The Guvnor Magazine - Issue 1 (Pilot Issue)

THE

NORGUV’

M A G A Z I N E

THE GREAT BRITISH SEASIDE1960’s JEWELL THIEF

FOOTBALL DEDICATION MARKET TRADERS

SOHO’s FINEST TAILORWHISKEY HANGOUTS

/300Pilot issue

limited print run

WWW.THEGUVNORMAG.COM - THE MAGAZINE MEN ACTUALLY WANT TO READ

LOST CITYLOST CITYChernobyl’s

Going inside the most deserted place on earth

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The Guv’nor - About

02 www.theguvnormag.com

PICTURE: www.urbanxphotography.co.uk

Con

trib

ut

or

s

JASON HOLMES A Londoner by birth,

Jason Holmes has written

for journals as diverse as

Wallpaper magazine and the

Soho Clarion and for The

Huffington Post, and has

worked on publications for

EMAP, Haymarket Publishing,

Reed Business Information

and Dow Jones. He has just

finished his first novel.

URBAN X UrbanX is an urban explorer.

He photographs areas usually

considered ‘off-limits’ to the

general public. From the

abandoned city of Pripyat,

to disused military facilities;

and from medium secure

psychiatric wards to sewers

beneath the city, dodging

security patrols to capture

that evocative photograph.

THE GENTLE AUTHOR The man behind the fabulous

blog which is Spitalfields Life.

The Gentle Author writes

about all the interesting and

diverse people that populate

Londons east end. Spends

his time walking, writing and

updating his blog on a daily

basis, check it out at

www.spitalfieldslife.com you

will not be dissapointed.

CHARLES DUCKSBURY Charles is a football writer

living in Rotherham. He

supports Hellas Verona

currently playing in Italy’s

Serie B and travels around

Italy supporting his team. He

is a Freelance Italian football

writer covering serie A, Serie B

and Lega pro. Check him out

on twitter @cducksbury.

JAMES WHITE James is currently studying

his masters and then PHD in

Kingston up-on Thames in

Film making. James tends to

foucus his work on real life

working class people and the

situations which they find

themselves in. Exactly what

the Guv’nor likes.

jamesdeanwhite

[email protected]

Having spent my working life as a magazine designer I have sadly witnessed the continuing decline of the men’s magazine. Of course there are many reasons for this decline. I believe one of the key reasons for the fall in readership is that the content simply isn’t what men want to read. Many of the articles magazines publish just are not what the normal bloke off of the street wants in a magazine. The Guv’nor shall always tell interesting and engaging real life stories, about normal men doing interesting things and sharing interesting experiences

which we can all relate to. The Guv’nor shall be loyal to hard working men and their interests. It shall provide cover to cover content which men want to read. From my experience in the magazine world there is still a place for the printed men’s magazine. Something which is coming from a new angle. A magazine which delivers content which is entertaining and engaging. Uses fantastic imagery and is really well thoughtout and designed. Above all the Guv’nor will be something which the normal guy off the street actually wants to pick up and read.

ULTIMATE HANGOVER CURES

GIN AND TONIC - STEP 1Take a large glass (pint glass works best), handful of

ice, 1 lime, 1 bottle of gin, shot glass (for measure) and

1 small can of indian tonic water

GIN AND TONIC - STEP 2Put ice in glass, add 4 shots of gin (measured using

the shot glass), squeeze in the juice of 1 lime and top

up with the tonic water - stir well!

GIN AND TONIC - STEP 3Proceed to drink quickly, works best when ice cold,

will provide full refreshment and take the edge off

your saturday morning hangover!

DEVISED AND CREATED BY STEPHEN BEERLING www.stephenbeerling.com

CONTACT: www.theguvnormag.com, [email protected]

FULL LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS: Charles Ducksbury, The Gentle Author, Urban X

photography, Jason Holmes, Jason Lancy, James White, Joe Howarth, Rodney.

PRINTED BY: The Newspaper Club, www.newspaperclub.com

The articles appearing in this magazine are the opinions of their respective authors

and do not necessarily represent thoes of the editorial team.

© The Guv’nor Magazine. Twitter: @TheGuvnorMag

Odds “n” Ends - The Guv’nor

www.theguvnormag.com 03

TIGER MIKE

FANZINESThe history of niche independent publications

Produced in small quantities,

fanzines were the original

medium of super-niche interest

groups and the cultural

underground. Many of the

most exciting zines have been

made with very basic tools:

scissors and glue, a photocopier, staples or

string, yet their collaged photos and hand-drawn

type and illustrations explode across the pages.

From the earliest examples created by sci-fi

fans in the 1930s, now incredibly rare, the book

takes us through the decades. Superhero comics

inspired a fl ush of zines in the 1950s and ’60s. In

the 1970s, the DIY aesthetic of punk was forged

in fanzines such as Sniffi n’ Glue and Search and

Destroy, while the ’80s saw political protest zines

as well as rave and street style. The Riot Grrrl

movement of the ’90s gave voice to a defi ant

new generation of feminists, while the arrival

of the internet saw many fanzines make the

transition to online.

Mustread

Magical memos from Tiger Mike, a 1970’s oil boss

FOR MORE: www.lettersofnote.com

The Guv’nor - Hunter S Thompson


Gilbert K. Chesterton

“Evil Comes at leisure like the disease. Good comes in a hurry like the doctor”

WORDS: Joe Howarth

Legalization of drugs on a recreational basis (although profiteering dealers would be prosecuted harshly.)

He promised that if elected, he would not eat mescaline whilst on duty.

“Rip up all city streets with jackhammers and sod the streets at once.”

“Change the name Aspen to Fat City. This would prevent greed heads, land rapers, and other human jackals from

capitalizing on the name

‘Aspen’. These swine should be fucked, broken, and driven across the land.”

“It will be the general philosophy of the sheriff’s office that no drug worth taking shall be sold for money. My first act as sheriff will be to install on the sheriff’s lawn a set of stocks to punish dishonest dope dealers.”

Firing the majority of the conservative county officials and bureaucrats.

Hunter S Thompson may not have gone done in history as one of the world’s most pleasant men. His drug-addled adventures are something of reality and mythic folklore. His dealings with any assignment were not approached with the very well promoted

idea of ‘Professional organisation’. But what was left when the ink hit the typewriter was something of substances. It meant more than any £1 newspaper could ever mean, because what he said were his truths.

Hunter S Thompson (a.k.a, Raoul Duke, Dr Thompson, Martin Bormann) wrote for a living, he wrote what he saw and wrote about the world he constructed

around himself. He died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head on 20th February 2005. His first book book published in 1966 ‘Hells Angels: The strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs’ thrust his unique style of journalism and observation into the public domain. It was from this book that a career so twisted and deranged was born. There are currently 3 Hollywood films attributed to his work. It would not be illogical to think that the story of ‘Hunter Thompson for sheriff campaign’ will also be made into a film. His campaign strategy shook politics hard and like a dumbfounded child who cannot find its mother; it was very close to becoming a bad situation for the old power structure of Aspen Colorado. At first FREAK POWER was not taken seriously, and by the time the old guard had took note it was becoming too late, or so it seemed to HST. Dirty tactics were afoot, a rogue agent working for the current sheriff was employed to infiltrate, report and ultimately destroy this new FREAK POWER movement. This undercover agent originally appeared at Owl Farm (Hunter’s house in Aspen Col.) and told HST he would ‘stomp him’ if he did not pull out of the race. When this didn’t work he did everything he could to penetrate the campaign circle and offered to smash and bash anyone who stood in the way of Freak Power. It was only after this buffoon had his illegal sawn off shotgun seized on two separate occasions did he finally see sense and skip town. But, not before HST sent a reporter to his house to photograph him in front of his bike and then use this in a full front page spread highlighting the tactics of the current sheriff.

It would be fair to say that HST was an impulsive character; anyone who takes risks has to be. But something like running for sheriff is not an impulsive act, it takes thought, intelligence, drive and a reason. Some people’s reason for running for that type of position could be to gain power and status. Other people could want to change a system that no

longer worked. HST Realised the system was in disarray in 1968. The Chicago riots were in full swing because another man who wanted to change the system had been assassinated. Dr Martin Luther King, A black man with a free mind wanted fairness and equality, and like others before him, he paid the price for that belief with a bullet.

HST decided that being in the middle of the riots/protests caused by the assassination would be a good place to start his book about the American Dream; eventually this became the cult classic ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’. During his time in Chicago he was treated like everyone else who wasn’t a police officer or a politician. He was denied the treatment that any human being deserves the right to. The scenes of violence were getting worse and structured anarchy was becoming prevalent. The rioters/protesters still believed in the ideology of a changeable system that answered to its people. So they stood their ground, but what they didn’t realise that the people who they wanted to speak to face to face were the same people employing the tear gas spraying, power hungry men who were denying them access (at every level of entry). Seeing this unfold in front of him HST began to rationalize that something had to be done, and it needed to be done in a different manner; so the high flying, low moral scum mongers wouldn’t see it coming.

In 1969 HST co-ordinated Joe Edwards’ run for mayor in Aspen Cal. This was the first test to see

if the FREAK POWER movement could work. The FREAK POWER movement was designed to attract the support of freaks, heads, dropouts and anyone else that could see what it stood for. Joe Edwards lost by 6 votes, it is worth noting that 5 votes for Edwards did not arrive in time for counting, and the only reason that this couldn’t be challenged in court was due to the inability to raise the $2000 required to do so.

Seven days before his own election night, HST was bunkered down in his home surrounded by a crowd of devotees all working towards the same goal. All pledged to see it through to the end, outside men with guns formed a triangle of fire around the home. This was necessary as a few days before a threat came into the CBI (California bureau of investigation); informing everyone within the freak power campaign that someone who wasn’t overly pleased with HST’s impending success, vowed to blow things up if he won. This threat held credence as dynamite had been stolen from an army base the night before. Even though the camp saw the funny side of this threat, they also understood anyone crazy enough to make a threat and steal dynamite, might in fact do damage. So a strict regime had to be adhered to until the election had finished.

Ultimately HST lost the election by a small amount of votes this has been attributed to a number of things; his plan for the FREAK POWER movement which he wrote in 1969 was finally published by Rolling Stone on 1st October 1970. The Democratic and Republican candidates choose not to run against each other in key elections. And finally, his manifesto consisted of sane things in an insane world:

HUNTER S THOMPSON FOR SHERRIFF - FREAK POWER

MAKES A STAND!

Seaside Snapshot - The Guv’nor


“The blokes are minging,

Canturbury has some totty,

but theres no point going out

on the pull, because they’re

all inbred townies”

The Great British Seaside

MARGATE

“Chavs...there are too many - but we will have the last laugh when you are all working at McDonalds and cleaning cars!”

“You want to check out Frank’s

nightclub, the clocks go back

tonight, so you’ll get an extra

hour inside.”

James, 22 Student

Dave, Margate Cabbie

Chantelle, 20 Margate

ILLUSTRATIONS: www.theillustrationofbenny.co.uk

HUNTER S THOMPSON FOR SHERRIFF - FREAK POWER

MAKES A STAND!

The Guv’nor - 60s Gangland

Jewel Thief

Mid-afternoon on a weekday is a good time for a discreet liaison at The Carpenters Arms in Cheshire St (the pub that used to belong to the Krays), especially if you are meeting a jewel thief. Lenny was initially averse to the location, “What do you want to go to that fi lthy old place for?”

he complained, until I reassured him they had cleaned it up nicely, though when he told me the story of his personal experience of the Kray twins I came to understand why he might harbour an aversion.

“I used to go round to their house in Vallance Rd on and o� for three years, until Ronnie burnt me with the pokers, and his mother and Charlie had a go with him over it.” revealed Lennie with a pleasant smile, introducing his testimony, before taking a slug of his double Corvoisier and lemonade. It was a story that started well enough before it all went so horribly wrong.

“I was just six weeks out of the army, doing my National Service (I used to box for the army), when I went back to work in Billingsgate Fish Market at the age of twenty-six. Georgie Cornell looked after me – he was the hardest man I ever saw on the cobbles but he had a heart of gold as well. He gave me fi ve pounds to buy my mother some fl owers and said ‘Make sure you give her the fucking change!’ He was a nice fellow. He used to line up all the tramps at the market and give them each half a crown and make sure they got a mug of tea and two slices of dripping toast. Then with the change, he’d say ‘Now go down and buy yourselves a pint.’

Leaving work, I was walking down Maidment St, and on the corner I saw this big fellow wrestling with these two little fellows. So I went to help them, they got away and I got arrested, because the guy I was wrestling with was a police o� cer. When I got taken down to Arber Sq police station, he said to me, ‘Do you know what you’ve done? Them two young fellows was the Kray twins and now they’ve got away. They’re on the run from the army.’ I apologised and they let me go.

Later, when the Krays got control of a snooker hall, The Regal, I was playing snooker there and they came in and this fellow put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘You don’t know who I am do you? I am Reggie Kray – and this is my brother Ronnie.’ I thought I was seeing double, you couldn’t tell them apart. They took me across the road to a pub called The Wentworth to buy me a drink because I did them a favour. They liked me at fi rst. That’s how I came to be going round their house for nearly three years.

One day, I was down the Regency Club working for Harry Abrahams, he had his own “fi rm” and Albert Donahue was part of it. One of the Krays’ “fi rm”, Pat Connolly was there and he was drinking with a young couple. Then some fellows arrived from South London and sent us all a drink over. I ordered one for myself and the young fellow, but I didn’t know what the girl was drinking, so I asked her, ‘What do you want, love?’

The fellow that was with her went to cut me with a razor! Pat Connolly said ‘You don’t do that to Lenny.’ So, the fellow asked to

Jewel Thief

LENNIE HAMILTON


Jewel ThiefWORDS AND PICTURES: by the gentle author of Spitalfi elds LifeThe book of Spitalfi elds Life is published by Saltyard Books and is out now

About two days later, my protector from Billingsgate, Georgie Cornell, came round and gave Harry Abrahams’ wife two hundred pounds with instructions to take care of me, “Look after Lenny, take the expenses out of that.’ A day later, a big surprise, Charlie Kray came round and gave her a hundred pounds and said, ‘Don’t let my brothers know.’ Finally, Dr Blaskar, the Krays’ doctor came round – he liked to drink and gamble – he treated me, gave me stu� for the burns.

But then in 1967, when the police were after the Krays, I was in Wandsworth Prison and they got a message smuggled in to me. I was in a single cell and when I returned from the doctor one day there was an envelope on the table. (It’s in the Black Museum at Scotland Yard now) The note read, ‘If the Old Bill comes round, keep your mouth shut or we are going to shoot your kids.’ My children were six and seven years old and living with their mother in Poplar. I’m not a grass but I couldn’t risk my kids being shot, so I went to see the governor and gave him the letter. Within two hours, the police were round, they said, ‘Look Lenny, if you help us, we’ll help you. We’ll give your children twenty-four hour police protection.’ which they did. They moved me to Eastchurch prison on the Isle of Sheppey and then to Bow St to give evidence against Ronnie Kray. On my evidence, he got committed to the Old Bailey.”

We were all alone in the empty barroom and, when Lenny told the part about the poker, he fi xed me eye to eye and, extending a single fi nger, pushed his fi ngertip into my face. I was speechless. It was extraordinary to hear a fi rst hand account of the reality of characters that have become mythical. I think it is easier to accept the East End’s history of violence as mere fi ction, even when you know the truth. Ironically, Lenny’s volatile experiences have fused his emotional story into a powerful narrative with an e� ective literary structure.

Lenny has no patience with those who seek to romanticise the Krays as working class heroes,“They were scum. The lowest of the low. You never robbed or hurt your own

have a talk with me in the toilet and I thought he wanted to say sorry. As I went into the toilet, walking in front of him, someone said, ‘Watch your back!’ and he went to cut me down the back with his cut-throat razor. I dived down to the cubicle door, and ducked and dived, as he came at me with the razor. Then I got up and smashed him in the face and I didn’t realise that I broke his nose. I also didn’t realise he was Buller Ward’s son, Bonner – and Buller was friends with the Krays.

My pal Andy Paul was living with me at the time because his wife had thrown him out, and he worked with the Krays as a doorman. Once, he came home at one in the morning when I was in bed and said ‘Ronnie wants you on the phone at Esmerelda’s bar. You’d better phone him up because you know what he’s like, he’ll come round and smash the place up.’ So I got a cab all the way to Knightsbridge to Esmerelda’s in Wilton Place and asked the cab driver to wait.

I went in and walked upstairs. All the gambling tables were closed down and there were seven or eight people standing on either side. They told me to go in the kitchen and when I opened the door Ronnie Kray was standing opposite. He said, ‘Nothing to worry about, Lenny.’ He had a big armchair next to the cooker and he invited me to sit down, asking ‘What’s going on Lenny? You caused a bit of trouble in the Regal. We get protection money from them.’ I sat down.

He said, ‘Alright, you can go now.’ I stood up again and, as I turned to leave, I was wondering what was going on, when he said, ‘Get hold of him.’ Two geezers grabbed hold of me and then I saw it. I thought they were pokers but there were steels that are used to sharpen knives, Ronnie had them on the gas and they were white-hot. They had wooden handles and the fi rst one Ronnie picked up he dropped because it was so hot, so he went and got an oven glove. Then he picked one up and came over to me, to frighten me, I imagined. He singed my black curly hair. I pissed myself. I was terrifi ed. Next he started setting fi re to my suit that I only had made two weeks before.Then he went back and got another hot poker, and dabbed it on my cheeks and held it across my eyebrows and burnt my eyebrows o� . I’m half-blind in this eye because of it. Then he went back and got another poker and, as he came back, he said, ‘Now I’m going to burn your eyes out.’ and he really meant it. As he came towards me, Limehouse Willy called out from the crowd, ‘No Ron, don’t do that!’ (A nice fellow he was.) Ronnie switched, he turned and walked away.

They let me go and I hurried out, and the cab driver was still waiting outside. When he saw the state of me, he wanted to take me to Scotland Yard but I said, ‘No mate, don’t do that, just take me home.’ Then as we were driving along, he said, ‘I think there’s a car following us,’ and it was one of the Krays’ cars. They were following to see where I as going, so I went round to my friend Harry Abrahams’ house. When he came home with his friend Albert Donahue, he said, ‘There’s only one person who would do that.’ So he and Albert went round the twins home with guns next morning, and the twins told him they did it because I got too fl ash – too big for my boots.

LENNIE HAMILTON

people, that was the old East End code. The Krays controlled people through fear. They hurt so many people. I’ve been in a saloon bar when they were there and people would arrive, order a drink, then go out to the toilet and walk straight out the back door to escape.”

Today, after plastic surgery, and many years on the straight and narrow since doing time, Lenny is a di� erent man. Though, even walking with a stick, he retains a powerful physical presence as a legacy of his boxing years. Yet, behind this assured facade, I sensed something else, an intensity in his eyes, his “snake eyes” he calls them, that indicates a spirit forged in a dark world of violence.

“They were scum. The lowest of the

low. You never robbed or hurt your

own people, that was the old East

End code. Lenny doesn’t pretend to be a saint. “I’m not

proud of what I done,” he admitted openly, speaking of his days blowing safes and thieving jewels. “I used to have a friend in Hatton Garden who bought all the gear o� me and gave me good deal. I took him a £680,000 job one day and, after he’d melted down the gold and recut the diamonds, I got £100,000. He asked me to push my fi nger through a card, and then he made me this,” revealed Lenny with relish, displaying the dazzling ring upon his fi nger with its single glittering diamond. Always keen to emphasise that he only stole from those with insurance, Lenny even managed to make it sound like he was doing a favour for people sometimes. “There was a man whose business was going under. He came to me and said ‘There’s nothing in the safe but if you blow it up, I can claim there was.’ I felt sorry for him so I blew the safe while he was away for the weekend. Then he took the insurance payment and moved to Brighton.”

Lenny could have talked all day but after three double Corvoisiers and lemonade, I called a taxi to take him on to a pub in the Roman Rd where his pals were waiting to continue the long afternoon of storytelling. When I enquired about some recent scars on his head, he explained that he had been beaten up on the street by muggers, but he shrugged it o� lightly. You have to credit Lenny for his resilience, he still possesses undaunted enthusiasm and appetite for life.

Standing up to leave, Lenny caught sight for the fi rst time of the painting of Ronnie and Reggie Kray that hangs on the barroom wall in The Carpenters and brandished his stick in a fl ash of emotion. For a moment, I was expecting the sound of broken glass, but Lenny quickly relented, turning away with a grin and a wave to me, because the taxi was waiting outside and he had better things to do.

60s Gangland - The Guv’nor


The Guv’nor - Football Dedication

VERONA VIA ROTHERHAM


It began 14 years ago when it became fashionable at our school to start following a teams from different countries. For Spain I picked Real Madrid, for Germany I chose Dortmund, from France, PSG. All were big clubs I’d heard of and most

of us picked the same teams. But when it came to Italy, whilst everyone went for the obvious (choosing to a lad Juventus, Inter or Milan) I chose Hellas Verona. Needless to say, no-one had heard of them but I vaguely remembered them taking a battering on Channel Four’s Football Italia once and remembered their yellow away shirt. For the next few pre-internet years whenever they got back into Serie A (think WBA in their yo-yoing prime) I could catch their results at the back of my grandads newspaper. But as I grew and the Internet became accesable, I started to read up on Hellas and became more hooked. Each match-day I could check the score and scorers, even in Serie B. Even before Tim Parks famous book about his ‘Season with Verona’ I was following Verona any way I could. By the time I started university in 2007, I was well and truly a Veronese fanatic and would now name them as the team I support. Travelling to Italy

Imagine if the love of your life lived over 1,000 miles away, the only way to see her was to board a plane every couple of months and even then you only got a brief glance of her before you head back to the airport and go home. That is what my life has become, following Hellas Verona of Serie B from the slightly less picture-esque climes of Rotherham.WORDS: Charles Ducksbury, ILLUSTRATION: www.theillustrationofbenny.co.uk

became regular and I met a lot of Hellas fans who would integrate me into the famous Curva Sud, very much becoming an Ultra for the times I was present (One of the former leaders of one of Italy’s most famous Ultra groups, the now disbanded Brigate Gialloblu even laid on a dinner to celebrate this un-official title!)

However this is just an insight into me falling in love with Verona and Hellas. This isn’t a piece about my support for il Gialloblu, but rather a story of their recent history and the fight back into Serie B of one of Italian footballs great clubs.

My fanaticism coincided with the darkest years of Hellas’ long history. A play-out defeat to Spezia at the end of the 06/07 season meant Hellas dropped into Serie C1 for the first time in 64 years, un-thinkable for a team that had won the Scudetto only 22 years previous. The first two Serie C1 years were horrible. 17,000 turned up (in a league averaging 2,500) for the first game against tiny Cittadella. A penalty for the away side after 4 minutes set the tone for the season, which very nearly saw Verona drop into Serie C2 only for a last minute goal from former Juventus and Uzbekistan winger Ilyas Zeytulaev in the last minute of the second leg against Pro Patria saving even further heartache. Financially the club was already struggling, a further relegation could have been catastrophic.

The following season was a mid-table stroll, 9th place but comfortably outside the play-off spots meant yet another season in the 3rd tier. The tifosi were now getting very impatient and directed a lot of their anger at coach Gian Marco Remondina, someone who

UpdateWith 3 games to go

of the Serie B season

Hellas find themselves

occupying a playoff

spot and still fighting

for promotion

Football Dedication - The Guv’nor


never gambled and would make irrational substitutions and leave it too late to change a game.

The fans needed appeasing and the way Hellas started the season it appeared as though Serie B football was a mere formality. Verona stormed to the top of the league and remained unbeaten until week 16 and incredibly didn’t concede an away goal until their 14th away game. However as soon as that goal went in on the 14th of March at Pescina, the season collapsed. Only 2 wins from the final 8 games saw Hellas drop out of top spot and into 3rd. In a winner takes all clash on the last day to decide promotion, Portogruaro dominated a defensive Hellas and got a deserved 92nd minute winner to seal their own promotion. That game was the last straw for the Ultras who demonstrated afterwards, with President Martinelli sacking coach Remondina and hiring former Genoa coach Gianni Vavassori for the Play-off games.After beating Rimini over 2 legs, Verona were overcome by Pescara 3-2 on aggregate. The morale of the squad had already been damaged after the late season collapse, and another season in C1 loomed.

Former Roma hero Giuseppe Giannini was hired as coach for the start of the season with President Martinelli declaring ‘This is the year we return to Serie B’. After much bluster and more changes in formation (4-3-1-2, 4-5-1, 3-5-2) than I want to remember, the Roma symbol was axed with Verona bottom of the league and looking again desperate. But in the darkest hour came a beacon of light. Enter stage right Andrea Mandorlini. On announcement of his arrival, fans dug up

old interviews made by the former coach of (hated) rivals Vicenza. Someone found a gem. Upon leaving the Romeo Menti outfit, he had announced ‘You do realise your ancestors ate cats?’ (in reference to the story that such was the lack of food during World War 2, the people of Vicenza opted to eat cats, something the Veronese like to remind them of).

Mandorlini teasing Vicenza was a good enough start. What followed his appointment was nothing short of a miracle. He transformed a team devoid of confidence into a machine that would go on to dominate opponents. He drew his first 5 games, but got the defence playing as a unit and utilising his players in their best positions, Emil

Hallfreðsson, formally of Spurs and Barnsley became a lynchpin, laying on goals as the Verona attack suddenly became potent, hitting 4 past Paganese to break the run of draws. 3 defeats in the last 16 games meant Hellas finished in the Play-offs again. But this time, rather than dropping into them, they charged at them. The Semi-Final saw us face Sorrento based south of Napoli. A 2-0 home win (and an atmosphere I’ve never come close to experiencing before) and a very hard fought 1-1 draw in the blazing heat of the south set up a mouth watering clash against rivals Salernitana (Basically, everyone are Hellas’ rivals except a select band of ‘twins’ including Sampdoria and Fiorentina).

Hellas started well but Salernitana were always dangerous on the break. Before half-time though, Verona were awarded a penalty and Nicola Ferrari stroked home for a half-time advantage. A second penalty deep into the second half meant a strong advantage was held ahead of the return trip to Salerno and a packed Stadio Arechi. The anticipation for the 2nd leg was immense. Fans traded insults whilst Mandorlini kept his cool. Because Salernitana finished higher in the league, a 2-0 win would see them progress. The focus was not to concede, whilst trying to nick one on the break.

The game got underway again in boiling sunshine. Both sides made their intentions clear, with the home side creating numerous chances whilst Hellas sat back. Brazilian keeper Rafael kept Salerno at bay until late into the first half when disaster struck. A penalty was awarded on 44’ which Carrus hammered home meaning a nerve shredding second 45 ahead. Salernitana laid siege to the Verona goal with Rafael making one save that defied gravity, leaping to flick over a Fabinho shot from 10 yards. As the game wore on though Salernitana ran out of ideas. Hellas held on and Verona were finally back in the top two tiers of Italian football. On the whistle Mandorlini sprinted towards the 2,000 Gialloblu fans (after getting in a tustle with the Salernitana captain) to salute them. As the players celebrated and sang songs, Mandorlini simply commented ‘What a moment, an orgasm on joy!’ An estimated 1,500 showed up at Verona airport to welcome home the players and management at midnight. The party lasted all night and Verona could start planning for life back in Serie B.

So where are Hellas now? Well at the time of writing we are on a nine match winning run and are sat second in Serie B, just four points behind leaders Torino. The squad was re-inforced with quality not quantity, midfielder Panagiotis Tachtsidis signed on loan from Genoa but will play at the highest level, and defender Marecco signed from Brescia is showing himself to be a warrior at the back . Players from last season’s promotion are also proving they can cope at the higher level, none more so than centre back Maietta, who is proving to be in the same mould as a former Hellas legend, Martin Laursen.

My only game so far this season was a very spicy one, an away game in Livorno. Because of the political ideologies of both sets of fans (‘Communist’ Livorno against ‘Fascist’ Verona) the match always had potential for trouble and was a real ‘derby‘ game, despite being almost 400km away. Around 600 Veronese made the journey to the port town in Tuscany with the Carabinieri close by. Approaching the stadium it became all too much for the Ultra’s of Verona, who dived off coaches to scream abuse at the Livornese who stood at the end of

roads (behind police cordons) who were chanting ‘Veronese pezzo di merda’, or Veronese pieces of s**t in English. Unfortunately we were 4km away from the Armando Picchi stadium so we arrived 20 minutes after kick off. The greeting we received from the locals as we entered the stadium was to be expected but returned with extra vigour. The atmosphere was typically ‘Italian’ during the game, with the leader of one of the Hellas Ultra groups, a man

known as ‘Ricky’ leading the chants and telling us how and why to sing it. For example, one of the songs we were told ‘lets sing so loud that this s**t stadium falls down and kills us all!’

Verona won the game 2-0 with Livorno down to nine men by the end. Flares and smoke bombs were set off, creating an

atmosphere simply impossible to replicate in all-seated English stadiums. After the game we were as expected kept in the stadium for around an hour before being allowed to embark back on our coaches and cars. The Carabinieri had one last swing of their batons before we were escorted out of the town with no sign of any more trouble.

From a personal point of view of course I want Hellas back in Serie A. But for the good of Calcio it would be great to have the great club back in Serie A. It seems most fans agree. At the Palermo-Chievo match last season, one banner displayed in the Palermo Curva said ‘Enough of Chievo, we want Hellas back!’

The Guv’nor - Urban Exploration

LOST CITY


Chernobyl’s

Imagine walking through a city the size of Coventry, and being the only person there. Washing is still pegged out, blowing in the wind, toys still sit in the park waiting for children to play with them. I’ve often dreamt about being the last person left on

Earth, and a few years ago I found out there was somewhere where I could live out that dream.

The city of Pripyat was built a couple of miles north west of Chernobyl in 1978 to house the workers and familys of the power plant. When the disaster struck in 1986, 50,000 residents were evacuated in three hours. They were told it would be a temporary measure and that they would be back in a couple of days. 25 years on the city remains the most radioactive place on earth, too dangerous for human habitation.

In 2010 I managed to convince a couple of mates to brave the radiation, and we went on a lads day trip to spend four hours wandering the abandoned city. It changed me, I started to obsess about the city to the point that I knew I had to go back.

But I wanted more, so I applied to the Ukrainian Government agency that controls, and guards, the militarised 30km ‘Zone of Alienation’ which surrounds the damaged power plant. I asked them if I could book 16 ‘four hour day trips to run consecutively, giving me 64 hours continuous access to Chernobyl. I was asked to send them the original of my passport (not a copy) as well as my address, place of work, etc. and agree to be investigated for three months to make sure I wasn’t involved in any terrorist activities. Three months and a large bribe later my passport, and a permission letter all in Ukrainian dropped onto my doormat. I was in.

I was picked up by a government agent at the airport and we set o� straight to the zone. Leaving the bright lights of Kiev behind us, we drove for another hour down Ukrainian country lanes without passing another vehicle. Arriving at the 30Km checkpoint well after curfew time, they sternly ushered us through. Although we were only travelling at 40mph my guide assured us that we were the fastest moving thing for 100km in any direction.

It was only after arriving at the basic workers’ accommodation block that it really hit home that for the next three night I’d actually be sleeping inside Chernobyl.

The next few days were amazing. Walking the abandoned city, wandering wherever I wanted to go. Into the palace, to the penthouse of a hotel, or onto the roof of the tallest tower block to watch the sunset. It feels voyeuristic to be stood in someone’s home, yet almost seems impersonal when you look out and see a further 14,000 abandoned homes.

I found myself wandering through one of the city’s many kindergartens; the atmosphere was di� erent, and even my guide struggled to make eye contact with me. Toys were left sat on chairs, interspersed occasionally with child size gas masks. I found a room where the toddlers would have took afternoon nap time. There were 25 numbered cribs and on the wall was a list of 25 names. I naively worked out that the kids on the list would probably be around my age (28) now, then I realised that it’s doubtful any of them are even still alive.

During my time in Chernobyl and Pripyat I gained the friendship and trust of the workers, even to the point where they invited me to witness their church service on the Sunday morning.

Before I was allowed to leave the zone I had to remove my clothes in order for them to be screened for any radioactive dust particles that they may have picked up. I was to be undergo two full body scans before I would be allowed to leave the zone, fi rstly in Chernobyl and then at the fi nal checkpoint. I climbed into the scanner which had a turnstyle style gate on the ‘clean’ side; if you passed your scan, the gate would open and you would be free to leave. I waited for a few seconds, heard the beep and pushed against the style. But it didn’t budge. “Shit! But I was fi ne hours ago, how could this be?” I tried again, solid. Petrifi ed, I looked to my guide for answers. He burst out laughing before shifting himself to reveal he’d been leaning against the gate.

A week after my visit, the zone was closed suddenly to all visitors without warning and without any o� cial reason.

The nuclear disaster of Chernobyl left behind the town of Pripyat - the guvnor of abandoned places. WORDS AND PICTURES: www.urbanxphotography.co.uk

The space of the swimming hall is amazing. It’s so large I cant even fi t in my viewfi nder with a wide angled lens. This is still 3 wide angle shots stitched together.

Radioactive soils samples are everywhere, there is no option but to walk across them as carefully as possible. Occasionally one would pop open underfoot, spewing its radioactive black contents onto the fl oor.

Urban Exploration - The Guv’nor


In Chernobyl, light bulb lights itself…

The fairground was set up for the May Day celebrations. However the city was evacuated on 27th

April, so was never used.

There are radiation warning signs everywhere. Some thorough testing

with a Geiger counter reveals they’re mainly for decoration:

Me at the sight of reactor 4.

The Guv’nor - Urban Exploration


Radiation checkpoint - this process is repeated at the 10km checkpoint. A 5 second wait for either a red or green light in this machine lasts a lifetime, until eventually they deem me fi t to leave the zone.

But nothing prepared me for a carpet of 50,000 gasmasks in the canteen:

There are many train cars still sitting around on and off the tracks, and most in a very bad way. Derelict

hot spots

DACHAU CONCENTRATION CAMP - GERMANYDachau remains in most peoples minds

more than any other concentration

camp (excluding Auswitz) as it was one

of the fi rst to be liberated, and received

mass media coverage at the time. It was

the fi rst concentration camp built for

purpose as we know it too, which was

to serve as a precedent for future

camps. It opened just 51 days after Hitler

took power.

www.urbanxphotography.co.uk

SEVERALLS LUNATIC ASYLUM Severalls Hospital in

Colchester, Essex, UK was a

psychiatric hospital built in

1910 which fi rst opened in

May 1913. The 300-acre (1.2

km2) site housed some 2000

patients and was based on

the “Echelon plan” - a specifi c

arrangement of wards, offi ces

and services within easy reach

of each other by a network of

interconnecting corridors.

I knew there’d be dolls around the place, I’d seen photos before. But when you actually see them, you see how many of them there are, their faces seared:

Film - The Guv’nor


WORDS AND PICTURE: James White, [email protected]

BOB’S BARROWRobert Harvey, or Captain Bob to everyone, on account of his soiled sailor hat, dressed in

his tatty 80’s pu� er jacket, over a tweed blazer, white shirt and colourful tie, pushes a battered old blue pram, piled high with odds and sods, along the uneven pavement slabs that make

up the path between the rows of trees intersecting Fairfi eld Park. Bob looks tired in

the warm evening sun.

Dave is sitting in Spuds Café having a fry up.CRASH! A wheel

on the rickety pram breaks o� ; leaving Bob helpless, as the pram topples over, scattering

its contents over the broken concrete path. An anguished look on his face as he looks down at the mess made by the broken wheel. With pain etched across his tired face, he begins to pick up his stock and attempts to pile it all back on the now three wheeled pram. A man walking down the Fairfi eld path, Dave Powles, passes Bob as he struggles to collect his stock scattered across the path. Dave stops and help Bob pick up a few bits bits from the fl oor. Bob tilts his hat at Dave, who in turn nods back and moves on down the path. Bob starts to push the unsteady pram further along the path, only for the stock to come crashing down again.

Bob exits the bookies a copy of the racing post stu� ed under his arm, screws up his betting slip and throws it to the ground. Walking slowly through a crowded market place, being shoved and bumped by the bustle, spots a large unattended barrow next to Dave Powles 1) fruit and veg stall. Dave busy behind his stall. Popping pounds of potatoes into large brown paper bags. 2) fl ower stall. Dave busy behind. Building bouquets briskly.

The volume of the market starts to swell. Bob moves closer to the unattended barrow. He looks at Dave. He looks at the barrow, and turns away. Bob turns back and looks at Dave, then back at the barrow. Then turns

away again. Bob again turns back and looks at Dave, then back at the barrow. The noise of the market deafening. Bob grabs his chance, and the barrow, as Dave has his back turned, and rushes o� down an alley and away.

Dave turns back around to see that the barrow has gone. He looks left, the right, seeing the back end of Bob darting down the alley. He downs tools and goes after him. Bob, panting, stops at the end of the alley, looking left and right, before going right. Dave enters the alley, running and sweating. Stopping and starting. Reaching the end of the alley out of breath, Dave looks left and right but cant see Bob anywhere. Rubbing his head with disbelief, Dave turns and walks back down the alley. Bob, out of sight of the crowd stops, taking o� his hat, he stares out into the distance and shakes his head in disbelief.

In the distance, Bob is pushing along his stock on the newly acquired barrow through Fairfi eld Park. He is tired. Bob stops, looks down at his new barrow, looks to the sky, and smiles. Bob spots a wooden bench, looks at his barrow, and takes a seat. His eyes blink heavy and rapid, before they close. And stay closed.

Dave Powles, in his West Ham, exits a newsagents with a can of coke and Grab bag of Quavers and a bunch of yellow da� odils in his hands. He stands still, opens the can, and downs it in one. Tears stream from his eyes. He lets out a loud belch. Shakes his head and walks o� .

Dave Powles crosses the road and enters Fairfi eld Park. Walking down the path that

intersects the park, Dave has to sidestep a barrow blocking his path, but takes a second look back at it. Spotting a West Ham sticker on the handle. It’s his bloody barrow! He looks over at Bob asleep on the bench. “Not him”.

Bob’s eyes open. He has a bunch of yellow da� odils resting on his lap. He looks around and the light has gone. And so has his barrow. His stock however lays scattered across the path. He looks around frantically and chuckles to himself, lifting his hand toward his head realising his sailor cap has gone. His smile turns into a grimace.

Dave Powles, standing behind his 1)fruit and veg, 2)Flower stall, his barrow back in its original spot, wearing Bob’s sailors cap.

Bob is pushing his stock back across Fairfi eld park. On his old pram. The wheel having been tied back on with string. O� into the distance Bob pushes. For the pram to come crashing down again.

Robert (CaptainBob) Harvey.

The Guv’nor - Soho’s Finest tailor


A cut above the rest

MARK POWELL

Mark Powell, Soho ‘face’ and tailor to the stars

speaks to Jason Holmes about his style influences

and why he lives in the historic quarter.

Introducing

WORDS: Jason Holmes, PICTURES Jason Lancy

Powell’s very much a Soho man, and he can be regularly seen supping cappuccinos in Bar Italia on Frith Street or holding forth in the Groucho or Blacks.

‘I live above Bar Italia on Frith Street. Soho is full of advertising and marketing folk, and these are the people who make up the bulk of my business. I charge between £1,800 and £2,800 for a suit. In business I trust only Shivaun. She’s a wonderful woman. I’d never have a creative team, because individual creativity should be respected,’ he says, pint in hand. ‘The maverick attitude should command respect, but if you say what you want in the fashion game, you’re seen as a threat.’

Today Powell is dressed in a double-breasted denim jacket, white trousers and sandals. ‘They’re cheap sandals,’ he laughs. ‘Don’t photograph them, I only wore them because it’s hot today, but I was inspired by the great dressers of the cinema like Cary Grant, James Cagney, and the gangster actors of the 1930s. Speaking of which, there are a couple of British film projects I’m looking into.’

‘Such as?’ I ask as I polish off my beer. ‘There’s one I’m trying to work on about a 1950s gangster called Jack Spot. It’s a bit like a British Once Upon a Time in America, starting in the 1930s with the battle of Cable Street with the Jews and the Blackshirts, then all the racetrack stuff of the 1940s, then 1950s’ Soho. Then there’s a film I might be involved with about Freddie Foreman, Jamie Foreman’s dad. He was a Kray associate.’

Powell’s spirit is infectious. This is a man who loves what he does. I ask him, what with the current royal fervour still lingering post wedding, if he thinks Prince Charles is the best-dressed man in England.

‘No way,’ he answers, incredulously. ‘The last great royal dresser was Edward VIII. Prince Michael of Kent also dresses very well.’

And what’s the biggest error a tailor can make? ‘That would be conservatism,’ he says quickly. ‘Or over-detailing. But remember this: a man should not be without a very good overcoat, one good suit, and one thing that is always overlooked is good accessorising, like watch chains or antique tie pins. They bring a suit to life.’

On his plans for the future he says: ‘If I could go in with a heritage brand, I could define my look within that, with brands like Aquascutum or Jaeger, as I did with Marks and Spencer.’ In 2007, Powell designed a capsule collection for Marks and Spencer that introduced him to a wider commercial audience.

‘But I’d love to go global,’ he says after casually mentioning that Paul Weller is in the June issue of Italian Vogue wearing his suits. ‘I’m 50 years old, and I don’t want to be around here as a bitter old tailor, do I?’

Three pints later and with everyone, including the photographer, flushed by laughter, I ask one final question.

‘What’s the secret of life?’He ponders this for a few moments, then

smiles at Shivaun before answering in that disarmingly honest way of his: ‘You have to believe in what you are, and try and give a lot of love to everybody else. Clothes and tailoring are my passion, but like all passions...they can be self-destructive.’

Mark Powell has a glint in his eye and his handshake is firm when he greets me in his Marshall Street shop. As one would expect from a man born in Poplar, east London, he has a no-nonsense attitude. At 50, he remains one of London’s

most iconic and influential bespoke tailors, having made suits for Mick Jagger, Ronnie Kray, David Bowie and Harrison Ford.

Seated behind a wooden desk on an antique chair, a silk scarf tied around his neck, he sends Shivaun - his number 2 in command - to the Old Coffee House across the road to fetch pints of lager to oil the chat.

‘My mother was a theatrical costumier, having worked for Charles Fox, just before and after the war,’ he begins. ‘My dad was in the textile game. I got this shop [on Marshall Street] for the first time in 20 odd years. Between then and now, I’ve built up my name having studios and ateliers all around Soho and the West End. Which is phenomenal, I think you’ll agree.’

I do. This is the man to whom the great and the good of music and film, not to mention London’s underworld, have gone for their suits.

Clearly, Powell is a man who has been a style visionary for a long period of time. ‘I had my first pair of Levi’s Red Tag when I was 7 or 8,’ he says. ‘By the time I was 11, I was a suedehead. I’d go down to West Ham at 12 in tight Frenchy

jumpers, love beads, long hair parted in the middle. I was dressing like very stylish older guys on the street.

‘But I first really excelled in my style as a soul boy in 1975. Music has always influenced me. I love jazz because it is a music that was of the modern era. I love Charlie Parker and Miles Davis. James Brown too. But I was grounded in street culture. I’m an East Ender, and East Enders have always been a little bit more edgy, if they are extrovert. By the time I was 17 or 18, I drew more on nostalgia. After that I created anything I wanted.’

When asked what he thinks of how modern London men dress now, he grows terse.

‘I get cheesed off when I see the way men dress now. One of the saddest things that has happened is how black guys, who were highly influential in street fashion, have been sucked into this R’n’B loop of bullshit ‘bling’. And gay guys now all want to look like Muscle Marys. Quentin Crisp once said ‘When I was young, all I wanted to do was meet a guy who was tall dark and handsome’, and now every gay guy wants to be that tall dark and handsome man. They’ve lost their individual edge.’

When I ask him about his rivals in the tailoring game, he is generous. ‘John Pearse I quite like, because he’s got a bit of heritage. Chris Kerr is more of the old school, his dad’s a very good cutter, great showbiz tailors. But Savile Row is a bit of a farce,’ he says, his voice tinged with annoyance.

Soho’s Finest Tailor - The Guv’nor


The Guv’nor - Whisky Special


WORDS: xxxxxx xxxxxxxx xx PICTURES: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As soon as you arrive in London the city is eager to show o� , and throws opportunities to tour its many and varied facets—like the cocky guy in the o� ce who lets you know just how many di� erent plans he has that week. Take a chocolate tour of London! Let the homeless guide you! Take a Dickens stroll through London! Choosing a specifi c guide is a signifi cant decision. Who you eventually entrust to guide you through this massive city reveals personal values and expectations. Personally I only trust good friends to show me around a new city which is why I let whiskey be my guide.


First stop was Happiness Forgets a basement bar just o� of Hoxton Square in Shoreditch. A small sign outside the Thai restaurant above it accurately indicates the feel of this gem: friendly without being showy. The place was dark in an

intimate way, and lively without being overwhelming. A diverse playlist kept things musically interesting. Unfortunately the drink list only included two whiskey based cocktails, but already I could tell the swift yet controlled bartenders had an extensive knowledge. Looking for some sage drinking advice, I asked the man behind the bar for a good whiskey drink “to start my night”. After but a minute’s pause the bartender was busy at work. My tour-mate ordered the more enticing whiskey option o� the menu, The Louis Balfour. Entertainment is free if you sit at the bar as you have a proper view of the real mixing action. The bartender answered my proposal with a Whiskey Smash, an old favorite I had foolishly forgot—cleverly made with a rye whiskey. The Louis Balfour was made with an incredibly smokey Four Rose small batch; it was rich and unexpected but decidedly delicious. Attention to detail here was particularly of note as the chilled glasses and craft ice cubes were impressive but presented without pretension. A tour needs more than one stop so reluctantly we left to move a bit North.

The modern speakeasy has moved beyond being a trend and is now a staple of any notable drinking destination. London has many but 69 Colebrook Row (the o� cial address and uno� cial name)

seemed particularly of note due to their reputation for excellent and

inventive whiskey sours. The hostess looked distressed

when I informed her I had no reservation, but

directed me to “seating on the stairs,” which was no speakeasy slang- it was literally sitting on the skinny stairs leading to the toilet. We had to traverse three other parties sat on the stairs but were told a (very nimble) server would come to us. The crowd was very diverse and the atmosphere a bit more romantic than the last bar. This would be the place to impress a date, but make a reservation in advance. Just as my back was starting to ache, our server came. I ordered a very tasty, but overpoweringly orange old fashioned and a perfectly not too sweet whiskey sour for my tour-mate. Eventually we were sat on real chairs but the tour had to move on, and a hefty bill (£9.50 per drink) provides a good motivator for relocation.

Perhaps the least-SoHo bar in Soho is the Toucan, a tiny two-story pub just o� of Soho square. Pubs to me fi ll the void created by the dive-bars I left behind in the States. Unlike most dive bars in the States though The Toucan has a rich history, visible almost everywhere you look. Although, like a dive bar, it’s a good bet for an honest drink with no fuss. The heart of the Toucan is Guinness, but they have an impressive whiskey stock as well. I committed a geographical taboo by asking for Scotch, but the bartender kindly suggested a 10 year old Laphroaig. It was just what I desired, a generous pour to leisurely sip. A questionable choice by the same bartender when my female drinking buddy asked for a recommendation and was served Red Breast. Potential sexism aside The Red Breast was a fantastic, very drinkable 12 year old Irish whiskey. I was tempted by the Japanese Yamazaki behind the bar to cross additional international lines, but the 11pm license brought the tour to an end.

Seeing London through a whiskey tour could lead to some blurry vision and foggy memories, but with any good relationship you should take you time.

THE LONDONGUIDE TO

Whisky

SAZERACA good drink to showcase

both a well-stocked liquor

cabinet and an impressive

mixologist technique. The

classic version of Sazerac

calls for Absinthe instead

of Ricard, substituting

Angostura bitters for

Peychaud works as well

INGRIDIENTS 5ml (t tsp) Ricard

2.5ml (1/2 tsp)

superfi ne sugar

2 dashes Peychaud bitters

5ml water

2 oz Bourbon

1 twist of lemon peel

MIXING INGRIDIENTS:Pour Ricard into a glass and

swirl around to coat glass,

discard any excess. Place the

sugar, bitters, and water into

the glass and muddle with

the back of a spoon. Almost

fi ll the glass with ice cubes,

and then pour in bourbon.

ELDERFASHIONA twist on the classic Old

Fashioned, with St. Germain

liqueur in place of sugar and

Maraschino. Pleasantly but

not over-powerfully sweet.

Perfect for any occasion.

INGRIDIENTS: 10ml Blended whiskey (also

good with Bourbon)

1/2 oz of St. Germain

LIQUEUR 2 dashes Angostura bitters

1 slice Orange

MIXING INSTRUCTIONS:Muddle the orange, bitters

and water in an old-

fashioned glass until the

sugar is almost dissolved. Fill

the glass with ice and add

blended St. Germain and

whiskey. Serve with a swizzle

stick.

PERFECT ROB ROYWhat makes this Rob Roy

perfect is the addition of dry

vermouth. A simple drink

you can stick with.

INGRIDIENTS: 12ml (2.5 oz) Scotch

5ml (1tsp) sweet vermouth

5ml (1 tsp) dry vermouth

1 marschino cherry

MIXING INSTRUCTIONS:In a mixing glass half-fi lled

with ice cubes, combine

the Scotch, sweet and dry

vermouth. Stir well. Strain

into a cocktail galss. Garnish

with cherry or a lemon twist.

THE WHISKY LOVER’S DIY GUIDE

Try this at home

What to

get when

AN ORDERING GUIDE FOR THE INDECISIVE

ON A DATE:Having a signature drink is always an

attractive quality; it asserts confi dence and

a sense of self. It’s one of those details your

date will think about long after the night

ends. If you already have your personal drink

than you’re way ahead of the game and are

probably out on a date right now. If not,

faking it isn’t so bad or hard, besides the

research involved in fi nding your drink is the

fun part.

SUGGESTIONS:Manhattan - The classic. The navy 2-button

suit of cocktails, makes ever guy look better.

Have a preference of blended whiskey if you

want to see someone swoon.

Jameson and Ginger - You’re confi dent yet

approachable. You aren’t fussy but you know

what you like. Suddenly you’ve become

marraige material.

WITH YOU BOSS:Drinks with the boss can be a tricky social

outing. On one hand it could mean that the

boss is ready to welcome you into the select

few who have seen him/her down a few stiff

drinks before launching into slurred and

inappropriate commentary. Or it could be a

sly test of your character, your boss liquoring

you up to see if you socially slip. Either way

you’ll need a stiff drink.

SUGGESTION:Highball (Scotch and Soda) - Impossible to

hate, hard to judge. It’s classic and sensible.

You’re a two ingridient type of guy who

knows what’s important. Request a specifi c

garnish to add extra personality.

ALONE:We’ve all been there. Either you misjudged

and now you’re awkwardly early to meet

someone or you just have some time to kill

between engagements. There’s no shame,

in fact you could just be asserting how self-

assured you really are.

SUGGESTION:Ask the bartender! This is the perfect

opportunity to engage with the resident

expert. Bartenders are always good people

to know, and being engaging is practically

one of their job requirements. Give some

reference points of any of your personal

preferences or what you’re in the mood for.

The Guv’nor - Fashion


ADIDAS VINTAGE DIAMOND JUMPERFor me retro fashion doesn’t get much better than old Adidas gear and this jumper is something special, red blue and grey with a lovely diamond pattern. Class!

CLASSIC BURBERRY TRENCH COATThere is no brand more iconic or classic when it comes

to trench coats. Nothing looks quite as good as a well

tailored Burberry. A British classic.

GABICCI VINTAGE 5 BUTTON POLO SHIRTThis is a beautiful original Gabicci 5 button polo shirt.

It looks the business. Red and blue give this shirt a real

British feel. Great on with a pair on nice 501’s.

ORIGINAL BEN SHERMAN OXFORD SHIRTBen Sherman famously use “the original” in there name

but this shirt really is the original classic. With button

down collar and adjustable cuffs you can’t go wrong!

BARACUTA G9 HARRINGTONThe original Baracuta harrington is an all-time classic

and undisputed champion of British menswear, The

iconic Fraser Tartan never fails to turn heads.

FILA SETTANTA BORG POLO SHIRTThe Settanta is one of the best selling casual classics

about. The above version is white with red placard and

navy collar. It is soft stretch fit and should be worn fitted.

Gre

at British Style

The Guv’norTERRACECLASSICS

Odds “n” Ends - The Guv’nor


THE BROGUEThe make up of the perfect mens shoe.

Styleclassic

THE CLIPPERIf you smoke and don’t use one........give up!!

Designclassic

Clipper is the brand name

of a type of refillable

butane lighter, designed

by Enric Sardá and

owned by Flamagas

S.A. since 1959. The

registered round lighter

shape has become a visual icon. The Clipper

lighter is considered highly collectable due

to the fact that the company is able to rely

on a great team of designers, inspired by

the most up to date trends in the market

to constantly launch new and fashionable

collections.

Clipper is the worldwide leader in

refillable lighters, with a high quality

brand positioning. The lighters are mostly

produced in Barcelona, (Spain), while others

are manufactured in Chennai,(India) and

Shanghai, (China). Clipper has a wide range

of lighters, gas refills and other accessories.

The first Clipper lighter was made in 1972,

and now the level of production is around

450 million units / year that are

distributed worldwide

QUARTERThe back section of the shoe.

THROATThe open part of the shoe, where the wearers foot goes.

TOUNGEA piece of leather situated underneath the laces.

FACINGSThe part of the shoe which contains the holes for the laces.

VAMPMain front body of the shoe.

MEDALLIONPattern on the toe of the shoe.

GIMPINGThe cut edges of the brogues upper.

BROGUEINGThe famous brogue pattern.

WELTThe strip of leather which runs around the shoe, this connects the sole and the upper.

COUNTERExtra piece of leather which makes the heel stronger.

SCRIPTWords of wisdon from Withnial, I

and the big Irish man.

The Street[They walk towards a rather rough looking pub: ‘The Old MotherBlackcap’.]Withnail: All right, this is the plan. We get in there and get wrecked. Then we’ll eat a pork pie. Then we drop a couple of soamser fifties each; means we’ll miss out Monday but come up smilling Tuesday morning. What’s that appalling smell?I: Perfume on my boots. I had to scrub the with essence of petunia.

The Pub[Withnail moves somewhat precariously to the bar. The pub is a simple affair with a few men sat round at tables drinking.]Withnail: Two large gins, two pints of cider. Ice in the cider.I: If my father was loaded I’d ask him for some money.Withnail: If your father was my father you wouldn’t get it.Barman: There you are lads.Withnail: Chin chin.[Withnail chinks his glass against the other, which I has not picked up yet, and downs the gin in one. I follows suit but gags slightly.]I: Ugh. What about what-his-name?Withnail:What about him?I: Why don’t you give him a call.Withnail: What for?I: Ask him about his house.Withnail: You want me to call what-his-name and ask him about his house?I: Why not?Withnail: Alright. what’s his number?I: I’ve no idea - I’ve never met him.Withnail: Well neither have I. What the fuck are you talking about?I: Your relative with a house in the country.Withnail: Monty? Uncle Monty?I: That’s him. That’s the one. Get the Jag fixed up. Spend the weekend in the country.Withnail: Alright. Give us a tenner and I’ll give him a bell.I: Get a couple more in. I’m going for a slash.[Next to the door to the gents is a rather large Irish man sat with his pint and his paper.]Big Irish man: Ponce[I ignores him and goes into the gents.]I [to himself]: I could hardly

piss straight with fear. he was a man with 3/4 of an inch of brain who’d taken a dislike to me. What had I done to offend him? I don’t consciously offend big men like this. And this one’s a decided imbalance of hormone in him. Get any more masculine than that and you’d have to live up a tree. [he reads the grafitti] ‘I fuck arses’, Who fucks arses? [aloud] Maybe he fucks arses. [to himself again] Maybe he’s written this in some moment of drunken sincerity. I’m in considerable danger in here. I must get out of here at once. [He walks back into the bar.]Big Irish man: Perfumed ponce![Withnail is still at the bar. He has made considerable progress with his cider and is eating some snack.]Withnail: You’ll be pleased to hear Monte’s invited us for drinks.I: Balls to Monty we’re getting out.Withnail: Balls to Monty!? I’ve just spent an hour flattering the bugger.I: There’s a man over there doesn’t like the perfume. The big one. Don’t look, don’t look. We’re in danger, we’ve got to get out.Withnail: What are you talking about?I: I’ve been called a ponce.[Withnail turns to address the room in general.]Withnail: What fucker said that!?[The large Irish gentleman in the corner gets up and walks over to them. Now he is upright we see he is very large indeed and does not look friendly.]Big Irish man:I called him a ponce. And now I’m calling you one. Ponce!Withnail (smiling): Would you like a drink?Big Irish man: What’s your name McFuck!?[As he says this he jerks the scarf from around Withnail’s neck.]Withnail:I’ve a heart condition. I’ve a heart condition. If you hit me it’s murder!Big Irish man:I’ll murder the pair of y’ers.Withnail: My wife’s having a baby. Listen, I don’t know what my f.. [he starts to say friend but decides on a better course of action] acquaintance did to upset you but it’s nothing to do with me. I suggest you both go outside and discuss it sensibly, in the street.[They push past the man and rush to the door.]Withnail: Ahhhh, out of my way.

THE GUV’NOR MAGAZINE - ISSUE 1 (pilot issue)DEVISED AND CREATED BY STEPHEN BEERLING www.stephenbeerling.com

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The Guvnor Magazine - Issue 1 (Pilot Issue)