Sophie Tucker gives us a sermon on my philosophy about men!
Gotta say I love a CTS!
Motor Trend online is reporting that the BBC is offering Richard Hammond and James May millions to return to Top Gear. Click on the link below to read the article.
Perhaps the BBC is regretting killing the goose that laid their golden egg. Without Clarkson would it even be Top Gear? I think not.
Thanks to the disparate demands and varying production schedules of feature films and fashion design, by the time a movie hits the multiplex most of the attendant wearable merchandise falls into the “inspired by” category — reflecting but rarely capturing the true essence of what’s seen on screen.
There are staples that every man owns—a blazer, oxfords, chinos, bucks—and then there are more rarefied items that take a little more courage, at least at
Source: The Case For The Velvet Jacket
Saturday night, show your style!
Savile Row tailors use a variety of techniques to ensure their creations provide the most flattering and comfortable fit. But you don’t have to break the bank to employ some of their tricks, says Stephen Doig.
Click on the Source link above for the rest of the article.
A while back I made 12 months worth of posts about The Top Gear Lads. James May was my particular favorite to pick on for inspiration. A man called “Captain Slow” who breaks the world land speed record in a Veyron? A man who drives to the North Pole against his free will? A man who wears a studied nutty professor wardrobe and goes twitchy when the air vents in the car are not all lined up the same way? That is a lot to write about. Of course my biggest supposition was that Mr. May had more fun than I did. I would be willing to wager a fiver that he still does.
When news came down that the BBC had not renewed Jeremy Clarkson’s contract I was heartsick. It was the end of an era. Top Gear, in its own unique distracting ridiculous way, saw me through watching my last living relative pass away from Alzheimer’s disease. If there was ever a time when I needed mindless distraction for adults, it was then.
But this has nothing to do with Mr. Colin Firth. Or does it?
Last November I wrenched my knee. By February I had been through two orthopedists and still was not able to walk well. Hobbling with a cane and partially mollified with low grade pain medications, I was miserable indeed.
On a Top Gear free February Sunday I took my search for mindless distraction to the movie theater and bought a ticket for “Kingsman” How could a movie with a dog named Mr. Pickle disappoint? It was set in a high tech tailor shop on Savile Row and featured a fifty-ish bright eyed and bemused secret agent. Mr. Spy’s grey pinstripe, double breasted, double vented costume was sumptuous suit porn. Throw in the lethal brolly and bingo! It did not fail to please. (With the exception of one scene that gave me flashbacks to Southern Baptist church services I witnessed as a child. But Justice was served swiftly on that score and I fell back into mindless enjoyment.) The actor bringing Harry Heart, Kingsman secret agent to life was, of course, Colin Firth.
The following Monday I discussed “Kingsman” with my BFF and favorite movie authority, C.
Her response was, “Colin Firth how lovely. I saw him in “Valmont” After that I was ‘Oooo’. Just lovely. “
I blinked at her. “I thought Valmont was Alan Rickman.”
She tilted her head and replied, “No you’re thinking of John Malkovich.”
“So where does Colin Firth come in ?”
“He was the best Valmont. Everybody had a good ending in that one, well except Valmont, but that’s what happens. You’ve got to see that movie it will change you mind.”
‘Valmont’ isn’t available on Netflix and C says she doesn’t have a DVD of it. So I’ve googled “Valmont” and viewed stills of a very young Colin Firth dressed like a dandy. They were confusing. It’s hard for me to imagine this image of auburn haired English youth as a rake hell. On an intuitive level I have reached the age of understanding the lovelier they are the more wickedly they behave. But Firth’s Valmont didn’t ring any bells.
C broached the subject later in the week. “Did you find it?”
“Nope, not on Netflix. ” I replied. ” What else has he been in?”
C went on to name a list of movies.
“He was in “The English Patient”?” I was baffled. “Where?”
“He was the husband.” She looked at me like I was wandering in left field. “I know you saw that movie. We’ve talked about that movie.”
“Oh he was the nut job who killed everybody?”
I had to shamefully admit to her that I was apparently obsessed with the aquiline nose and fevered eyes of Ralph Fiennes for the entire flick. (Of course that was before Fiennes began playing characters who had no noses.)
Chastised for my cinematic negligence I went home and sorted through my DVD rack. To my amazement I have a well worn copy of “The English Patient” and several other movies from Mr. Firth’s oeuvre. I even discovered an unopened copy of “The Importance of Being Earnest”. I can not remember buying that or being gifted with it.
Why couldn’t I remember seeing Mr. Firth in any of these movies? Does he possess some type of magical invisibility talent where you see the character and never remember the face?
I asked my other movie maven W to name his favorite Colin Firth movie. His response was, “The name is familiar but I can’t place a face.”
I repeated movie titles and his answer was the same with the addition of “Maybe he’s invisible.”
“Last night I saw upon the stair, a little man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today, oh how I wish he’d go away” I singsonged back.
W paused for a moment. “Colin Firth Syndrome that’s what it is. You can see him when the image is on the screen but as soon as the movie is over he fades from your memory.”
“He sure didn’t fade from C’s mind. She ranks him up there with peaches and cream.”
“She’s a special case, didn’t you say you suspect she’s a Bodhisattva?”
“Yes she is. Maybe that gives her special powers.”
“Exactly.” Count on W to suss out the mysteries of the universe in a twenty minute phone call.
” So he could be in ‘Here Come the Mummies’ or ‘Kiss’ or the ‘Insane Clown Posse’ and not wear makeup because nobody would remember he was there?”
“You saw the Mummies last weekend. Did you see him? “
“Nope. I even went through the receiving line and I don’t remember him.”
Little did I know I had just brought down the curse of the”Colin Firth Syndrome” down on my own head.
Mr. Firth has flown out of my peripheral vision to take center stage everywhere I turn. He’s peeking at me from the Red Box video rental machine at the grocery store. He’s in the movie previews for On Demand. He’s in almost every movie Netflix has recommended for me for three weeks. His name has appeared as the punchline in jokes on the inane nightly sitcoms. A Facebook friend posted a video that was her answer to “50 Shades of Grey” titled “Fifty Shades of Colin Firth”. Colin Firth is absolutely everywhere I turn.
I’ve got to make amends.
Either that or I’ve got to start writing about him.
But how could I ever ignore Mr. May?
Has the fabulous suit porn in “Kingsman” turned my head from Bugattis?
Can I please get a date for Saturday night so I can get out of the house and quit watching so much television?
The answers to these and more questions will not likely come anytime soon.
I can not resist James May. No matter how hard I try.
This is a video from his YouTube Channel, he’s making poached eggs on toast.
Honestly it’s better than an account of my physical therapy session today.
Feeling very much not myself these days.
Feeling like it’s time to be somebody else. I cut my hair, broke out the fountain pens, and started swimming again. I can feel the ocean calling. Work seems like a mistake made by someone else, why am I working in an office?
I’m being haunted by the ghost of Harry Heart as it were. But that is a post that I can’t quite seem to finish.
With the summer solstice on the horizon it’s time to make some magic. Time to open my arms to change and see what happens.
I do promise more coherent and thought out posts. Clarkson, Hammond, and May Live have started advertising on Facebook so I have my favorite fodder. (Mr. May & His Ferrari)
I even have good pictures from the Here Come The Mummies concert last Saturday. Of course I didn’t think to get photos of me covered in mummy makeup and hand prints after I went through the meet and greet! But I did get to hug some of the strangest men I’ve ever met. Everybody loves a sexy mummy!
Cuz if you drop by, send me a line. I was remiss in not getting your last one until so late.
As ever, your Justine.
Found this on you tube. Little did we all know this would be the intro for the last series of “Top Gear”.
Although from James’ shirt we should have known something had gone more askew than usual.
After the Eurythmics last night, today was an Annie Lennox playlist day
“No More I Love Yous” was released on the Medusa Album. It struck quite a cord with me then and it still does.
It seems so easy to remember the drama and passion of first loves, college loves, and indeed any love more than ten years ago. The song describes it so succinctly:
“I used to be a lunatic from the gracious days
I used to feel woebegone and so restless nights
My aching heart would bleed for you to see
Oh, but now
I don’t find myself bouncing home
Whistling buttonhole tunes to make me cry”
. . .
“The lover speaks about the monsters
I used to have demons in my room at night
Desire, despair, desire
So many monsters.
A Jaded feeling perhaps? Age and maturity setting in? Or perhaps just a tinge of sour grapes? Is it better to have loved and lost? Is it better to know what your missing? Does it make you miss it any less?
What becomes of matters of the heart when you are no longer an ingenue? Where does the heart look?
Do you laugh at the word ‘Cougar’? Do you pretend it doesn’t hurt?
Or do you pretend that you can do without? Perhaps for the rest of your life?
There moments when the whirl of life and the spin of the world make you forget your heart, your dreams, and your loneliness. Moments when you don’t feel like you’d crawl over broken glass to be loved.
But the demon always returns. The longing endures all attempts to extinguish it.
Is there no choice but to put on a brave face and finish the buttonhole tune so you don’t cry?
“No more I love you’s
The language is leaving me
No more I love you’s
The language is leaving me in silence
No more I love you’s
Changes are shifting
Outside the words.”