Spring is another Season

With the rolling of one season into another, on the night the clocks gained an hour and time jumped forward, we celebrated my godmother Elisabeth's fine ninety years. We gathered at the former Romanian Embassy in Belgrave Square. This was an appropriate rendez-vous for while she comes from eccentric and authentic English stock - the Pilkington family - she married the Scarlet Pimpernel of Romania, Ion Ratiu whose first London home this building was. That he was a hero to many was proven when over 10,000 people attended his funeral. Many, likely most, of those had not known him personally, rather they were demonstrating their allegiance to a cause. In this case, to the spirit of democracy. But in a quieter, utterly unpolitical, unself-serving way, Elisabeth has won the fierce devotion of everyone whose life she touches. Dedicated readers of this chronicle will know that she helped Earl of Bedlam on its way by accommodating Mark and me in the fine neighbourhood of St. James', and by contributing genuine interest and a sturdy sewing machine.

While waiting to be called upstairs to the birthday dinner, guests mingled in a reception room hung about with photographs and portraits of Elisabeth from across her life. If I thought I was familiar with most of it, the startling freshness of her portrait as a debutante, a young woman about to be presented at Court, made me realise I have only ever known her as a "grown up". Of all the tributes paid the one I thought most apt had someone relating how they rankle to hear Elisabeth described as "a marvellous woman for her age".
"Elisabeth," corrected the speaker, "is a marvellous woman for any age."
My mother was one of the people invited to give a speech, which she did with assured sincerity, recalling when she was Elizabeth's manageress in the Dior room at Harrods. She had gone to work there when she needed a spell of "normal" life.

Elisabeth as a debutante at court

Next to the photograph above was a letter from Iancu (the familiar term for "Ion"). You may read how determined he was to win her, despite the many arguments against their union, not least that he was, by his own admission, "in for a risky sort of life":

"They are right to be worried, and undoubtedly I'm in for a risky sort of life"

In 1945 they did marry, for she was quite as determined to have him, and so they stayed until his death in 2000. There is too much to relay here of what happened in between those times, but some danger and despair would be experienced as a direct result of that strong-headedness. Undoubtedly she could have chosen a more tranquil and unchallenging union but as Taffy said the other day, "You have to go out on a limb to reach the fruit". In confidence I will tell you that Mr Wesley was moved to tears during the speeches, declaring later that you do question quite what you have done with your life in the presence of such quietly massive accomplishment. When Serban Lupu, the celebrated Romanian violinist whose talent was nurtured by Elisabeth and to whom she gave a violin made before Mozart was born, played his appreciation, Mr Wesley declared it quite definitely the Biggest Fattest Gypsy birthday party he had ever attended. Here is Serban playing the quintessential Romanian composer George Enescu's Sonata for Piano and Violin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XvkwDyszfs

Below is a picture of Mr Wesley with one of Elisabeth's current daughters-in-law, the pulchritudinous Pamela who was formerly MRS DEMIS ROUSSOS (talking of massive, um, accomplishment) (and you thought I was going to say Big Fat G...) (you did).

And a pair of photos that will long be dear to me, of Mr Wesley and Elisabeth sharing a secret oath:

A few days after this, at Harriet's much less super-annuated anniversary, Andrea revealed that while taking her pre-soirée shower she had suddenly been consumed with the burning need to know the latest vis-a-vis Bedlam and Barneys department store. I confessed I had been somewhat at a loss to know how to broach the topic, which had indeed begun to hum here somewhat conspicuously in absence. For there had been a "rethink". It had been decided in the light of some "seasonal over-commitment" that we could get established first in London then re present for Spring / Summer 2012. The trajectory of the New York chapter had been so deliciously upward that it seemed to spoil the story to introduce a bump. "But you promised us a docu-blog and with such a platform comes responsibility!" Andrea reminded me. "It's important that the students [of life and fashion, if the two can be cleft sunder] understand there are false starts and stalled engines. You have to address this!"
"It's true," I concurred, "there is no conveyor belt to the top of the mountain."
"It's like the Jewish faith," nodded Chrissey designer-of-our-web-page-now-with-groovy-added-map-feature-so-at-least-one-thing-is-made-easier, "you have to prove you're worthy of admittance by persevering even though you may be turned away three times!"
"Oy-vey," my shoulders slumped but for a moment. "But Holy Moses you're right!" I rallied, and, regaining posture and composure, dialled Mr Bell direct.
It was a delight as ever to talk to him, and hear him say how really really REALLY proud of us he is, that one little bump pushed us into what has proven yet better momentum - the one that has created the shop; that we were not cowed by risk but galvanised.
"Spring is another season," he wisely intoned, before revealing he is coming to London in May to write the orders for Spring / Summer 2012 and that we shall get to welcome him through the door of Bedlam.


So the blossom that wraps the branches like cotton candy now will turn to sweet fruit soon enough. And day by day out along the limb we inch, ready to reach for it.

Ensign Raised, Drawbridge down, Friendly Hordes Invade

The ensign has been raised over the shop! The Earl of Bedlam name is at last emblazoned:

Mark and Lesley of the Knit painstakingly cut out the letters, which were then glued to the shop front and varnished

Our visitors included the Birkett family of Dulwich, that leafy South London suburb not normally associated with harbouring agit-pop history-makers. Do not be fooled, however, by their placid demeanour. For Derek and Sue Birkett are the King and Queen of Musical Misrule. At a kitchen table in Sydenham they created One Little Indian Records. They brought you Björk, The Shamen, Chumbawamba, Alabama 3, Sigur Ros, Sneaker Pimps, Skunk Anansie, Emiliana Torrini and a riotous host more:
http://www.indian.co.uk/artists/
They created Partisan Records for me when we - Si, Sean, Rhodesy, Gav and myself - left Moving Shadow and if they asked me to walk over a cliff I would trust they had good reason to do so and oblige. Derek always said our records sounded like pots and pans being thrown around.


My long term spa Mr Andrew Roachford also paid a visit. He is currently rehearsing as new lead singer for Mike and the Mechanics. We hope to provide a few choice bits for him to wear on tour and we're playing with designs for his own merch tees too as his own album is out later this month: http://www.roachford.co.uk/  
Here he is modelling a hat from Lock & Co. of St. James', the finest gentleman's hatter in the world, although he eventually plumped for a Homburg:

At this point the infernal decoupag-ing of the display units had reached something of an impasse. Progress was hindered by my needing to read every bit of paper to assess if it was suitable for adding (I don't like stories with bad energy man) and to help me catch up with world events. In this way I only found out that Pine Top Perkins had died! He was 97, oldest Grammy winner, blues pianist. I was in a bar in Austen Texas late one night a few years back, after a day riding as the red-headed stranger in the Bandera Hills, when Pine Top shuffled through the door and sat in with the band. So there was more PVA glue in my hair than on the shelves when Mr Tim Balmain-to-Bedlam Chapman took pity on me and went off to the hardware store to buy a packet of wallpaper paste which he said was a much easier medium - quite the most thoughtful and touching present I have ever received - and then came back day after day to help finish it. On Saturday he and Ian came in with the other Timothy, Mr Bailey, Artistic Director of L.K. Bennett, who taught us the Welsh word for trainers. Which I now forget. He signed our visitors' book while taking a hit of panda. Lou-Lou looks on:

Yet another handsome man passed through the door, and introduced himself as Paul Robinson, star of the West End (He didn't come in and say "Hello I am Paul Robinson, star of the West End", we discovered that subsequently). We apologised that decorating was still on going and mentioned we would like to display work by local artists. He promptly revealed another talent when he came back bearing a large canvas. As it complemented to a remarkable degree the black, white and red check pants in the window we hung it on the prime spot of wall without a second's hesitation:

We're waiting for Paul to bring his mate Joan Collins in

Another playwright-thespian came to hang out - they have nothing to do during the day don't you know - and brought a fine bottle of champagne to boot (to drink, actually). I don't wish to state that Miss Tracy Whitwell has now set the precedent and bar (in every sense) for visitors to the shop but if you wish to take it that way, hey, don't be hindered. Tracy's hubbie is Don Gilet who recently played the evil pastor in "Eastenders". Previously he was in a series called "Babyfather" with one of my dearest class mates from (the) RADA, David Harewood.

While Tracy was with me our first ever real life customer came in! So he got a glass of champagne to celebrate. He had to wait while I sewed in a label anyway and what nicer way to pass the time? Claire Griffin had sent Chris along and I must thank her for that and also the extraordinarily successful experiments she has been conducting in burning, searing and stamping our logo onto various stuff (technical term) to try out for the Bedlam Centurians' Commemorative Medal such as I promised a few months ago - silence does not mean it has been forgot. My favourite is the green oak. Smaller wooden discs we may now use as our house buttons. I need to get images off her to show you but meanwhile here's the Commemorative Snap of Customer #1:


I was in a fluff of excitement and couldn't find a Bedlam Lifer Bag so Chris got a Fortnum and Mason one instead (IOU a bag Chris, come back for it!). A-HA! Get me, I figured it out, grabbed it from Facebook, here is the EoB logo branded on a disc of green oak, just how beyond beyond is that?

The next adventurer to stagger across the South London savannah to sit and sip a gin sling with us was Mr Andrew Clancey, our stockist in New York. He and Mark worked on some exclusive designs for the Any Old Iron store. He was keen to have plenty of Royal Wedding themed t-shirts for the upcoming celebrations.

Mr Andrew Clancey and one he shot earlier

Mr Wesley and Mr Clancey propose to you the delights of "The Daily Terror", in house magazine of Child of the Jago, Barnzley and Joe's label that brought us together

And a nice snap Mr Clancey took of us, a little blurry but then so was I

Mr Nick Curtis, the Menswear Correspondent of London's Evening Standard, lives around the corner from our store and a few times already he has popped in to check up on progress. He, too, was taken with the Royal Wedding Commemorative Tee and we hope he enjoys wearing it. We are going to ask my old pal Goldie to present one to Prince Harry, seeing as they are quite close now and just did a TV show together. On May 7th Goldicus goes to the palace to meet HRH The Queen and we are hoping he may even be wearing Earl of Bedlam when he does. "Arise Sir Cliffy of Wolverhampton" - it's just a matter of time.

A selection of the super-luxe swatches of English woven cloth we hope will be fit to greet Her Majesty the Queen.

And here, to close this episode, our Royal Wedding offering, "One Day I will be Queen", presented in all loyalty to the crown and sovereign, displayed, somewhat incongruously I concede, with the Navajo arrow I bought from a trading post in Utah, a place now ceded from the Commonwealth:

Top Deco Tips for your ensuite Padded Cell

Work proceeds apace at the shop. Putting flowers on the desk and arranging freshly sharpened pencils just-so (as Tim said in last week's instructional video, de rigeur in any studio worth its salt) was a milestone moment. The Morplan delivery man then arrived with three more display dummies, a till and a ream of dove grey wrapping tissue (I would call it "Dior" grey but we'll eclipse that reference momentarily after the Balzacian Galliano debacle - how very Ludwig, the "Moon King", that all turned). Mark assembled and dressed them in the window while our first trusty tailor's torso was draped a la Greque in our vintage Stars & Stripes. The pirate galleon Josephine gifted me went beneath the high cell window that allows a glimpse of the outside world and its infinite oceans.
We had hoped to pull down the ceiling tiles and rip up the laminated floor but our landlord rather likes those, having only just had them put in, so we work with the gift horse we are given, and you'll see if we don't make a dressage champion out of a hobbled pit pony! Mark pulled the lights out from their sockets to dangle down like burning eyeballs and immediately transformed the look. The ceiling tiles we'll print with in-house designs.
Ferrous and Adrian from the treasure house that is Lassco's architectural reclaim up the road on the south bank of Vauxhall Bridge  -  http://www.lassco.co.uk/ - paid us a visit and agreed to give us some salvaged curiosities to make the joint more, um, curious. How pleased? Muy feliz.

Setting sail on the shark invested waters of commerce

Ali Baba (that'll be Yash) gave us the sofa and the display units

We arranged the shelving units to make a three sided cell for consultations

We had some special guest star dummies to stand in the window too. Tim'n'Ian were the first people to sign our visitors book. Later in the day Madame Randolfi and Madame Randolfi-Favel came to call. The latter was straight off the train from Paris having had the Kenzo show presented at Paris Fashion Week. Can you spot the difference wrought between visits?

TIm'n'Ian and Mark

Mark painted the shop frontage battle ship grey.We had also started to paste the display units with newspaper tearings, visible (below) to the right of the door jam. I got over-involved (as I do tend) with reading the papers and trying to find text that is somehow a propos. Mark grit his teeth and said how about he slap on the base and then I can piffle about with headlines later.

Madame Randolfi, couturier extraordinaire, and Madame Randolfi-Favel of Kenzo / LVMH

The next project was the padded wall. Our distinguished assistants (French Connection, Balmain, LVMH - not bad for a bunch of bright-eyed interns eh?) set about creating it with the aid of a staple gun and hot glue. I had expected to schlep about finding foam, getting it cut to size and blah and blah but suddenly remembered that you can get a duvet (duh!) for a song at Sainsbury's these days. We bundled over there and the single size was only on verse-chorus half price promotion! So we got two of those at £4 a pop and Blue Peter best be taking notes cos every cool kid in town's gonna be wanting a padded wall now, for those nights when you, like, can't be bothered to lie down. 

Mark staples the second duvet to the wall

Tim "Balmain to Bedlam" Chapman tacks calico over the quilts

That's the risk with unpaid staff, there's always one that mucks about

Mucks about AND DISTRACTS THE OTHERS FROM WORKING

The next day I requisitioned Nick the Bulgarian to drive me to the East End and back to the yard off Brick Lane where we get our fabric. When I was there the other day I spotted a giant's bobbin outside the builder's yard next door, the whatsit they wind cable round. The blokes working there said I was welcome to it if I could move it. Nick managed - pretty much single handedly cos I was frankly a bit feeble - to hoik it into the back of the van he uses to drop off the dry cleaning deliveries. A smaller one suggested itself as an occasional table and asked not to be left behind so I picked him up and popped him in the van. Back at the store the Daddy Bobbin now sits on the platform awaiting the needle we will fashion for him (David Taborn suggested a snooker cue, but feel free to whittle one out of an oar or... whatever, and present it to us) while Bobbin Jnr. sits inside:

"Opening soon" declares the window

Mark's daddy comes from Doncaster

Shelves white washed, we put up the tankards, candelabra, bullet belt and other assorted ephemera. So come along and toast our industry with some frothy ale by the light of a tallow candle or we'll shoot you (not reaaaally).

A short "How-To" instructional video as an interlude

Turning my hand to big budget film production while waiting for plaster to dry and buds to open, so please be enjoying this, recorded before we went to NY:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFagCTPUgRo
Tim has pointed out that with some sort of spooky omniscience Youtube have integrated the word "Fag" into the link. Uncanny.

One of our achievements this week was clearing out the yard at the back of the shop. Mark's brother Paul leant his brawn to the operation, as did two Bulgarians whose English is non existent until asked if they'd like a sausage sandwich from the Farmers' Market whereupon they chirrup "Yes please!" But when further questioned as to whether they wanted ketchup or mustard we hit a wall of non-comprehension. So I pointed to the bashed up yellow door frame - "Mustard?"and next to the red gas canister that is our bathetic attempt at drying the walls, "Or ketchup?" "Ketchup!" A little applied thought can get through breeze blocks. Anyway, together we moved some of those and mountains of other rubbish. We discovered a flower bed next to the crumbly old brick wall that separates us from our neighbours. Three lilies had survived being buried in a dump and I found a bent little conifer and some ivy in a pot on its side that I suspect had fallen from a window sill of the flats above. Back at the market in the muddy church yard I bought three pink primulas at 75p each. It rained all day as we worked. For some reason I had snatched up my best Paul Smith overcoat as we left the house but it is so well made it will recover. In one of its deep pockets I discovered a pair of airline socks from the flight and was happy to put them on as well so cold it was.

As we piled the rubble bags on the platform outside the shop, local people continuously stopped to ask what we are going to do there and to wish us luck. Over zealously, back in the yard, one of the Bulgarians chopped at a thick stem in the flower bed with his shovel, right next to the wall, thinking it was a weed. Mark and I both said "Not that! It's a rose!" but of course he couldn't understand. Mark stayed his hand as the man went to hack at it again and it was saved. It just got an extremely drastic pruning. And from the ashes of disaster grow, as you do know, the roses of success:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GND10sWq0n0
Funnily enough, bad Baron Bomburst, who takes my hero Caractacus Potts and co. captive in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang - yes, an even better film than the one that commenced this post - is the ruler of Vulgaria.

Ah, the boat's at the quay for Hushabye Mountain. G'night y'all:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kNCUuz4P3q8&feature=related

A Child to the Jago show, London Fashion Week A/W 2011/12

Something of a torrent of postings this week, as I attempt to clear the blog backlog. A lot has happened in the past few weeks. Slept not a wink on the night flight back to London, never good for nerves nor temper, to find that the refurb we were expecting to be completed had not actually been started. Our antiques dealer mate Josephine delivered a marvellously a propos bashed up desk on Saturday morning, as was supposed to be the finishing touch, but as yet the surroundings did not match it. The desk wasn't the only precious thing delivered. Mark's mummy Diane flew over from France with his youngest son Ocean, set to stay with us for half-term. He liked the NYPD road incident car set with which we presented him and happily staged pile-ups with Uma, Josephine's beautiful little girl, while the grown-ups stood around surveying the refit-disaster scene. Then Mark's mum went to use the loo and the ceiling fell in. Let's not even contemplate the injuries that could have been sustained in such circumstances and give thanks for her lightening reactions and pragmatic "Well I picked it all up" response. Before we left for New York I had pointed out that there was definitely something going on with the ceiling, that the lids of paint pots stored in the littlest room were covered in standing water, ergo the drip suggested more of the same on the flat roof above. So I got properly grotty at this point. It's funny that, contrary, perhaps, to expectations, it's me that does Bad Cop, goes all D.I Regan on their ass, while Mark turns his feet out and channels Dixon of Dock Green. This is, he claims, because if it kicks-off, he's the one who has to square up. Hence he does all he can to avoid escalating aggro.

We went to Sainsburys to find comfort and stock up on dinosaur comics, mint Aero puddings and mini Scotch Eggs, Ocean's favourite. Barnzley called and asked Mark if he would model in his show the next day. It was a tired and unglamorous moment in the vegetable aisle and Mark said no, he didn't think so. In the car home he said his belly was more sticky outy than last year and he expected none of the other models would talk to him during the hours they have to wait around. "We think your belly is beautiful and you are the most handsome man on the planet. Aside from which Barnzley has done so much for us lately."
"Yes, you are very handsome daddy. I love you to the moon and I will do it with you. Can I have a Scotch Egg now?" said Ocean.
So Mark rang Barnzley back and said, "Um, ok, what time do you need me?"

Still, the next day, Daddy still wasn't feeling too comfy in his skin and a sense of unease emanated from our favourite pin-up. We were almost ready to set off to deliver him to hair and make-up when Barnzley called and said he was terribly sorry but they had booked so many models they'd be hard pressed to use them all. Would Mark prefer to come as a guest and just enjoy the show? Whaddya reckon?!
"But am I still in the show?" asked Ocean.
"Huh? Oh, um, well, ah, we will all dress up and then it will be like we are!"
"But ME, I am IN the show?"
"Only if we get your outfit together," I said, rummaging for a natty black and white snakeskin belt from my childhood flares that I have been keeping for such an occasion, "and then we will see!"

Going for a received character look rather than brave new styling - we'd leave that to Joe and Barnzley - I draped my Portobello bullet belt over his little shoulders and tied my silk leopard spot scarf over his nose. New Clarks shoes stayed on sensibly. "There! El Grande Bandido, Miguel the Magnifico! Magnificent and reaaaaaaaaally scary! Olé!"

In the car Ocean practised saying his character name in his "Batman Returns" gravelly basso profundo and, slightly to my consternation, rattled the bullet belt at people in buses that drew up next to us.
"Perhaps we shouldn't do that sweetheart?" I suggested, not least as we had to pass the police check point on London Bridge.
I had wanted a while ago to buy my godson Marcello a fab bullet belt from my friend Nikki's store in LA - http://www.revivalvintagela.com/ - and was deterred by the tutting, eye-rolling and chorus of "NO!"'s the idea induced. Marcello is the same age as Ocean and I guess he would have been four at the time. But I don't see the difference between dressing-up box cowboy-renegade accoutrements from toy guns and soldiers?

Well here's Big Poppa and El Poco Bandido outside the Child of the Jago shop:

The Earl and El Poco Bandido

Barnzley came out with our tickets. He looked somewhat occupied as you can imagine but I asked anyway if they needed any baby bandits as extras. He said sorry, but they didn't have anything in small. Some of his full-sized cast were having a smoke meanwhile on the sidewalk:

A smoke AND a beer?! They walk intoxicated?!

We walked round the corner to the most excellent venue, "Village Underground", and were relived to get inside as it had turned wintery cold again. I had hastily put on my Antony Price trouser suit such as we designed together, in a fluo silk check, and we passed unhumiliated by Philip Salon who was there, as ever, to vet "boring dressers". I hadn't found the necklace I wanted, but grabbed a chunky rocked piece that turned to ice cubes round my neck, having failed to grab a scarf or coat or gloves or hat. The invitation said "Wear your best fancy duds, and don't forget your dancing shoes." I thought Ocean could shoot his fingers at the floor to get gringo feet flying. But after Phil Dirtbox recited the opening homily, feet were presently parading along the raised catwalk.

Phil Dirtbox, portrait by Ocean

Sam Bully kindly let Ocean stand up on the front row form next to him and we enjoyed an untrammelled view:

My favourite look of the show

Half way along the models paused on an outcrop before they re-emerged to trip along the stage together, heralding the appearance of Joe Corré and Barnzley to take their bows. En masse I got a sense of passengers on a stage coach heading for Pioneer Town with a representative from the Pinkerton Detective Agency (the black demi-cape look above) riding inside with the young East Coast gentlemen out to make their fortunes while those sharing whiskey and looking out for angry injuns, who had already lost theirs at the card tables, clung on the roof with the belted trunks, hats battered by the sun. Which of course is all wrong as it's meant to be Ripper-esque London, but that was the story I imposed upon it and fashion should free you to reinvent, not dictate. Eh? And I think a little Mexican jumping bean fits rather well with that story-board.

Child of the Jago team Joe Corré and Barnzley Armitage

"Is it my turn now?" asked a bright voice suddenly.
"Yes darling, quick, now!"
And before you could say "Sticky out tummies are the new shrug", Ocean was up the little flight of steps and striding down the catwalk so fast that I couldn't even get my shutter open. So you will have to take my word for it that he did walk at the Jago show, even if it was some five minutes after the official end and most people were looking the other way. He then jumped down to mingle and shuffle.

We particularly loved Caroline the milliner who used to work at BOY and write for NME:

Bobby Gillespie was sitting along from us and greeted Barnzley when he entered the throng, as did our own Mr Wesley who had a hug for his old chum:

Bobby G and Barnzley

Barnz & Wez, just like old times when they worked the music halls

Miles of room between those tummies

Then suddenly a space cleared in the middle of the floor and photographers and camera men swarmed to get a picture of the newest star of London Fashion Week:

Ocean strikes a pose

Then Daddy came to the rescue, before we kissed him goodnight and gave him a long leash to stay and hob nob while we went home for chocolate digestives and milk:

While Joe's mummy Dame Vivienne Westwood was admiring Mr Wesley's suit and asking who had made it (*PRIDE*), for me and El Poco Bandido, it was definitely time to call it a night. I let him take the camera to record our journey home and buckled him in the back of the car. Man, I was plum tuckered. I have never been more ready to trade photo-ops for pillows, but there was one more ambush still to come before lights out:

Portrait of a Punk by Ocean (as are all the following shots)

View of the road home from the back seat by Ocean aged 6

We had Fire Flies for outriders

SO happy to be in bed! (as recorded by Ocean)