Winter-Wonderland Hyde Park

It looks just like that.

I may have missed a meeting on social etiquette, but I always assumed if you knocked a drink out of someone’s hand you apologize and insist on replenishing their beverage. In the space of a week I have been the victim of two spill and runs, and on both occasions the perpetrator has not only failed to offer me a refill, but has shown me nothing in way of remorse. Now my self-esteem is so low that I apologize before entering the room, so where do people get their balls to douse me in my own drink and walk off with more brio than Al Pacino? This is my only grumble about Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. There are too many tuned out dumb-schmucks that are just queuing up to moisten your winter wear with your own mulled wine. So here are a couple of tips to help you weave through the Winter Wonderland wilderness.

      

      Don’t try and impress your woman by throwing a basketball from fifteen feet into a tiny hoop. Only after you have shelled out 20 quid in a fruitless bid to win a cuddly toy, will you be reminded how bad you are at basket ball, and how little interest you have in the sport.

   

      If you decide to invest in a marshmellow kebab dipped in chocolate, don’t throw the box away. The chocolate puddle will harden and you can scrape the left over’s off for an extra hit.

   

       Don’t wear your best white Nike Air trainers. They will end up looking like Forrest Gump’s throw-aways.

    

Don't be a numpty.

      If you get off at Green Park tube use the underground toilets and take a safety piss. It will cost you 50p but it will be well worth it as it’s a 15-minute walk to Hyde Park, then you will be hurdling through people and prams like the assault course on the krypton factor before queuing for another 10 minutes before experiencing some sweet sweet relief.

     

      Don’t try skating backwards, it will end in tears and a torn hammy. 

Christmas drinking and Knitwear

If your Christmas day routine is anything like mine then you'll be slipping blissfully into an almighty food coma around mid-afternoon, sporting a semi-ripped chrimbo cracker hat after feigning delight and surprise whilst opening up presents from estranged family members. But you will need to be aware christmas campers as you slump gracelessly across the chaise longue with a suspicious wet patch emanating around the fly of your jeans,  you will undoubtedly be having your picture taken every five seconds of the day

Christmas, drink hard and stay home

by some c*nt intent on trying out their new camera. They will then be tagging your drunken mug in every album on every platform of social media. So although you may be catatonic at the time, it's important that we at least get snapped wearing something reasonably refined.
I would push for something that doesn't make you look like a complete twat. Steer clear of anything too predictable. So no football shirts, nothing with a fair-aisle pattern and if there are any women reading this, for fucks sake, no Cow Prints onesies.

Can't go wrong.

I personally will be rocking this little number. This Luke 1977 Hammy Stripe Crew Sweat comes with a contrast breton striped body and sleeves and a lion crest on the chest pocket. Inspired by the name given to a lewd act from a certain build of lady carrying a little extra chicken. Look up Hammy in the Urban Dictionary for further details. Final tip - If you happen to be awake when the camera goes off, make sure you check your teeth for flakes of mint sauce before you flash them through your red-wine stained lips.

The story of Superdry

Here are the brass tacks of the Superdry jackanory told in cockney rhyming slang. 

Lovely clobber

A geezer by the name of Julian Dunkerton has an idea one day. He's sick to the back of his Hampstead Heath of freezing his jacobs off on a market stall. He wants to go into business for himself, but needs some sausage and mash, so borrows 2 G's off his old man and opens his own shop, 'Cult Clothing'. At the time, his best selling brand was Bench, until that is, Bench got sold over to the Yanks. The main cheese for Bench was a fella named James Holder. Now James got squeezed out of the deal and didn't make a penny from the takeover, leaving him completely brassic. Meanwhile, whilst Bench was taking off on the other side of the pond, Julian noticed that Bench was in barney rubble this side of the water. Turns out us Brits weren't taking to the new direction. 'Fuck this for a game of toy soldiers' thought Julian, 'I'm going to start my own brand'. So he got in touch with his china plate James Holder and flew out to Japan to have a butchers, maybe get some inspiration for some designs. As soon as they got off the plane they got a sandy mcnab down to the rubbity-dub for a couple of nelsons, and this ladies and germs is where Julian and James's Donald Duck was about to change. Julian gave the barman a dirty den for a couple of pig's ears and the name of the pot of good cheer that was presented to them was called Superdry. So he lifted the name and stuck it on the front of his clobber. They then preceded to get Oliver Twist, and the rest is history. 

Do you speak it?

Tap Room Review

Tap Room, or the OK Corral

Saturday night was spent down the Tap Room in St Ives, Cambridgeshire. I was gutted to be missing out on the Groves V Froch fight but had some wingman duties to fulfill. Upon arrival, I ordered a San Miguel and began talking some tosh to some blonde about how prudent the smell of Cedarwood was in her fragrance. We were getting on splendidly when out of nowhere, some drunk tw*t crashed into her, knocking her entire glass of red vino all over my Bolongoro jacket. I excused myself and ventured into the mens room to dry myself off in the privacy of its only cubicle. I had just started to take a piss when two men smashed through the cubicle door, one clearly was getting the better of the other. Unfortunately I couldn't stop myself mid-piss so inadvertently found myself having front row seats to an utter and unremitting pasting. Two other gentleman guarded the door so no one else could get in or out. It has to be said it was a very well executed beating, almost mafia like. It was all over in a matter of minutes, the Cambridge mafia issued a warning to the victim never to come back to the Tap Room and left. I picked the loser up from the floor, dressed him, mopped the blood from his nose and mouth and gave him some reassurance about how everyone gets a beating every now and then. I had of course lifted the line straight from Goodfellas. I finished my San Miguel, told my buddy we were leaving, handed the blonde my number and got the fuck out of there. I would actually recommend the Tap Room in St Ives, the bar staff are pleasant, the women smell good, and the fights don't get stopped controversially.

Good old fashioned beating

Best use of Duffel Bags in cinema

Yes it's the blog everyone has been asking for. Which film features the best use of a duffle bag. Well let me tell you I have whittled down the shortlist and here it is as follows, in reverse order to heighten suspense. 

Never seen it, never will.

NUMBER 5 

8 HEADS IN A DUFFEL BAG 

Yes wow, crash bang wallop!! I mean not only does the film star Joe Pesci but it has the word Duffel bag in the title of the film. Unbelievable. Now I must confess I gave this film a miss because it looked shit. Currently sitting at 11% with the critics on Rotten Tomatoes so I was right. Although we should never judge a book by its cover, unless it has a picture of Katie Price or Martine McCutcheon on it, then judge away my friends. 

NUMBER 4 

"I wanna go home, Johnny!" I said "With what? I can't find your fuckin' legs!"

RAMBO FIRST BLOOD

Now admittedly the Duffel bag does only turn up for the first ten minutes of the film. But it is integral to the overall theme of Rambo as a drifter, an outcast from society after the Vietnam war like so many American Veterans were. The bag is a statement. It tells you that this man has nothing. No place of work, no fixed abode, no material possessions, apart from a huge fuck-off knife of course. I really enjoyed the bags cameo in this flick. 

NUMBER 3

THE GREAT ESCAPE

Baseball check, Catcher's Mitt check, endless supply of Jonnies check.

Yes! Now if anyone can make a duffel bag sexy it's this man. Steve McQueen was the monument of cool back in the day and this duffel bag is probably worth a fortune nowadays. It has a wonderful aesthetic to it. It's so wonderfully retro, it was probably retro before retro was even invented. Just think how much that duffel bag would be worth nowadays. At least 20 quid.

NUMBER 2

BOURNE IDENTITY

I don't remember anything, except how to kick ass

This duffel bag was beautifully cast in this film. The red really stood out against the icy backdrop and was a must have bit of kit for Bourne as he needed something to keep all those passports in as he kicked the crap out of the French Police. I imagine sales for red duffel bags quadrupled as a result of it being so heavily featured in this flick. 

NUMBER 1

HEAT

Bestest baddest ass bag ever

Possibly the best use of a dufflebag is for storing an exorbant amount of cash. If you have just robbed a bank and are looking to mobolize that cash through the streets of downtown L.A then there really is no other bag for the job. This Bag was really put through the ringer in this movie as Robert de Niro shot down an entire road block in his bid to escape Al Pacino's clutches. This was a very black, sleek looking duffelbag that certainly did the job for De Niro. Hands down the best duffelbag ever used on the big screen.

Are Bobble Hats for Tw*ts?

Yesterday a plucky chav sauntered in my shop and instantly dismissed my Bobble Hat range as 'wank'. His girlfriend with the pencil line eyebrows picked out a Bobble Hat from the stand and presented it to her loutish other half, "I don't want to be known as the twat in the hat," he scoffed. I happened to wearing my bobble hat to work that day as the central heating on the shop floor had packed up. Noticing my head was adorning the very garment he was slighting, and not to be seen causing any unwanted offense, the churlish youth back pedaled; "Obviously some people don't have a problem with that look."

Your honour, exhibit A.

Unsurprisingly, I failed to accommodate my customers high standards for hat attire and he and his girlfriend soon left amidst a discussion of which one of their friends they could rinse a tenner off to buy a 4 pack of Kestrel.
It was a brief exchange, but one that stayed with me for the duration of the afternoon. Recently I have adopted a new strategy to decision making, firstly I ask myself 'What would a sane person do?' Then secondly I remove myself from the equation. So with this approach I may have to concede that Bobble Hats really are for twats. And I was a prime twat for endorsing them. I then did exactly ten seconds of research and found this picture of Idris Elba who is one of the best actors around at the moment and is tipped to play the next James Bond. If it's good enough for James Bond, it's good enough for me. Verdict: Bobble Hats are coolio.

Retail therapy

I was completely sober last Sunday in Rough Trade records about mid-afternoon. I had purchased a Justice CD for a fiver and was weaving my way through the hip and the cool kids when I brushed up against a stray vinyl record. This fleeting hit of friction tore a tiny hole in my precious Bolongaro Leather Jacket. I glanced at the record, Pink Moon by Nick Drake. A beautifully crafted album that didn't deserve the fate of being smashed to bits over my knee. So with nothing and no one to dispense my anger upon, I went straight over the road to Son of a Stag, for an immediate hit of retail therapy. I threw on the first shirt that I saw. It came up a perfect fit, except the sleeves barely crept past my elbows. So I accosted the sales boy.
"This shirt is fucked man."

Not for me thank you Mr Commission 

"It's not fucked," he said rolling back a lock of his lustrous hair over one lobe. "They're 3/4 length sleeves, it's very popular in America right now, Baseball players wear it. Also, if you're in the habit of rolling up your sleeves like I am, then this shirt is perfect because the sleeves are pre-rolled."
"Bullshit man." I barked. "For one, I roll up my sleeves to send a message of intent to anyone watching, that I'm ready to work, ready to fight, or ready to fuck. Second, it's not such a calorie burner for me to roll up a piece of light cotton from my wrist to my elbow. Thirdly, baseball sucks, and that's just good science. Good day sir."

T-shirt and Tattoo combo

Of course this dialogue only happened in my head and I instead feigned interest to the sales guy who had such a hard-on for this horrible garment he must have had shares in the brand. However I needed a hit of shallow materialism to patch up the hole in my heart that was as big as the hole in my jacket. Mr Commission threw a handful of options at me until I opted for an Edwin t-shirt that has the exact design as the tattoo on my chest.
Quite the afternoon I can tell you.

Mens Fitness - Stop Talking.

start doing

The best way to get fit is to stop talking.

Don't tell people how much you bench, what carbs you eat at what time of day, what celebrities physique you're aiming to get but will never achieve, what your fucking press up count is up to, what protein powder you use, no one cares. Don't tell me how many laps of the pool you do on the weekend, how many miles you've crushed on your pedometer. It's fucking boring. Just put your head down, get your game face on and shut up. Do 50 sit ups every day, do 50 press ups every day. Write in a diary so you can monitor your progress. Join a local boxing gym, but don't spar. It's too late to get into that gig and you'll only mess up the cash register (face). Drink bottles and not pints. Smuggle small packets of confectionary into the cinema rather than buying those monster portions at the counter. Once you got some definition going, get someone to take a picture of you with your top off, and wait for the girl that's been waiting for you to get your shit together, to like it. Once that door is ajar kick it open by asking her out to dinner. The rest is on you. But don't tell people your plan. Don't count your calories, just use your logic. Don't try and cheat nature by having diet versions of shit that's already fucking up your innards. Procrastination is a cancer and it's keeping you from getting off the couch. Don't be afraid to fail, but at least give yourself a chance to. Start with the end in mind. Now move your fucking ass and quit your noise. 

I apologize for the selfie.

Richard Bacon the Scarf Fashionista

Bacon, not a nazi. 

Richard Bacon must secretly love this weather. Every time he is snapped on the red carpet outside a swanky fund raiser or plush 3 star Michelin restaurant, his neck is adorned with a new scarf. I am personally in favour a good scarf, but a practical one that stops the icy chill of the english wind ripping down your spine, not the light scarves of frail gauze that is designed to look slightly cool on a once hip radio presenter whilst he hosts some pointless pageantry award show for forgotten celebrities. No Bacon! The function of a scarf is practicality one, Fashion second. The wearing of scarves by men was popularized by the aviators in both World Wars, who used the scarf for warmth as they scanned the sky for enemy planes. It was not intended to be draped around the necks of the Bourgeois Bacon's of this world whilst they view the latest West End release from the royal box, a molotov cocktail in one hand, a pair of french telescopic handled opera glasses in the other. 

No one likes a nazi punching your ribs.

Here are five ways to gauge whether your scarf is practical or just an apology designed to divert attention away from how your pink suit jacket in no way matches your stone-wash denim jeans. 

1. Is it strong enough to hold your weight as you zip slide down a telephone wire to escape a prison that you were wrongfully held captive in with Kurt Russell?

2. Will the fabric be resilient enough to drag you through the streets of Shoreditch once you've trapped it in the car door of a taxi?

3. Can it be doubled up as a whip to stop your dad falling off the tyres of a tank whilst a nazi punches wildly at your ribs?

4. Could you use it to lower yourself into a pit of molten lava whilst giving the thumbs up to protect the future of mankind from a cyber war lead by artificial intelligence whose continuing goal is to end the human race?

5. Will it be able to withstand great strain as you attempt to climb out of a well-like pit that a mercenary ex-communicated from the league of shadows put you in after he beat you in a fisty-cuffs down a Gotham sewer?

@thepeterbrooker