The VAT man cometh

The very first morning I was back from Los Angeles, the telephone rang at one second past nine. The voice introduced itself as Mr. G****** from Her Majesty's Tax Office, and explained that the return I had submitted had been passed to him due to an ever so slight discrepancy between the figure entered as our takings since opening for business and the VAT reckoned due. Trying to sound lively, I explained we had already won an export order to the USA, such as is VAT exempt, and, domestically, had printed some children's t-shirts (the Ocean Colour Screen side of the business) - and kids' clothes are also VAT free. Mr G seemed satisfied with this explanation and pronounced that I had done everything correctly. We were sort of wrapped up when he asked, "What accounting software package do you use?" 

"Um," I offered, suddenly sounding less Captain of Industry and more scurvy stow-away on the Tug Boat of Business, "I sort of make it up as I go along with my own DIY spreadsheet as, you see, the bank only had software for a PC but then our friend Tim leant us his and so I've sort of adapted that and..."

He cut me off, lights now flashing all over his office where, moments before, it had been going so well. Could I send, he now requested, six of our largest expenditure invoices? Absolutely, of course, no problem. Only... "Yes?" 

"Well, would it be alright to have them with you Monday as we have the Kennington Village Fete this weekend? We have ever such a busy few days ahead." 

"I can understand," Mr G said with such deadpan delivery that I was not sure whether to take it for indulgence or despair, "how that would take priority."

And with that we bade each other good day on the promise to resume early the following week.

And so we set to work getting things made for the stall. The weirdy windowless room downstairs has now been cleared out to make a weirdy windowless den in which Mr Wesley can sit and create to his heart's content.

The Earl in his cave-den

While I was away, Anne Barclay, whose hand woven silk and wool scarves we already stock, had delivered the samples of her lovely stone coloured linen tail coat and black silk Spencer jacket. These she will then make to order and this arrangement elegantly fills the hole where our own ladies' collection should be www.AnneBarclay.com Here is the tail coat in the window before we redressed them for "Summer" (HAHAHAHA!):

Anne Barclay's linen tail coat in the window

So come the day of the Fete, Sunday (July 10th), as the sun parried with grey clouds above, we wheeled our goods up the Kennington Road in a wonky trolly gifted us by one's saintly godmother Elisabeth. Both of us were hung about with extra bits and bobs looking like a proper pair of tinkers, the new kids on the Cleaver Square pitch. Immediately we realised the old hands had brought smart table cloths, so Mr Wesley had to hoof it back in his limping gait to get our special US flag - bearing 48 stars only - before we could set out our stall. That achieved, we had a totally jolly day, reinforced by the Carr ladies, Tim'n'Ian and Bedlam's old friend and professional bean-counter Mr Beck who hobbled his self along with his missus and baby Roxanne. David was sporting a not-so-gainly boot having had an operation to remove his arthritic toe and replace it with Titanium (think I'm getting this right). Mr Wesley is now giving serious consideration to joining the Men of Metal club and having micro-surgery on his gammy ankle. I mentioned to Mr Beck that our VAT return had attracted some attention and he said "Bloody Hell, that's a bit quick, well just tell them what they need to know and nothing else. Offer no information that is not solicitated. Got that Butler?" I nodded my understanding then promptly forgot it.

The Kennington Village Fete held in Cleaver Square, London SE11

Tim Balmain-to-Bedlam Oval Area Manager, beer boy Ian Vincent and Mr Wesley offering "Three for a pand!"

So, seeing as we had such a lovely day, come Monday morning I naturally wanted to share the joy with our Tax Inspector Mr G*****. I started by expressing my hope that he had had a pleasant weekend himself - basic good manners - and then went on to describe what an all round satisfying experience the Fete had been. We covered our costs, I told him,  £35 for the pitch inc. table, and had enough profit for a couple of pints of cider and some grub from the Kennington Tandoori restaurant stall. Really, for what more could one ask? I may have continued on a bit more about other things that seemed relevant not to say crucial to the accounts in hand before attaching the invoices he had requested and the spreadsheet showing all our takings from Day One.

Not many minutes later, the telephone went. It was Mr. G. "Do you want the bad news?" he asked me in an inscrutable tone.
These are not words that anybody ever wants to hear from a Tax Inspector.
"Hit me," I said, clearing my throat, mouth suddenly parched.
"I can't open the attachments."
Anti-climax as never been so well received. I said I would try attaching again, individually.
"Not to worry," he said.
OK, I shan't!
"As it happens, I'm in your neck of the woods this Wednesday so why don't I come to see you? Be sure you have all paperwork and receipts there at the shop and we'll go through it together. How does midday sound?"
How does the dull thud of me hitting the ground sound?

You must understand that I spend considerable time saying to certain people "Don't forget to get a receipt!" only for them to return and go, oh, oops, sorry, forgot, or "I'll get one later" (??), or "I've got a receipt for a meat pie / packet of cigarettes / cinema ticket from Equador instead?" but notwithstanding that anti-help I managed to do what I regarded as a pretty darn fine meticulous spread sheet of expenditure and a neatly filed collection of suppliers receipts. We carried all the files down to the shop. I called Mr Beck friend and pro-bean-counter and said "Guess who's coming round?!"
"Bloody Hell Butler," he spluttered, "I can't believe it, people file for fifteen, twenty years and never get a visit."

To mark the honour, we emptied bins and dusted, bought milk in case he'd like a cup of tea, plumped cushions and cleared a space on my desk. Then sweeping outside I noticed the weeds were a bit rampant again after all the wretched rain, so started pulling those up. There was one pesky varmit left, and I was seconds away from straightening up ready when someone cleared their throat at my stuck-in-the-air rear. I turned around red-faced. "Mr G***** I presume!"

He followed me inside and we made fore-talk. I lead him out to the yard where Mark was cleaning a screen and went rigid as Mark divulged all and various Grand Plans for the future. Later he explained he thought I was presenting my old Art History teacher and one-time Director of the Dulwich Picture Gallery, Giles Waterfield, who lives around the corner, even though it was the exact appointed time of Mr G's arrival and I was speaking in a high squeaky voice and laughing a lot.

We then all went inside to play the fiendish Game Show known as "Show me the receipt for...!" I don't think I have been so scared since my A'Levels, as much as I knew I was well prepared. Mr G would look along my spreadsheet before challenging me with "May 25th, Classic Cuts, so-and-so many pounds!" and then set the countdown clock ticking from ten while I grabbed at files and sprung open arch levers to present said documentation before a bucket of sludge was emptied over my head. OK, that's a bit egged for dramatic effect, there was no countdown, or sludge, only in my head, but that was loud and real enough to me. Mr G gently explained various things I thought were VATable aren't, in fact, and scratched a few from my spreadsheet. I blamed Tim and offered to give Mr G his address, said our Oval Area Manager was very likely home if he went round directly on leaving us. In jest of course. Had he accepted I would have given him the wrong door number. But every time he corrected, he countered by saying I had done really well. And that meant a lot. I was particularly proud of my approach to petrol, pre-empting Mr G's suggestion that claiming on it is so much hassle, it's almost easier to leave out. Not so fast HMRC! How's this, I proposed. We don't HAVE a car, so whenever my mum lends us hers and I put petrol in, it is ONLY to do work stuff- ta-dah! It was very hard, nigh impossible in fact, to tell what Mr G was thinking.

"Have you always been a tax man?' asked Mr Wesley, breaking some ice.
"No," said Mr G, "I went to school."
We didn't quite get it and sort of laughed.
"But seriously, I did join Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs on leaving school."
"Isn't it a bit unusual," Mark went on, "to get a visit on your first return?"
"Well," said Mr G, "In all my career, I have never received an e-mail quite like the one Caroline sent me and I had to see who had authored it.  Most people write one or two sentences with the bald facts, I've never before been treated to an account of the Village Fete, it was like getting a book."
Cider with Wesley perhaps.
In time he concluded our tutorial and with a handshake each was gone, though not before expressing the hope that we would soon be filling Her Majesty's Coffers with the bounty of our business.
I did ask him to pose for a photograph but he said he preferred to remain anonymous - being a Tax Man wasn't the best conversational entrée at cocktail parties he confided. He had no objection, however, to our meeting being written up here.

I was spent. Aurelie our French summer student intern arrived soon after and sat sewing labels in exquisite tiny stitches while Marta wrote tags. Mr Wesley bemused the girls by modelling various daft drafts of the pink furry donut ring hat he will make for godmother St. Elisabeth to go with the tweed coat she commissioned from us last month.

Mr Wesley in rosy furry snood experiment while Marta and Aurélie endure

Marta running the print room, taking no nonsense. Aurélie is a student of engineering so understands the tensile strength required to pull down the screens, and stuff.

News of the fantastic success of the Kennington Village Fete spread so St. Peter's Church in Battersea decided to get in on the act and hold one too. GUESS WHO GOT THE GIG TO PRINT THE T-SHIRTS?! We did. My word though, God drives a hard bargain. They haggled and cajoled but it was a high volume order and hopefully the rate will be remembered at the Pearly Gates. Death and Taxes, all we can rely on, eh? Here Marta displays the finished product emblazoned with "God Loves Battersea", the event dates and St. Peter's address. Shortly after this, when they had printed hundreds upon hundreds, Mark enjoyed a cigarette out on the deck. A man came over and asked "S'cuse me mate, any idea where St Peter's church is?"
"Nah, sorry mate" replied Wez. Of course, the lost man may have meant another St. Peter's, and not the one on the Winstanley Estate, Battersea. I do hope so.

In addition to the bread and butter commercial work that week, we launched Baby Bedlam. The reaction was instant and rewarding - people were buying the pieces out of the window as fast as we could put them up. When the sale of the last mini zip up hoodie left a gap in the display I dressed one of the stripey organic cotton rompers with Ocean's pirate hat and sword. Within moments I heard a mummy and daddy saying to their little boy "Let's go inside and look at the pirate hat!"

Rompin' in the riggin'

The "Summer" window display featuring pieces from the brand new Baby Bedlam  collection

Worth having twins for

I steeled my heart to tell them that the pirate hat was priceless but luckily there was enough distraction from the goods actually on sale that they forgot to ask about the props. Earlier in the day, Aurélie had thrown some rubbish in my St Tropez market basket before going "Oooops! I am so sorry! I thought it was the bin!" Now the little boy was exclaiming what sounded like "Bin! Bin!" 

Sensitized, "Oh not you as well," I thought. 

"He's saying 'Ben! Ben!' explained his mother. "He thinks this is Mr. Ben's shop, that's his favourite programme."

Never, but NEVER, have we been paid a better compliment. The shop in "Mr Ben" represents the acme of all retail, that Shangri-La portal where you find the item you were destined always to own, that will unlock all manner of delicious adventure during which you find your better self. I could have wept with gratitude. Then I was puzzled. Me n Wez watched it on telly as children and thus were our futures formed, but how does this little nipper know the show? "We got him watching it on Youtube," his enlightened mama explained. Enjoy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylUKfwp49yE

If you watched that, and I sincerely hope you did, now guess what present Mr Wesley received from Los Angeles, the Griffith Observatory in fact? Hehe - 

Weztronaut in his funky NASA suit

Then Simon the Geordie Chef who was cooking for the VIP execs at the Oval Cricket Ground came in and bought the pin stripe suit off the dummy as if it was made on his body -

Simon the Geordie Chef in HIS pinstripe suit

Then last Saturday William from the Congo waltzed in to collect his Seville Marmalade suit. He spotted the Gentleman's Relish trousers on the rail (pictured above, the bold check behind Simon on the mannequin). The only pair, they were in his waist size so - kismet! - he took those as well.

And in between all this heightened-reality activity, we went live with the e-shop! There's more products to add, haven't even had a chance to add the Baby Bedlam section yet, but give us your feedback and hopefully your orders too, as for those of you who can't yet get to the store, we bring Bedlam to your door:

http://earlofbedlam.bigcartel.com/category/t-shirts?page=1

Fittingly, we rounded off the week by celebrating the launch of our online commercial presence and the bigger more beautiful Victoria & Albert Museum website at the Digital Weekend there.

It has been mooted on occasion that Mr Wesley has mislaid his marbles but here he is amidst them
(at the Victoria & Albert Museum)

Profit & Loss, Sunshine & Showers

After weeks of relentless heavy rain that saw the damp "situation" in our cutting room come to not so much a crunch as a quite smelly squelch, the sun is blazing over London. So while freshly plastered walls are drying and the new wiring no longer snaps, crackles and pops, I feel able to reveal, without incurring climate-related resentment, that this post comes from the desert of the San Fernando Valley, Los Angeles.

Having spent some four years in California until being whisked back across the ocean aboard the naughty ship Bedlam I discover I accumulated a quite fantastical amount of stuff. I have come to bring some of it back as well as doing meetings with buyers in the city and attending my friend Nikki's wedding. She owns my joint-tied favourite vintage store here in LA. The other one, universally recognised as the pinnacle of pre-loved, is Decades, curated by Mr de Luxe himself Cameron Silver, where you go for ultra chi-chi red carpet impact:
http://www.decadesinc.com/about_cameronBio.html
Nikki's store has more affordable treasure to make every day a little bit movie star:
http://www.revivalvintagela.com/
Soon the downstairs area at Bedlam will be the dedicated ladies' area while the cutting room will be housed in the basement next to the screen-printing room. For Bedlam is a veritable labyrinth don'tcha know?

Now back to my journey. The best in-flight entertainment was the epic continental movie projected beyond the window. On my way back and forth to Europe before I would almost always stop off in New York. This time, having read the paper, eaten a surprisingly agreeable Mac & Cheese meal, and had a little crook-neck sleep, I looked out at the terrain below and realized this was the first time I have flown directly into LA since I undertook the Big Drive - my Grand Solo Road-Trip around the US in February 2009. Down from Canada across the Great Lakes and snowy mountains we flew, then the Bad Lands and endless prairies of the Dakotas, Montana and Wyoming. I glanced at the i-map thingie in the seat back to get my bearings but however much you zoomed in there were swathes and swathes of land with no towns, no settlements large enough to name, just vast tracts of emptiness. Then we cut a corner of Idaho before beneath us rolled out the Rocky Mountains. And as I gazed down I recalled the day my car approached the entrance to the pass and I saw a sign insisting "Between the dates of November 1st and March 1st snow chains MUST be worn!" And I remembered thinking, "Mmm, er, crap, don't have those and if I did I wouldn't know what to do with them but hell, it's only a week shy of that, surely I'll be fine!" and as the snow started to fall once more, I set off along the road. Within minutes I was driving in a blizzard. It was white out all around but still I answered my phone when it rang because it was my mother and that is what you do (yes, kids?).

Clear road ahead, nice blue sky, small matter of Rocky Mountains in distance, nothing a girl can't handle

Doh

Double Doh. This is what it swiftly became: white out.

As I struggled to hold the road and control my fear, I heard my mother tell how she had, at my request, opened my latest bank statement and ask just what was I intending to do about that situation? Never have I answered more honestly when I regretted really not being able to get into that now. But it was a sudden hike of pressure in an already tense situation.

But then I saw a black fence post sticking out of the snow. It gave me a sense of where things were, of scale, and structure. Then I turned a bend and ahead were the lights of an oil tanker. Not a vehicle I would normally be happy to tail gate, now I approached as close as I dared, so it could protect me from the wildly driving snow storm. At least, it occurred to me, if we went over the edge it would surely explode and the fire ball would alert people to our charred position.

The oil tanker that led me out alive

It was an unlikely safety car to follow round the icy track but together we rolled slowly down the other side of the mountain range. I never saw his face or he mine. As Salt Lake City appeared laid out beneath us he carried on down the interstate highway while I limped into town and found a strange motel. Checked in and collapsed on the bed I was surprised by the room phone ringing. No one on earth knew where I was so I figured it was the desk clerk. "Hullo?"
"Hello, I saw you in the lobby and watched what room you went to. Would you like to get a drink?"
Being an English girl of certain upbringing I thanked him for his kindness in considering me before categorically declining. Then I pushed my giant trunk against the door and called a pal.
"Change rooms!" he exhorted.
But I resolved not to be intimidated. That day, as with every day of that rewarding and challenging adventure, I accomplished what I had set out to do.

And now I am returning to LA with that same trunk empty but for another one within it, to collect (some of!) my stuff and confirm my commitment to Mark and Bedlam, one and the same, indistinguishable as they jolly well pretty much are.

Before leaving for the airport I was up until 3.30am doing our first VAT return, whose deadline falls while I am away. We do not have the turnover yet to make it obligatory to register but we chose to. Suppliers are more likely to grant you account facilities if you are grown up enough to have registered. But I cried like a girl doing it and found the process a torture until the tail lights appeared ahead of figures balancing and check columns agreeing. Then I started to take a satisfaction in the numbers that I have only ever found in words.

Much of the preparatory receipt logging, expenditure and income, I did while Mark was in France with Ocean over Fathers' Day. I thought it would be quiet and calm and I would be uninterrupted to concentrate on this awful chore. But I was alone trying to keep the shop open and functioning, while overseeing the structural repairs which were trying to cure the damp and the god awful stench that was invading us from above and below. Not to put too finer point on it, shit was coming at me from all sides. In addition to which, the workman were at war with each other (not Biggsie I hasten to add), and one held a blade to another's throat before they took their bellowing and shoving out on to the street to the gawping of the mini cab drivers next door and assorted passers-by. Then I'd go home, work more on the book-keeping, or the opening of accounts to ease our cash flow while trying to gather the money for our next big order of raw materials so we might have stock ready to fulfill orders when we hit the button on our e-commerce site, and also to replenish the shop. And every day it poured non-stop. Not just drizzle but pounding torrents and even hail fell from the dark sky. Mark would call and tell me they had been to the pool but it was really too hot to stay outside so they'd had a siesta. "Quel drag," I said with feeling.

What this leads me to reveal then, is this. That there have been moments, some running into episodes, where I have questioned the choice of all this risk, effort and responsibility. But in the same way that on my travels the road would turn a corner to provide reassurance or crest a height to display a beautiful vision of what lay ahead, there has always been a satisfaction forthcoming that convinces me to persevere. The photoshoot for Unfolded Magazine, our first editorial, took place the other week, at the shop with the padded wall as backdrop. What a great day it provided. Here is the link to the whole magazine and then the article on us from the Unfolded blogspot:
http://www.unfoldedmag.com/unfolded/issue03
To order a bound copy:
http://www.magcloud.com/browse/issue/210994/follow

http://unfoldedmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/06/earl-of-bedlam-interview-for-unfolded.html

It provided us with photographs the editor Nardip has kindly said we can use as a Look Book and it also delivered the Face of Bedlam to us, Ollie - barman from the Oval Lounge next door and drummer with the band Peggy Sue. I did my own "behind the scenes" photos and while you can see the whole lot on Facebook (no need to sign up, click on link beneath this selection and you will be able to see them) here are my faves:

Ollie draped in one of the range of scarves we now stock. Hand woven by Anne Barclay they are 50% wool / 50% silk and dyed with natural substances. In this instance, Walnut for the beige and Madder Rose for the pink. "Madder".
Is't possible?

Nardip snaps. Actually he maintained an admirable calm all day

McKinley from Blissetts trusty hardware store on the Brixton Road and handsome chops actor

Nardip focusses while Ollie gazes and Tim B2B OAM adjusts

The Bedlam duffle, yours for £30.00

Ollie soldiers on

The Ollie-gator (in our pinstripe and another of Anne's scarves)

Tim B2B OAM found it necessary to make several further adjustments

Actor Joe Jackson joined us, lost here in a volume on the history of London while Ollie reads Edith Sitwell's "English Eccentrics"

Joe in the Poacher's Jacket with matching waistcoat and trousers from the linen suit. Mr Fox from Lassco's & Co
http://www.lassco.co.uk/

They'll run you through and eat your devilled kidneys for tea

Washed down with a nice cold shot of Chase vodka

The Royal Wedding Commemorative Tee, "One Day I Will be Queen" 

Final Curtain call of the day - Mckinley, Joe and Ollie. Mckinley models our best seller "Ni Dieu Ni Maitre" -
"Neither God Nor Master"

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.205842802786678.47013.157642327606726

Other assorted reliefs and rewards have been the settlement of the rigmerole with our bank, regarding, surprise surprise, accounting software. We now have the right package and that should make life easier. The arrival of some extra workroom help in the form of Madeiran (so it gets Madder) miracle Marta was another recent boon. She is the size of my finger nail but has the strength of an ox. We live in Little Portugal - the largest community of Portuguese outside of their own country in Europe. As she walks into work from Stockwell she flyers the local businesses, talking to them in Portuguese and explaining why Ocean Colour Screen can meet all their screen-printing needs. She also brings me in custard tarts mmmm. It came about because a gentleman called Wesley (none other) passes the store each day on his way to work at the Stockwell Job Centre. So when he had a new client who wants to get into screen-printing and fashion he brought her along to do a placement with us. If I am Sybil, and Mark is Basil, we now have our Polly. André, who first mentioned this resemblance, is by default then, Manuel.

Wesley, Mr Wesley and Marta

Someone else who raised our spirits and made us feel part of the community was Hannah. I attended a seminar for local businesses, hoping, like everyone else there, to get the secret password for free money. The first thing announced by the gentlemen burghers hosting was, "There is no money, there are no grants!" People shifted in their seats and reached for their coats. But everyone stayed as we went around the table and explained who we are and what we do. When I had spoken, Hannah, pictured with Mark below, leant in to tell me she had worked on Jermyn Street making shirts, and could she lend us her skills? We thoroughly gratefully accepted the offer:

As well as these great gals we now introduce Gugu, who wandered in one day as a customer who'd set out for some chips. She is now the face of Bedlam Belles and here she is in her bespoke Sherbet Dab jacket:

Gugulicious cut it up one time

We have been asked by a chap called Rob to make his wedding suit - what higher compliment (or responsibility?!) could there be? We have been recognized NORTH OF THE RIVER at a late-night party at London Zoo, when a gentleman approached from out of the crowd to enquire, "Excuse me, but aren't you Earl of Bedlam?"
We most certainly jolly well are!

And while my agent never got a bite for my book of traveller's tales around the US, now I get to write the story of Bedlam and some of you are kind enough to read it (are you still with me??).

Aside from staring down at lakes and mountain ranges; prairies, salt flats and deserts, geography that combined to challenge and inspire, and proved to myself that I had what it took to take them on - "work with them respectfully" perhaps I should better say, it was not hand-to-hand conflict - something else called forth this reflective post. I can't tell you the last time I read a book, there are so many other calls on my attention. Waiting to board at Heathrow's Terminal 3, the latest offering from a TV business guru caught my eye. "43 Mistakes Businesses Make... and how to avoid them" was its title. Feeling sensitive to this, to my surprise I stopped and flicked its pages, reading a few paragraphs before catching myself and hurrying off to buy "Vogue" and "Glamour" for a plane ride treat. I now needed to know what the book said next however and despite all my best frivolous efforts was dragged by some force greater than myself back to the shelf to read on.  "Goddamit!" I cried, casting it down and went to get a bottle of water. I was not going to be caught up in some How-To-Motivational-Bombast by TV's Duncan Bannatyne: http://www.bannatyne.co.uk/contact-duncan

OK, I bought it, and have nearly read it all.

Here then is a quick summation of the points that reassured my conviction and acted like a safety car outrider through the blizzard of business. I read every word like it was a letter written to me. Thank you, Mr Bannatyne:

• Success in business comes from being tough, not ruthless. "Tough enough to do the dirty jobs and tough enough to make the difficult decisions";
• consider yourself responsible for everything (even when you expand to have staff);
• which leads to DIY: "New entrepreneurs are vulnerable to thinking their expertise... is worth less than [bank managers or accountants]... I urge you to do your own accounts, sort out your own  VAT"  - YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!! "After all, how can you successfully employ an accountant or general manager if you don't know what their job involves? I don't think I'd be successful running a big business now if I hadn't once been responsible for every single aspect of a much smaller business";
• "Skills on their own don't make a business, and neither does opportunity. Where you get a fit between the skills & opp, then you ave a really good chance of building a successful business." And I believe we do;
• "Identifying our rivals - and your potential rivals - is absolutely key to success." We laugh now every time a new face enters the store only to ask "WHY have you opened HERE?!" Because every single person - with the exception of a strange chap who came in clutching a Lidl carrier bag that had seen better days - has done that. And I answer "Well, there's no competition!" and then the next thing they say, with tears in their eyes, is "Thank you for opening here" and I tell them they just answered their first question;
• the one place niche businesses flourish is the internet. And we are about to launch e-by-Bedlam;
• open in a sub-prime area... hand out flyers... advertise locally. I give you MARTA!;
• Twitter / Facebook cost nothing. Well I'm not interviewed on the utilisation of so'med' for nuttin;
• Google ranking - ditto, we got it covered;
• whatever is your bogey task (he cites VAT!) depending on your character either impose a penalty or invent a reward. I have the Protestant Work Ethic in my DNA and function on the former,  Mark worships at the church of sybratic indulgence and only a carrot is his motivator;
• "transform complete strangers into customers" - and then into friends! Hello Gugu! "meet as many strangers as possible" we are both nothing if not gregarious. "Have a relationship with your customers" - we do, we do, just short of consummated;
• INTEGRITY;
• do local events where you can have a stall - Kennington Village Fete, July 10th, here we come;
• understand the difference between value:size when apportioning (don't use term "give away") equity. Have started to learn that, yes;
• "A very effective way of making sure that you have no choice but to make your business a success is by putting in your own money... money you simply can't afford to lose." ie DEBT IS GOOD FOR GETTING OUTTA BED! Yessir, I hear that;
• work on your dining room table - I do, I do, it drives Mark nutzoid when he's ready to serve dinner. "No business needs to waste money on luxury premises" - Mr Bannatyne, you shudda smelt our wall;
• your salary is the last thing you spend money on. Sadly we have subscribed most strictly to that;
• incentivize customers with discount vouchers and staggered payments. We sold the Seville Marmalade pants and waistcoat from the window by allowing the gentleman to pay in installments;
• be a brilliant faker, e.g. use different voices on the phone for each "department" - I always used to do that at Moving Shadow Records;
• "Good business isn't just about brilliant deals, it's about mutually beneficial relationships". Amen;
• This is the bit that had me fall to my knees and shout "Hallelujah!" / offer to commit a lewd act on Mr B in gratitude, depending on your church - "When you have been working 18 hours a day, seven days a week for months, and are completely exhausted, it doesn't take much to make you throw in the towel... you wonder why you are working so hard, especially if the material results are yet to materialize. Every week, for countless reasons, entrepreneurs walk away from potentially lucrative business opportunities. Make sure you don't become one of them." Well as God is my witness, I won't;
• "Look at everything you've managed to achieve so far. make a list. Congratulate yourself." Well I sort of have, above, of recent reasons to celebrate, but there are many more. We started this blog in October, by January we opened the business account with our first investment. In February we had a stockist in New York, by March the store was coming together. In May the shop was opened by the Mayor of Lambeth so putting an official stamp on our standing in the community and doubling as a bloody good party; in June we had our first editorial published; come July we still love each other;
• "Have a full range of skills" - "be an extrovert who can sell milk to cows but also be happy alone in a room with the accounts, but have one skill above all, the ability to sell. Everything else is secondary." The best way to sell is passion. "And the best - and easiest - way to feel passion for your business is by believing that your business makes the lives of others better." Which is when I cut'n'paste something I already wrote above: "We laugh now every time a new face enters the store only to ask "WHY have you opened HERE?!" Because every single person has done that. And I answer "Well, there's no competition!" and then the next thing they say, with tears in their eyes, is "Thank you for opening here" and I tell them they just answered their first question.

And... blue skies - Bedlam does Beverly Hills

Professional Portfolio

The pantechnicon of party photographs is at last unloaded with this selection. More polished than my own, professional snappers Robbie Ewing and Kris Allen earn our sincere thanks for permission to reproduce them here. Included are the long promised series where drink is demonstrated to progressively get the better of Freelance Head of Graphics, Mr Ian Vincent and Oval Area Manager, Mr Timothy Chapman. They both called in sick the next day.

As stated before, a cross section of all life was represented and I hope these images confirm it:

Yash's father & uncle (c) Robbie Ewing

Yash's sister and mama (c) Robbie Ewing

The Mayor and Mama Yash (c) Robbie Ewing

Ali Age of Reason (c) Robbie Ewing

André & Stephen (c) Robbie Ewing

The Crowd Went Wild (c) Robbie Ewing

Our favourite Young British Artists, Tom'n'Alice (c) Robbie Ewing

Donna's friend's doggie (c) Robbie Ewing

The pretty millineress from the Oval Lounge, wearing her own creation (c) Robbie Ewing

Mr Andrew Roachford (c) Robbie Ewing

Truly a delightful portrait of Tim Balmain-to-Bedlam Oval Area Manager (c) Robbie Ewing

"There's no vodka in this cocktail!" was the accusation Mr Vincent levied at cocktologist (??) extraordinaire Miss Carr.
I think this set of photos proves him wrong. All (c) Robbie Ewing

My mama and Mr Antony Price (c) Kris Allen

In case you are unacquainted with the eminence of the gentleman above, take a read of this:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antony_Price
My mama is yet to have a Wikipedia entry devoted to her.

Mr Wesley in a neckerchief by Age of Reason, Lady C and Mr Antony P (c) Kris Allen

Ali and the Bedlam Galleon (c) Kris Allen

Actor Mr Don Gilet and son Flynn (c) Kris Allen

Ah, now it's been a while since we had a musical interlude on the blog. Here you go, with props to the father and son above (seeing as it is Father's Day, at least it was when I started writing this):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MimrBJWmIno

Mr Andrew Roachford, Best Voice in Britain, in his Bedlam strides (c) Kris Allen

The Mayor cuts the ribbon (of hound's tooth check) while Mr Stephen Roachford tweaks the levels (c) Kris Allen

Mr Mark Wesley a.k.a. The Earl of Bedlam (c) Kris Allen

Doggie again (c) Kris Allen