crossword 115, CHAP Spring 23
1. Still available in mid-January, student body approaches Milliband (6)
1 Still available in mid-January, student body approaches Milliband (6)
5. The brass from The Mail, Spooner said, store explicit material on server (4,4)
9. Pit worker takes in unwell hat maker (8)
5 The brass from The Mail, Spooner said, store explicit material on server (4,4)
10. London’s square chap (6)
9 Pit worker takes in unwell hat maker (8)
11. Irritated men on phone become feature of life (10)
2. Hearing negative response is a familiar sound to equestrian (5)
2 Hearing negative response is a familiar sound to equestrian (5)
3. Oscar left Old West bar to find beauty spot (5)
4. Damn icy work-out causes concerning movement (7)
3 Oscar left Old West bar to find beauty spot (5)
5. Standard cut for root veg (7)
6. Setter could use that if it’s all the same (7)
4 Damn icy work-out causes concerning movement (7)
10 London's square chap (6)
12. It’s got hippies and irreverent rebel leads (4)
13. Helmet transformed pal’s luck (8)
7. 264 pages of Jude the Obscure could last for most of the winter (4-5)
5 Standard cut for root veg (7)
11 Irritated men on phone become feature of life (10)
16. Top returns with Red Rum (6)
17. England captain from seaside town not playing (6)
12 It's got hippies and irreverent rebel leads (4)
19. Writer and actresses say I stammered – just a bit (8)
13 Helmet transformed pal's luck (8)
21. Go for the fourth card on the poker table (4)
8. Spacious quality achieved with organisation – I ’ m so Norse (9)
6 Setter could use that if it's all the same (7)
14. Commotion caused by Kelvin and Euler, riotous having received three F’s! (9)
7 264 pages of Jude the Obscure could last for most of the winter (4-5)
15. Glorious shelving and cheese, according to hearsay (9)
16 Top returns with Red Rum (6)
22. Assemble faces from Marvel Universe, delayed after giving account to copper (10)
18. Attempt to catch old play (7)
19. Exhilirated when former partner gets referenced (7)
17 England captain from seaside town not playing (6)
25. A French bread knife on fire (6)
26. Let paint ruin sheet steel (3,5)
8 Spacious quality achieved with organisation - I'm Norse (9)
20. Influential workshop changed hands (7)
19 Writer and actresses say I stammered - just a bit (8)
27. “Naive and oddly way sexy ” is written in legal document (4-4)
21 Go for the fourth card on the poker table (4)
28. Spot Colonel coming back with beer (6)
22 Assemble faces from Marvel Universe, delayed after giving account to copper (10)
25 A french bread knife on fire (6)
23. I go in to ring up Violet (5)
14 Commotion caused by Kelvin and Euler, riotous having received three F's! (9)
24. Kid needs a fifty, that’s it (5)
15 Glorious shelving and cheese, according to hearsay (9)
18 Attempt to catch old play (7)
19 Exhilirated when former partner gets referenced
