Lucky Velvet

Here we have the gallant Richard John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan. Lord Lucan…“Lucky” Lucan to his coterie of chance games friends.

Born in 1934, Lucan's aristocratic trajectory was formulaic...for a while. He spent two years at Eton where he seemed to hone his skills and appetite for anything but academic pursuits...mainly gambling.  And his poker skills, they say, sharpened during his next stop-off, this time with the Coldstream Guards. Lucan would inherit his father's titles in 1964.

The dashing Lucan eventually eschewed the ennui of traditional work for what he felt was a more thrilling method for generating dosh…gambling. Lucan had annual income from various family trusts but I suppose like other landed aristocrats, he needed to supplement it. So after the Guards, he took a position with the merchant bank, William Brandt's Sons and Co. After winning twenty six thousand pounds in two nights playing Chemin de Fer, Lucan declared "why should I work in a bank when I can earn a year's money in one single night at the tables?"

I reckon, in addition to  my absence of Lucan caliber dashing good looks and my now missing aristocratic papers, the other huge difference between Lucky and me is that I’m the worst gambler in the world. I saw Las Vegas, reluctantly last week but my money’s safe ‘cause I didn't go near the gaming tables.

But Lucky felt that he could beat the odds and keep the cash rolling in…forever. Seems to me like he had a low-grade death wish. Sort of a Charge of the Light Brigade calibre hubris not unlike the 3^rd Earl of Lucan.  I won’t belabor the story because like most gamblers, the next chapter in Lucky’s saga is again formulaic. The House, in the long-run, always-always wins.

Lucan was a regular at John Aspinall’s Cleremont Club in Berkley Square where highbrow titled folks gathered to gamble and also flirt with I suppose, additional randy pursuits. It was said of Aspinall’s Club member roster that…“The list of the club's original members reads like a Who's Who of the British aristocracy: five dukes, five marquesses, 20 earls and two cabinet ministers.” And they all loved Lucky.

Happy endings are probably rare in the lives of professional gamblers...titled ones notwithstanding. Debt laden, amidst a contentious divorce and custody battle for his three children, it is presumed that the maniacally desperate Lucan himself was the bag-man who broke in to (he had a key) the family home on a November evening in 1974 at 46 Upper Berkeley Street and beat to death the family nanny. He also took a few good whacks at Lady Lucan, his supposed true intended victim.

I’ll leave the rest of the Lucan saga to you to sort out but suffice it to say the riveting is an understatement. Lucan disappeared and to this day, his whereabouts and status, while much debated, remains unresolved. Efforts to have him declared legally dead so that his son, the presumed 8^th Earl may take his place in the Lords have so far, I believe, been unsuccessful.

So how the hell did I happen upon Lucan? It all came about when I was doing an internet search on the unknown to me, bespoke tailoring establishment, Cooling Lawrence and Wells. I’d never heard of them and was amidst reconnaissance as I was perilously close to pouncing on a velvet smoking jacket that according to the ebay seller’s measurements...was just my size. My appetite for velvet jacketings is well documented but I've always stayed away from the tricked out versions. Why have things that, as my Cousin Willie says, are for "parties that you no longer get invited to."

Tricked out versions? You know, one of those jackets with the really cool frogging…rope adorned sleeves and those twee little Siamese twin front closure buttons that say… “Even though you’ve seen my likes every time you’ve been in London, YOU of all people have no business buying one of me at full-retail. And you’ve even got less business buying one of my double breasted cousins.” 

Ok, point well-made but an ebay bargain ain’t ever out of the question or out of bounds. Shut up. So my research was important as I made a decision regarding what my maximum-minimum bids would be.

I searched Cooling Lawrence and Wells and the outcome was almost nil regarding the tailoring firm. None the less, the Lord Lucan smarmy back story bounty was enough to keep me enthralled for half-a-day. It seems that C-L&W were Lucan’s go-to tailor as well as his source for maintenance of his coronation robes.

They were on St. George Street in Hanover Square for a time before finishing out their existence as Wells of Mayfair over at 47 Maddox Street. Sadly, like much of the London I love; venerable old places like the C-L&W digs give way to, in this case, Browns Bar and Brasserie. I found a photo of  47 Maddox's current state on Google maps. What is Browns, you might ask? Think T.G.I. Fridays…butcept with a Cockney thang going on.

It seems that Lucan left quite a few of his suppliers in the lurch when he vanished. Lucan’s tailor wasn’t the only creditor lined up in the queue seeking relief once it was fait accompli regarding the likelihood that the old boy wasn’t gonna come round and square up any of his debts. Interestingly though, C-L&W decided that the coronation robes represented better collateral against Lucan’s debt than some silly old judgement. Smart they were.

Armed with my imagination, a trove of superficial information about Lucan and the confidence that the Velveeta avec frogging jacket was surely my size, I set my bid. Surely if the jacket had been made by Huntsman or Kilgour or Poole, I'd have set my bid slightly higher. Maddox Street...off the Row and unknown to me doesn't mean that the jacket ain't gonna be keen in every way. But I was treading in unknown, albeit fuzzy as hell, water.   

Leonard Logsdail gave me a bit of a tutorial on some of the off the Row tailors that are generally within a half mile or so of Savile Row. Many of them; and G. The Bruce Boyer also shares this view in his book, Elegance, are as good as or better than some on Savile Row. They simply lack the brand cachet of Poole, Huntsman and the like…and probably the price tag too.

Len also shared when I met him at the Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. auction reception, that some of the off the Row tailors like Fairbanks Jr.’s Stovel & Mason Ltd did pretty decent work on thicker fabrics such as velvet or those used for country pursuits togs, while not turning out quite the same garment in lighter weight fabrics where clever cutting and sewing nuance with adroit hands is required.

All’s well that ends well and I suppose I’m lucky that there wasn’t another 38 Regular-esque Downton Abbey wannabe sartorialist bidding on my C-L&W velvet fuzzy out-the-a_s dinner jacket. It arrived here at Manor Minimus, shipping included, for less than a Benjamin.

And it fits like a damn glove. 

January 1976 saw its completion and my imagination wants me to believe that perhaps Lord Lucky's coronation robes remained somewhere on the premises, in fellowship for a while, with my jacket.

Rumor has it that I’ll see 2012 out and 2013 ring-in down Richmond,Virginia way as the guest of Mr. Elegantologist himself.

Furthered by the rumor mill is that Messrs C-L&W’s creation will be on my back…at least till I decide to take my clothes off. Now I’m wondering if I can wear this thing with 501’s?

Onward. No Christmas tree this year. No ho.

ADG…Deuce

Richards of Mountainbrook

Every now and then when I write something that really resonates with someone; I’ll get a private email in response and sometimes the correspondence itself is post-worthy. I wrote Nuanced Authenticity back in August and received a delightful recollection about a haberdashery in the affluent area of Birmingham, Alabama known as Mountain Brook. I’m sharing it with permission from my buddy TCD because his email is to me, as evocative as my original story.

Or maybe it just hits all of my maudlin buttons. At any rate, here’s to the “Richards of Mountain Brook” caliber haberdasheries of days gone by. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m sorry that y’all…the younger set of Trads…missed these gems. And as my cousin Tin-Tin says of our now more derivative than ever world…“Not as good as it was. Better than it will be.”

Here’s TCD’s email…

“This post hit so many memory keys that I can't take the time to list them....but....

Our version of "your Singleton's" in a suburb of Birmingham, AL called Mountain Brook was "Richards of Mountain Brook".

It was located on a shady side street called Petticoat Lane in an old Tudor style building with two bay windows flanking an imposing door with a leaded glass coat of arms.

We knew we were adults when we graduated to Richards from the "Canterbury Shop" a half a block away.

"Canterbury" was our "nuance 101" with Bass Weejuns ( $14.95), Gant OCBD, surcingle belts in about one hundred color combinations, Corbin trousers & Southwick Blazers & sport coats....

"Richards" took a high school freshman to his Dad's world & instantly verified it was where you wanted to be even if it had not occurred to you before.....

As you stepped into the doorway, you were confronted by a huge round mahogany table with reps, clubs, & foulards (all of course labelled..."made in England expressly for Richards".... arranged spoke-in-wheel around the table grouped by color. Guarding the display on either side were two complete suits of armor.

Beyond the battle-ready armor were shelves and credenzas of Troy Guild OCBD....

Just down the center-hall, waist-high shelving displaying shoes (Crockett & Jones) and socks....

Suits (private label with requisite..."made in England" as well as Norman Hilton)....

Richard had a great eye and understood "Nuance" whether in selections offered or in antique furnishings which abundantly decorated the shop...

Just a great place (& owner) with a sixth sense in how to deploy service and an intelligent knowledge base of background of fabric, weave, fit, hand, & pattern as well as a flair for what was complimentary in terms of tradition or, if you dare, sprezzatura!

He magically combined both during the Christmas Season when posted Welsh Guards in full regalia in front of the shop and conducted Changing of the Guard twice per day....and then, when you had made your purchases....all were gift-wrapped in festive holiday color combinations of paper & ribbon in complex bows, each of which held a Johnny Walker scotch miniature.....

Thanks for the nudge to remember the late 60s and early 70s.....wonderful then and cherished now!”

My Sartorial Library: Who the Fu#&k is Alan Flusser?

It’s 1983. I’m mostly clad in Corbin and Berle and maybe one Southwick suit and a smattering of half-price Polo stuff that I’d go over to Columbia, S.C. and pinch when Brittons would have a sale. Oh, and I had Hertling suits from when Julie Hertling made jackets and pants. I was low on dosh but just like today, real, real high on appetite and taste level. The proverbial beer budget—champagne taste thang. But here we are in '83 and I’ve got a real job and the fools are paying me nineteen thousand—six hundred dollars per year plus car and expense account. Pinch me.

WAH…seven years older and one of the most stalwart Trad guys ever, was in ’83 and is today, one of my best buddies in the world. He’d just exited a first marriage and so his apartment was our staging area for all kinds of guy antics and debauchery and … I think today they call it a hook-up. Shut up. That's WAH today, still about as Trad as they come.

So I walk in one day and there’s this paperback book on WAH’s coffee table and the cover is packed with tasty images of all kinda sartorial goodies. “Who the Fu#&k is Alan Flusser?” I asked. Keep in mind; this was pre, the 1987 Wall Street/Michael Douglas Flusser launching pad. “He’s some designer/clothier guy who’s written a book” was the WAH response. Little did I know that my gander at the book and subsequent borrowing of it without explicit permission (I’ve yet to return it twenty-nine years later) would launch what would become a sartorial library that’s probably as robust as many and more so than most.

Also, obviously, I had at that moment, no idea that I’d end up making a little more dough through the years and piss scads of it away bespeaking some of the tastiest conceptions that the…to-this-day-second-to-none color, tone, texture master Sensei Flusser directed me to commission.

Even crazier, if someone had told me in 1983 that I’d actually be the owner of the very pair of Flusser’s alligator tassel loafers depicted on the cover of the book, I’d a checked you for a fever.

If someone had told me that I’d have a daughter one day who would, during one of her evening prayers, ask God to bless “President Obama and Alanflusser”, I’d have surely laughed you out of the room. LFG by the way, refers to Alan with a run-on one word moniker…Alanflusser.

So it’s only fitting that I kick off my sartorial library posts with my first ever book on such things. The Master Sensei Flusser’s first book is modest compared to what he would turn out later but it’s precious to me for many reasons.

Onward. Wearing my Bobby from Boston Advent Calendar Keepers Tweed…named such, courtesy of Flo.

ADG II

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: The Soft—Unpinned Collar

“If it’s not a button down, I’m not interested.” This was my mantra from the time I was old enough to buy my own shirts ‘till I was close to thirty years old. Until then, I had no interest in a straight collar, a modified spread or anything…other than a button down.

The Trad Mother Church that I worked in offered one basic style of a straight collar shirt but I never took notice of it. Seems to me that the local preachers preferred it. Our highest volume stock in trade was courtesy of Gant and it was always oxford cloth button down…at nineteen dollars a go. I can’t find a photo of it and I am not dreaming this one up…Gant had a deep, almost orange-ish yellow called maize (surprise I know) that was solely unique to them. It made every other yellow look washed out…not that even the Gant maize color did anyone’s coloring a favor. Ok, I’m digressing.

Why would I need anything other than a button down? My clothing line-up until age thirty consisted totally of single breasted, single vented, mostly 3/2 rolled clothing. The exception was an occasional from the outlets, Ralph rig that might have been double vented. But peaked lapels, sleeve cuffs and double breasted rigs, even though just around the corner, weren’t yet part of my oeuvre.

And when they did arrive, the sartorial components that beg for a shirting alternative to the age-old buttoned down standard, whispered to me…  “pin it, pin it…” so I complied. The cinched and secured, elevated visual stance of a well dimpled tie was enough to keep me devoted to the pinned-collar-code to this day. Plus, I could never seem to pull off the unpinned look. Sure, when I did, the unwashed masses would have never known that I was falling short of the mark. But I did. And that’s all that mattered.

Here’s my one exception to the rule where I’m actually comfortable with the outcome. But the tie clasp offers the grounding and securitization that for some reason I think I need. But others through the years have done the unpinned collar rather well. Here’s a few

Sir Henry Cotton

John P. Marquand does it but this look is just too sloppy for me.

Acheson does it but his vest supplies the cinched tie arc that makes this anything but relaxed.

Gable. Strong as nine rows of spring onions.

Scott. Unpinned.

Bobby Jones

Gary Cooper

And here’s my buddy G. Bruce Boyer manifesting Ivy-Trad-Tweed-Cord Sprezzatura all-to-be-damned. Folks, this is about as stellar as it gets…relaxed—unstudied wise. With an unbuttoned button down collar. Sublime.

If you’ve read my stuff for any length of time, you know that this photo of my pimply faced teenage dad is one that still provokes scores of unanswered questions. Fear not, I won’t take you back down that maudlin path again. Suffice it to say that I remain intrigued by the unrequited genesis of his style.

And when LFG and I were home last June, I found this photo of my dad. How do farm boys in Horry County, South Carolina develop this level of style? Soft, unpinned collar and some swanky bit of neckwear to bring it full circle. This looks kinda Ralph before Ralph. Suffice it to say that I never got the hang of pulling together this unpinned, soft collared casual look. My dad was rocking it at ten.

Amidst the previous photo of my father was this one. Looks like some kind of corporate head shot thing for the files. My mom had no answer regarding the photo so that puts me at a complete loss as well. I remained a company man for thirteen years before starting my own gig. My dad lasted about thirteen minutes, listening to others, before he started his. Maybe this was his exit photo. Whatever the case…as much as I love the photo booth shot of my dad, this one doesn’t trip my trigger. Full Windsor knot and an unpinned collar. It’s just not my thing.

So here’s my final verdict on the unpinned, soft collar. I’m neutral. If you can pull the look off, then I suppose that it’s ok. I prefer a tightened up, fountainhead arc of a well dimpled tie preening above a pin. It could be a karmic thing for me, I don’t know. I tried the unpinned caution-to-the-wind collar when last I needed a new driver’s licence. The outcome’s above. Case closed. At least for me.

Onward.

ADG, II

Trad-Ivy Tuesday: Sir T’oad McThrottle’s Request

Let’s talk tweed…Keeper’s if you will. And flannel. Why not, it’s only gonna be just shy of a hundred degrees—again—here inside the Beltway today. And what about my extra good buddy T’oad’s request? It seems that Sir T’oad (The apostrophe is a one-off affectation that I throwed on this morning, thinking that I may weave some fictitious French or other Continental lineage into Sir T’oad’s journey to his current position as landed gentry. But then I thought better of it. He is devoid of pigment.) declares it too soon for tweed talk and has requested refrain from such.

And the McThrottle moniker comes from his rightful belief that any blogger who mentions flannel or tweed before the weather gets nippy deserves a flogging. Here’s his exact words from my tumblr… “Mentally, I've promised myself that until the weather cools, I'd throttle the first guy who posts about tweed, flannel, wool, etc. Consider yourself throttled.” Ok den.

And he’s correct. But I had to post the photo above. The lighting sucked but if you’d seen this thing in situ, you’d a take a photo too. The lushness of the navy blue flannel was stunning. Marky Mark Mark Rykken of Paul Stuart Custom made this rig for one of the minions at The Rake. You’ll see it in an upcoming issue.

It is too early to talk tweed but I’m gonna do it. I’m a warm weather guy but if I’ve gotta endure the rawness of winter, I’d like to do so swathed in the topographical and geometric fuzziness of texturated English fabrics. All of the cloths and many of the contrivances over at Bookster remind me of Edwardian English shooting parties and as I type this, the salad days print ads from Polo Ralph harken for me the same recollectionated juju.

For you South Carolinians who read this load, I define the Polo “salad days” somewhere within the range of 1975-1985…with Thousand Island dressing and two two-packs of Melba toast. South Carolina Diner style.

Ok, back to tweeds and such. The impracticalities of those shooting party outfits present a dilemma. Or as someone taking shots at me over at my tumbler said about the intent, utility or relevance of my clothes, declaring them as—and I paraphrase loosely—“outfits for parties and events to which you no longer get invited.” I reckon the reason that stung is because my snide commentator is right. I’m wearing Sponge Bob Square Pants pajama bottoms right now so what event am I currently ready for? People like me get all caught up in the possibilities of such outfits and then find that, and I paraphrase my not so anonymous shot taker again, we don’t get invited to … “butterfly collecting but only when the mosquitoes aren’t so bad” events where the costumery is mandatory.

But I still had to have one. The tweedy Shooting Party esque two-piece contrivances that always look so damned good on people who are doing things where such kit is appropriate have always intrigued me. But not enough to spend the dough necessary to commission one for my damn self. I don’t generally run with the Highland Wingshooting, Stalking, Moors slogging crowd.

That’s where Bookster comes in. I’ve yet to have them make a jacket for me but my fifth pair of Bookster trousers is in the works right now. Hopefully they’ll roll in with enough time left for me to wear them once this season. Linen flat front fish-tails.  Oh, and fish-tail split backs are tricky as hell. You better know your size because when you start fiddling with waist alterations, you’re gonna foul the fish. That is, if you can find a tailor willing to take on the task.

I’ve spent tons of dough on custom clothes but I rarely allow the Flusser boys to make odd trousers for me. Hertling and Bookster quality/caliber is just fine for me. Really. So amidst my longing for a Shooting Party-esque suit that I’ll never wear, I wondered if the Bookster Seafield piece goods would remotely match up with my already well-worn and beloved Flusser Seafield poacher pocketed chest pocket flapped jacket that always gets admirable reviews.

I requested a swatch and the match-up is fine. Just fine. But I didn’t get much of a chance to wear this rig last season because, just like my linens that I decided to order at the wrong time, the Bookster trousers rolled in a bit too late in the season.  And when you order the proper sized fish tail trousers, this is what they should look like.

And then…and then I began to think about the Vanity Fair shooting prints. Several prints capture the essence of  shooting party dress and Lord Savile of RuffordAbbey has probably the best display of shooting kit as any of the Vanity Fair victims. “Spy”…Sir Leslie Ward, had, by the time he drew Savile for Vanity Fair, devolved his caricaturing skills to nothing more than society portraiture. You’ll see the difference in Ward's earlier caricatures. Stay tuned.

Here’s further evidence that Ward’s Vanity Fair contrivance was nothing more than a portrait…certainly not caricature. The Vanity Fair image is almost identical to Savile's photograph. I’ve long since, thank goodness, given up my flirtation with a mustache but Savile’s is one for the record books.

And Rufford Abbey? Similar to many of the estates which thrived when the balance of land ownership and thus every other venue to power was held in the hands of few, Rufford Abbey is no longer.  Here's a few more Vanity Fair shooting subjects...

Sir R.W.Payne-Gallwey

Sir R.W.Payne-Gallwey…Letters to Young Shooters.

Payne-Gallweywas a fairly prolific author whose three volume Letters to Young Shooters and his Book of Duck Decoys are highly collectible today.

R.H.R Rimington Wilson.  Listed by The Field as number sixty-nine of the one hundred best shots in English history.

R.H.R Rimington Wilson…Driven Grouse.

The Earl De Grey. Frederick Robinson, 2nd Marquess of Ripon

The Earl De Grey…The Best Game Shot in England. But how difficult is it to be the best game shot in England when you’ve got estate raised birds and beaters driving them to you?

Richard John Lloyd Price of Rhiwias. Author of Practical Pheasant Rearing and Rabbits for Profit—Rabbits for Powder.

As well as Dogs’ Tales

Oh and Dogs Ancient and Modern and Walks in Wales.

Richard John Lloyd Price of Rhiwias…Pointers.

Ok, time for me to bust out of my Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas and get cracking on the day. Somebody please, invite me to something this coming season where I can wear this rig. I’ll bring my first shotgun with me. It was a .410 Flight King…from K-Mart. Hoyt Purdey sold it to my daddy.

And speaking of shotguns and stuff...This is anything but tweed. It's Weejuns, keg beer and ...

Onward. Throttled. ADG II