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On the Casting Couch

Oh, whoa whoa whoa!
The ho ho ho,
Of last Xmas

The bitter snow,
The frost,
All that money lost
In market compost!
I dream of a farm,
Somewhere warm,
With olive groves,
And tomato bread
with garlic cloves.

A hacienda tickled in sea breeze,
The afternoon under shaded trees.

I walk through terraces of vines,
Ancient earth tilled
under clear blue skies
By the fingers of sleeping Gods,
And dancing Señoritas.

Instead.
Back in the real world to dread…
Fickle politicians
And plebs.

Imperfections.
And infections.
A cough like an ape,
and work too late.

Gentlemen!
Fight back
Against the inevitable heart attack!
Less port and oyster,
Slow gin and bitter.

Shoot and fish,
Climb the Hindu Kish
And ride across Spain;
Ignore the rain.

Pass me my pick, George.
There are mountains to climb –
Not for us to whine.

They smile and walk on
towards the mist.

– Unknown Sherpa



George Ingle-Finch
George Ingle-Finch


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Welcome to Our World

by Nick Foulkes
19 June 2008 - this article originally appeared in Finch’s Quarterly Review Issue 1
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Lunch at Lo Scoglio and a fitting with the tailor,
The rumble of the engine as I rev up the Riva,
The warm leathery smell of a Bentley Azure,
The fragrant blue smoke of my favourite Havana.

These, rather than, copper kettles, woollen mittens, raindrops and whiskers, are a few of my favourite summer things and the image above reminds me that I should really spend more of my time experiencing them.

In our lives that are so full of such important things to be done, meetings to be taken targets to be met, earn outs to be…well…earned out  - we often lose track of the things that make our lives what they are.  The truth is that often we are too busy chasing that deal that will bring us all we want; that we forget to enjoy what we already have (yes there is a touch of Hallmark Greeting Card morality about and it is a cliché but then clichés have a disconcerting habit of accuracy):  the Mediterranean sun on your back; the teak deck of a yacht (preferably someone elses’s) beneath your feet; the dive into invigorating waters; the comforting bulk of a Girard Perregaux Seahawk II Pro 3000 Metres at your wrist …not that you really need a watch to tell you if it is time for a long lunch at Lo Scoglio, or Tetu, and a large cigar afterwards.

Of course I take it for granted that you are the sort enlightened individual who knows that true love is the greatest of all these blessings.  But while we are waiting for love, summer offers so many compensations: the chance to be fitted for voile shirts and linen suits; the opportunity to wear a pair of Tods in an almost ecclesiastical shade of purple; or the excuse, if one were needed, to get the bewitching Shiel Davidson-Lungley at Meyrowitz to make you yet another pair of sunglasses.

The truth is that I would have loved to have been born with, or even have been able to earn, the money to indulge my aesthete tendencies, but I wasn’t and I haven’t.  However from time to time I snatch consoling moments from such a life: whether it is long sun-drenched lunch; a great cigar and cup of tea on a pavement table in Jermyn Street in the company of the world’s finest cigar merchant Edward Sahakian; or an afternoon savouring the rattle of dice as I face art dealer Fabien Fryns over a Max Parker backgammon board at the upper (not the lower) pool of the Marbella Club.

I was at a seated dinner the other day (a ridiculous term, after all I tend not to eat dinner in places without chairs) when a man told me his plans to make a fortune buying a venerable apparel name and turn it into a brand making mass –produced tat in China.  Just what the world needs.  A little bit of me died, just as it did when I heard that Association footballer and paragon of male elegance Mr Wayne Rooney wed his fiancée in Portofino.   I have nothing against the Rooneys, far from it, their cheerful vulgarity it oddly endearing; it is just that my own personal fantasy view of life from the terrace restaurant of the Splendido as a part of the jet set pageant circa Julie Christie in Darling (a belief I cling to along with the existence of Santa Claus) took another dent.  But at least the Rooneys are enjoying themselves.

There is a life of lotus-eating ease and, a dirty word this, luxury to be enjoyed, so why spend the summer thumbing away at the Blackberry, working out how to ‘leverage’ one’s non share capital while spreadsheeting your MBA into year-on-year core comptency – I felt like telling my branded-tat-focussed dinner companion to relax a little.   After all the graveyards are full indispensable people and I have always thought the graveyards of the Mediterranean with their cypress trees are better than most.  In the meantime look at the picture at the top of this page and remember that living well is the best revenge.


One Response

  1. David Vawter Says:
    September 15th, 2008 at 5:09 pm

    Dear Mr Foulkes

    Purple Tod’s … you are a man after my own heart.

    Wanted to take the opportunity to say I greatly enjoy your musings in all of the publications in which you appear. After reading your recce of the new Dunhill emporium/club, I have penciled a visit for my next trip to London. I have been a client of Brent’s for a couple of years now. He’s a fine fellow and quite the burgeoning entrepreneur.

    Hope your day has been suitably gratifying. Your column here certainly elevated mine.

    Best regards from Michigan USA

    David Vawter


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