Badgering On

I don’t come from a hairy family. Previously having contended only with the downy upper lip growth similar to that of a young Mediterranean girl, shaving has been a rare ritual. Until now, I have wet shaved with good quality cream applied with the fingertips. But as further growth is cropping up around my chin and cheeks the ritual takes place more often and I have decided to invest in a shaving brush. I have chosen one of medium size filled with super badger hair (to clarify the adjective, badger hair is graded from pure to best, super and finally silvertip).

Why? Partly because in my formative years a badger sat upon my face and I found the experience to be hugely enjoyable, but mostly because there are three principle benefits: A richer lather is created, the brush exfoliates the skin and it lifts follicles away from the face allowing for a more even shave.

In addition, a good shave is a sensual delight. My friend James, whom I care for dearly, only dry shaves and it annoys me intensely. Much like Nazism or obesity. Why forgo such a delicious pleasure? Some plea there is not enough time. This is bilge of the highest order. If a gentleman can’t set aside a quarter of an hour to indulge himself (steady on) I think a severe readjustment of priorities is in order.

Like many boys I first became aware of the basics whilst watching my father shave, talking to him whilst perched on the edge of the bathtub. For those who are used to dry shaving (HEATHENS!) or others needing guidance have a gander at the advice proffered by the gurus of Geo F. Trumper.

Choose to wet shave with a good brush.

The best a toad can get.

449, Oxford Street

When I have my passport photographs taken in a booth my appearance is that of a man who has just taken the full force of a horse’s hind hoof to his testicles. Surprised, eyes unfocussed and deeply unattractive. Enough is enough. People all over the world will see these images. The unwashed, moustachioed passport control officer; my future employer; the policeman pulling me over as I power across town to a) have sex with my impossibly attractive Swedish girlfriend or b) catch the Glee finale.

These characters will stare at my face and then at my 45mm by 35mm facsimile. However charismatic and charming the former, they will distrust the latter. And with my feathery hair and lithe build I simply can’t afford to be sent to jail.

Now I come to think of it, I can barely find anything positive about using a passport booth. Yes, the disembodied authoritative female voice is oddly titillating, but the waiting while the couple already inside eat each other’s faces? Not having the right change? The adjusting of the stool that makes me feel like a marine, either because the action is like opening a submarine hatch because or I’m bending over?

Thank goodness then that a journalist friend of mine suggested an establishment at 449, Oxford Street, where I could have them done properly by a human, in a place devoid of oddly shaped stools, diet permitting.

Almost opposite Selfridges, 449 is a doorway sandwiched in between two shops. You’d be forgiven for thinking that therein lays a brothel or rundown orthodontic practice. A narrow corridor, an interminable amount of stairs (did I say ‘lithe’ earlier?) and you tumble into a large room divided into a reception area and studio area by rather tired looking curtains. When I visited, a small wiry man greeted my breathless, red-faced personage. He ushered me to a chair to wait and I looked about me. A large board plastered with famous patrons lay to my right: Mirren, Brand and Penry-Jones to name a few. Meanwhile, the man was parrying questions from two other customers and displaying a seemingly sound knowledge of the regulations for Canadian and Chinese travel documents.

Several minutes elapsed before a photographer popped his head out of the curtain bound studio and beckoned to me. The stool was at the correct height. I was given time to compose myself. I was lit flatteringly and was given the opportunity to examine each image to see whether it was to my satisfaction.

You cannot smile for a British passport photograph. Whitehall contacts tell me that this is so members of other countries will think we are all miserable bastards and not wish to visit. There seem to be three options: Soulless, sulky or—if feeling vaguely venereal—smouldering. I ‘worked’ (technical term) one of each and picked one to my taste. Some moments later and the photographs were presented to me in a rather neat envelope.

The result? All because the lady loves Milk Tray.

Suit Yourself

After seeing the wonderful A Single Man, I turned my mind to other besuited men on screen. Presented here, a shortlist of the most dapper:

Roger Thornhill - Cary Grant

I'd always believed the suit to be Norton and Sons, the softer drape around the shoulder and chest suggestive of their house style. But after glancing through R. Torregrossa's authoritative tome in the subject, it is apparently Kilgour.

Whatever its provenance, it remains iconic. The light grey wool, the three button front rolling to two, the ventless back (a rarity amongst the single breasted, have a gander next time you're out), the trousers falling away from the line of the jacket so perfectly...the epitome of elegance to which every gentleman should aspire.

John Steed - Patrick MacNee

Once Dr. David Keel left the Avengers, Steed got his act together working both the traditional and Modish with ease.

Bowler? Check. Buttonhole? Check. Bentley? Why obviously. Bravo, Steed.

That blue is tremendous, as are the slanted pockets. And what are those I spy peeping under the trousers? A pair of Chelseas. Suited and booted.

James Bond – Pierce Brosnan

I would never dream of saying a word against the effulgent Tom Ford, but since he took over suiting 007, I do sometimes miss the timeless Italian lines of his predecessors, Brioni, that Brosnan wore so well. Come to think of it, he looked equally smashing in Cappelli's clothes as Thomas Crown.

Elliot Ness - Kevin Costner

Looking sharp, Mr. Ness. What's that you're wearing? Armani you say? On a policeman's salary? But surely Georgio didn't found his fashion house until the mid seventies? Oh arse to such trifling anachronisms, you look gorgeous. Chin chin.

Marty Hopkirk – Kenneth Cope

If you die in your suit, you will always look fabulous in the afterlife. Especially as your ectoplasmic threads will never require the necessary care that those earthbound ones will, and they will always remain a perfect ethereal white. Hello vicar.

Bertram Cooper – Robert Morse

While many are drawn to the sharp, cut to the bone suits of Draper (centre) its the luxuriant soft suitings of Cooper (right) that catch my eye. Is that a silk handkerchief I spy, Bertram? Far groovier than the white squares Draper wears perpetually. And the bow tie…I salute you.

No shoes? No problem.

Might I recommend...

The Scissors of Navarone

The man with the blades looks like Anthony Quinn in the Guns of Navarone. I'm pretty sure he's killed a man. With his bare hands. He wears a loose denim shirt buttoned to his sternum. Thick chest hair sprouts above. His trousers are secured by a belt of worn tan leather the end of which sways serpentine. He has narrow eyes, tobacco stained hands and big pair of scissors.

There are at least two people in the world a man should be able to trust absolutely. His mother and his barber. Question is, would I trust Anthony Quinn?

Studying in London, but having my home up north, I generally plan my protein purge around trips back where my hair is cut in a small room behind a garage by one of three men -- leather jerkin, pipe-smoking marathon runner or ex-teddy boy. All of whom think my name is Alexander. I am not sure why. They cut my hair considerately, neatly and cheaply. They have my trust.

Quinn orders me to hang my coat up and directs me to a chair. I can handle a certain brusqueness if the service stands for itself. The cut is a little too quick, and the odd hair is plucked rather than cut from my head. Sharper scissors would solve that problem. When he thinks he has finished he whips the mirror from the shelf in front of us and holds it behind my head. Oh, the back of my head. A delightful thing to behold, I shall never tire of it. I request a little more off the top. Quinn asks me how much; 'A centimetre? Half an inch in your English?'. This sceptered isle has been on metric for some time, but I'm a sucker for imperial measurements so I let it slide. I have no idea how much more. I just want it thinning out. Leather jerkin would just get on with it. Pipe-smoking marathon runner would get it right first time. I ask for half an inch in my English.

I emerge an all too short time later with a cut that should do. I trust Quinn to destroy gun emplacements of the Axis, but not to cut my hair. My search continues.

In the altogether and utterly content

This article was originally going to be submitted to The Notebook, a new creative writing magazine with a travel section. I missed the deadline.

__________________________________________________

There have been few occasions when I have felt truly at ease in the presence of a naked man. Included in the list; a corpse, chest cut open with me going at his ribcage with a hacksaw (my time as a medical student) and William Moseley in full Narnian battle regalia, with me going at him with vigour (a brief dalliance for the other side and very possibly a dream). My comfort was in one instance due to my being fully clothed and in the other due to my curiosity regarding the lesser-seen parts of human anatomy.

I can now augment that list.

Japan is a country of opposites. It is fiercely modern yet steeped in tradition. At times utterly respectful, at others devilishly kinky. Throughout history, its cities have been burnt, besieged and bombed, but its spirit endures. If it is to be understood, like so many things, it must be experienced. And there is one experience in particular that I can now thoroughly recommend. But you must know what you are doing. A faux pas is embarrassing at the best of times but is felt most acutely when starkers…

I find myself, dear reader, on a mountainside beyond Kyoto. The air is sweet and a little humid. The vegetation is a rich green, the sky azure. The scenery is beautiful—worthy of Hokusai if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with Fuji, but I am unable to appreciate it fully. My muscles ache and my previously immaculate linen shirt is creased and not a little damp. I am in need of relaxation. Thankfully there is an Onsen near by. This, for the uninitiated, is an establishment where a natural ground fissure releases hot, nutrient rich water, and is not to be confused with a Sento where normal water is heated artificially. But I am filled with trepidation. It’s my first time and I’m worried about how I’ll perform. My companion, Monish, and I (travelling alone has its merits, but on balance is best left to Buchan-style adventurers) enter the complex through a small wooden door. First, as expected, we remove our shoes and purchased small bars of soap and towelling cloths. Then we step into the changing room. Men of various nationalities and in deshabille meet us. What else is there to do? We disrobe entirely. It is unusual, and oddly liberating. My travelling companion (quite hairy, burly and blessed with proportions I would never have suspected) moves outside. I follow.

First comes the washing. I admire many things about the people of Japan but none greater than their etiquette regarding cleanliness. A row of tiny wooden stools with buckets and taps are in front of me. I fold my spindly frame on to a stool, soap and rinse every part of my body thoroughly (it is paramount one does not get soap in the bath itself) and then stand awkwardly, trying not to slip on the smooth stone floor.

Two things strike me as I enter the bath area. First the beauty (a wood and stone construction nestled in the aforementioned mountain side) and then the penises. Just what is the appropriate collective noun? A plurality, a plenitude, a plethora, a profusion? Anyway, there they all are, as numerous and as varied in appearance as Pokemon, without the inconvenience of having to ‘catch ‘em all’. Oh really, you can’t help but look. The bath is raised. One’s eye line is cock-height (technical term). But as soon as one enters the water, all embarrassment is forgotten.

In my current London abode, I don’t have the luxury of a bath. I imagine many first year readers are in a similar situation. Isn’t it a bugger? There are few pleasures more joyous than a hot bath. But an onsen is more. The water is richer, with an almost herbal aroma, and you have company. But this latter fact ceases to matter. Your muscles relax, your breathing deepens and your skin feels fantastic. You sit and you wallow in companionable silence (but for goodness sake don’t wring your towel in the bath water).

Later, on my return to Tokyo and comfortably ensconced in the Park Hyatt (woefully devoid of Scarlett Johansson) I recalled the experience as near perfect, marred only by the two French gentlemen who smuggled a camera in somehow—goodness knows where they hid it, the mind boggles. I like to think somewhere on a foreign mantelpiece lies a photograph of mountains, Frenchmen and Monish and I. In the altogether and utterly content.

Knobbly Walls, Squishy Floors and a Coffee Shop

Say what you like about Tom Cruise, as the opening credits of Mission Impossible II proved, the man can climb. And if he can do it, I can. Next week I’m going to go to Paris…on the roof of the Eurostar with Jon Voight. But one delicate step at a time. This week I went climbing. Not proper climbing obviously—I’m not bonkers. At one of those new fangled climbing centres with knobbly walls, squishy floors and a coffee shop.

My ‘buddy’ (technical term) for the day was my friend and colleague Brandon. A patient, dependable sort of chap; the sort you want at the other end of the rope preventing you from falling to if not your death then into a hospital bed. With some experience under his harness he was able to show me the…well…the ropes.

I surprised myself. Finally a use for my oddly long limbs and strange flexibility. And given I weigh roughly the same as a packet of chocolate HobNobs I can support my weight with relative ease.

That’s not to say it wasn’t physically demanding. At the end of the session my hands were vibrating as fast as George Formby’s. And the morning after, muscles that I previously didn’t think I had were in spasm. But this was to be expected. No pain, no gain (actually, I’ve always thought that was a ridiculous saying. Passing GO for a £200 gain, no pain. Landing on Free Parking. No pain. I’m sure there must be other non-monopoly based examples).

The harness – Not especially comfortable, straps and buckles dangerously close to genitals.

The hippies – Some forget to wash.

The topless men – We know. We’re sure you worked very hard for it. Now put it away before we all simply orgasm from the mere sight of you.

The eco warriors – So I’m not allowed to urinate in an actual toilet? I have to use the urinal? Well sod off. I don’t even need to go and I’m flushing them all twice.

The Lycra – Not much, but that’s still too much isn’t it?

If you can bare the above, give it a go. When Martin Landau is chasing you down Mt. Rushmore, you’ll be grateful that you did.

A reprimand over guava juice

My employer fixed his one functioning eye upon me. The other gazed disinterestedly down at my crotch. He was a large man, bespectacled in tortoishell and besuited in immaculately tailored pink linen.

“You must never forget…” He paused; either for effect or because he couldn’t remember what he was going to say. His podgy arm reached for a jug on his desk. It had one of those lace covers with beads at the edges, and these swung jauntily as he dragged it towards him.

“Can I tempt you to some guava juice?”

“No.” I replied shortly. “Thank you,” I added as an afterthought. It wouldn’t do to upset him. I had already angered him with my ineptitude the day before. And I needed fine references after all this was over.

“Are you quite sure?” he continued, “Its rich in antioxidants. At my age its important to keep healthy.” He shifted his massive bulk and lit a cigar. Thick smoke spilt out of his mouth. We sat in silence for a moment. He puffed contemplatively.

“Sir?”

“Hm? Ah yes, the guava fruit…fascinating.”

“No sir, you were telling me I had to remember something.”

“Right. Well remembered. You must never forget the other two shots. Chest, chest, head.”

“With respect, sir, I only had time for one. And how was I to know he had his heart on the other side of his chest? The odds of situs inversus are next to nothing.”

“That is beside the point. We do things properly here. Have you not read my predecessor’s mission statement? By the book!” He gestured toward the framed piece of parchment leaning on the mantle next to a volume on bonsai maintenance. Don't be nice, kill him twice.

“A bit brief, but it got to the heart of the matter. Hah!” He guffawed at his own wit.

“Sir, I can’t help but feel you are being a little unfair. I’ve been here for less than a fortnight. I barely know where the stationary is kept. I didn’t have the experience required to…”

“Experience!” he interrupted me, spittle launching from the corner of his mouth, flying in a graceful arc and landing on my neatly pressed trousers. I let out a quiet, controlled breath. He heaved his corpulent form out of the chair that he had been straining. “That’s the very reason you are here! I don’t believe in mollycoddling the interns. You had excellent grades throughout school, you’ve spent two years in a fine university, you should be able to handle whatever we throw at you!”

“Sir, I was under the impression I was coming to work at a barristers’ chambers, not at a branch of the largest assassination syndicate in Western Europe. The fact I was given a gun and told to kill an unarmed man in a Turkish Baths at four o’clock in the afternoon came as rather a surprise.”

“Young man,” he continued, ignoring my protestations and withdrawing a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, “I have here your curriculum vitae. Captain of the debating team, voluntary work, ‘In my spare time I raise chinchillas’; Everything points to you being an intelligent and diligent person. And now this shambles.”

He stopped his tirade to collapse back into his chair and now thrust a finger at the intercom on his desk. “Charmaine my love, could you move the ambassador to two o’clock this afternoon please…Yes, I know Kuryakin was supposed to be doing him tomorrow but this bloody boy needs some more practice. And bring in more guava would you? Thanks, pet.”

He turned to look at me again, weighing me up. “Perhaps I am being a little too harsh. You do show promise. And you have a surprisingly sound grasp of the British legal system. I’ll put you with McGiven. Once killed a man with a fried egg. Has a maternal side though. You won’t go far wrong with McGiven watching over your shoulder.” He smiled broadly. Chipped, yellow teeth littered his mouth.

I considered how McGiven could have killed someone with a fried egg. Perhaps the target had had an allergy. Or else he just shoved it down the man’s throat and choked him with it.

There was a light tap at the door and Charmaine tottered in bearing tray. Another jug of iced guava juice and a gun lay upon it. The jug she gave to my employer, the gun she gave to me. She smiled as she did this. Twin layers of rouge cracked simultaneously. I smiled back. It seemed the right thing to do.

I sighed inwardly. I was going to miss lunch. But I’d be damned if I missed the ambassador.

Get off my plane.

As we all know Harrison Ford used to be the President of the United States. While on Air Force One, he was annoyed by Gary Oldman and so threw him out of the aircraft mid-flight. Gary Oldman was caught by the Dementors and then imprisoned in Azkaban. This is all true.

There are times when I sympathize with Harrison. I'm afraid I'm going to moan now. Please adopt the brace position.

I am sat on an aeroplane. Well technically I am sat in it. Sitting on it would be loud and impractical. The man in front of me smells of rotting meat. A baby cries across the aisle and someone is kicking my seat. The air is close and stale. The airline I am using seems to deem it necessary for the cabin crew to talk to their passengers as little as possible. Instead, the safety announcement is almost sung out by a pre recorded pre orgasmic male voice. He ardently cries for me to enjoy my flight. This is unlikely.

The captain has just informed us that we shall be grounded for a further ten minutes. “Ten minutes?!” Mr Rotting Meat yells in anguish. Oh, heaven forefend you are delayed in returning to your fetid miserable excuse for a life. Yes it is uncomfortable but where is your staying power man? Did you forget it as well as forgetting to wash? The trick is to remain calm you annoying bastard.

As you see, I am aggravated. I don’t want to descend into a tirade against current standards or lose myself in how-things-used-to-be…but I’m trapped in a seat for the next two hours with nothing but a notebook, a biro and rising stress levels for company.  Was flying always this trying? I am told that air stewardesses in the 1950s were attractive, attentive and capable. Frankly I don’t believe either Kerry or Michelle could marshal my fellow passengers and me to safety. I don’t believe that’s their natural hair colour either. The baby is still crying. I’m pretty sure I saw Satan in its eyes as I stowed my hand luggage in the overhead locker.

Despite all of this, I cannot help but enjoy the raw sensation of flight, much like the President who, prior to his inauguration, flew the Millennium Falcon.  I can’t understand those people who flick through magazines as they power into the sky. “You are defying gravity, soaring like a bird, traveling faster than you will in the rest of your life. Stop reading the In Flight Magazine and look around you!” I want to yell. But social decency forbids it. “Behold the azure sky, survey those talcum powder spills of cloud, the mountains, piles of Turkish delight below!” I might add.

On a more prosaic note, the ‘wide selection of delicious sandwiches’ on offer is not delicious. And ‘wide selection’ is a naught but a grandiose misnomer for the two types of the sorriest looking comestibles I’ve ever seen.

The Misadventures of Dougie Betjeman

Dougie Betjeman cleaned windows. He hadn’t always done this. Before the pool closed down because of the asbestos he had been a lifeguard. He didn’t so much guard lives as sit on a bench, cracking his knuckles and counting the number of tiles on the opposite wall. This had to stop when pleural plaques had been found in Jimmy’s lungs. This upset Dougie. Not because of the plight of Jimmy, whom he thoroughly disliked, but because he really enjoyed cracking his knuckles and counting the number of tiles on the opposite wall. At the end of every evening, when Aquafit For The Over 70s (Its never too late to get in shape!) had finished he would walk around the edge of the pool and made a small black cross on the tile he had reached that day, with a marker pen he carried with him for this very purpose.

It didn’t take much to entertain Dougie.

Dougie hadn’t been good at being a lifeguard, but he was atrocious at cleaning windows. When someone passes out in a swimming pool and the lifeguard is busy cracking his knuckles and counting the number of tiles on the opposite wall, another swimmer generally notices and, unless they have an utter disregard for human life, drags them out of the water and pinches, slaps and inflates the unconscious form back to the land of the living. Windows don’t have initiative and so besides quietly rattling vague but friendly phrases of support to their neighbours are utterly defenceless against apathetic window cleaners.

Dougie had stolen his grandfather’s Steccone Squeegee the week before last but had no idea how to use it properly. He was ignorant of the rainbow and the corner wipe. He smeared grime about the glass and left streaks that grinned horribly when the light caught them.

He was politely but firmly asked to leave the neighbourhood where he had begun to work and a bounty was secretly placed on his head (which otherwise would have been completely bald) by the local Neighbourhood Watch who considered it their civic duty to not stand for that sort of thing. The bounty was taken up by an ex-sergeant-major of the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade but in a strange quirk of fate he collapsed at a Brigade reunion the following day and died when no one had the presence of mind to put him in the safety position.

All of this was unknown to Dougie as he made his way to the other side of town and found himself and his—or rather his grandfather’s—Steccone Squeegee in a beautiful street filled with blossom trees and with a row of tall Georgian houses on either side.

He propped his wooden ladder against the wall of the first house and climbed all the way to the second floor window. He balanced his bucket on the sill and pressing his nose to the glass, peered in.

The sight that met his eyes chilled the blood in his veins.