Cartridge cufflinks

These cufflinks are made from actual fired 7.76mm cartridge cases, and are, I suppose, limited edition (in that 20 sets were made for sale, for charity, and sold to friends). Although they can definitely be described as 'novelty' in the most obvious sense, they are probably understated enough to be unselfconsciously worn (if you're the sort that is concerned with such things, which I don't recommend). I think they are a superb idea - and not very difficult to actually make for yourself if the inclination, resources and time happened to favourably coincide.

I personally approve entirely of unique, outlandish and downright louche cufflinks. They are, after all, the most subtle yet permissible subversion we are allowed within the man's uniform. As I am not one for pocket squares in any shape or form (except perhaps a simple white square on very special occasions), and my ties are broadly conservative (stripes, paisleys, one or two tartans, one or two solids, one or two polka dots), cufflinks are really the only outlet of individualism I have left myself. As a result, I enjoy them to the fullest extent, and propose that you do the same.

"Nicky Haslam says cufflinks are common. I don't listen to him. He says everything is common. I think it's common to say things are common."
- Jeremy Hackett

Self-determination theory

A sense of reinvigoration overcomes me. Recent weeks and months have revealed in me a restlessness, an unusually positive dissatisfaction that refreshes my soul. Although my footsteps are harrowed by the same shadows they have always been, these stark figures are, for the time being, rendered distant and indistinct. A determination to fill my days, to exercise, to tear myself away from self-imposed solitude, brings the coming days into sharp focus. With concrete opportunities in my grasp and a firm handle on what is to come, I can push out my chest and greet the future with an eager stoicism the like of which I have rarely felt within myself. I am standing at my own, highly personal frontier, ready at last to sally forth and abandon the comfort and safety of my meticulously constructed but ultimately self-defeating redoubt. Amat victoria curam.

"It's never the wrong time to call on Toad. Early or late he's always the same fellow. Always good-tempered, always glad to see you, always sorry when you go!"

Shostakovitch

Childhood films Part 1 - Where Eagles Dare

Where Eagles Dare - 1968

This was, and still is, one of the greatest films ever made. As a young boy, Sunday afternoons would roll round and, stuffed with roast, the whole family would heave themselves to the T.V room to watch a film. Most of time it was classic, boys-own war stuff, the sort of jingoistic,Bosch-bashing, British-bulldog fodder that dominated 50's and 60's cinema and never really went out of fashion in our household. This film, based on Alastair McLean's book of the same name, stands head and shoulders above the rest. The opening sequence, a snow-camo'd Junkers Ju-52 emerging from the snow-capped Alps of southern Bavaria, carrying our boys to their do-or-die mission behind enemy lines to rescue a captured officer, vital to the success of D-Day, is enough to send shivers pulsating up the spine of any self-respecting British boy. The music is unforgettable. Clint Eastwood cuts a dash as the American officer seconded to the British team (presumably to secure funding for the thing, lets face it) but Richard Burton truly steals the show as the masterful Major Smith. The intrigue, suspense, utter massacre of Nazi automatons (of course) and unforgettable script make this a classic.

And that twist!

"Broadsword calling Danny Boy....Broadsword calling Danny Boy"

Heartland

Think.

So few people, in today's society at least, truly understand distance, time and space. We live in a world in which attention span is scarcely required, let alone a common trait. Such immediacy, such constant, cheap stimulation is so much the norm that appreciation of the magnitude and scale of our lives is impossible to come by. Modern society is packed, every second filled with news, television, film, music and media. Books, sadly, less so. But with constant sensory distraction, unreality reigns. We are bereft; empty shells of men who stumble deliriously as if lost in the desert, forceful and bold, but with nothing as such to aim for. Every mirage burns itself into our minds. Every waking moment sees us bombarded with meaningless, stupefying nonsense. It is hard to know where to begin. Televisions built into the back of car seats means that even a process as simple as sitting quietly in the back of a car is discouraged and undesirable, we cannot be away from stark colour, light and sound for even a moment without the churning numbness of boredom harassing the fringes of our thoughts. Frankly, however, we are unlikely ever to give it a chance. More likely, the steady, unabated sedation of our brains will continue aggressively and purposefully, eventually driving opportunity and motive for depth of thought from our fragile collective psyche. Instead, inane, cackling halfwits will sneeringly decide on our behalf who is talented, who is dancing successfully on the ice and who should be voted out of the Big Brother jungle. But we won't argue, we will close ourselves to everything, every nourishing morsel of intellectualism, scrabbling around for the next opinion to which we should cling as stranded seafarers, clutching desperately to what we perceive to be rocks in order to save ourselves from the savage, crashing seas of reality which menace our steps. The causes of our moral and intellectual decline are multi-faceted and highly complex, but one thing is certain - our society could not have achieved such mass pacification without willingness from the majority, consciously or not.

Spiegel im Spiegel

Gentlemen

For generations the British bourgeoisie have spoken of themselves as gentlemen, and by that they have meant, among other things, a self-respecting scorn of irregular perquisites. It is the quality that distinguishes the gentleman from both the artist and the aristocrat. Now I am a gentleman. I can't help it: its born in me. I just can't take that money'

- Paul Pennyfeather (Decline and Fall - Evelyn Waugh)

Fate up against your will

Ian Smith - a bit of a rebel

Bisley memories

As a young boy, the hotter months were dominated by weekend trips to Bisley. For the uninitiated, Bisley is the 'home' of target rifle shooting in Britain. It is referred to somewhat misleadingly as a 'camp', but in essence it is a self-contained world. The ranges dominate the camp, but are interrupted by aging maples and sun-dappled clubhouses, rows of caravans of all shapes and sizes house the enthusiasts that turn out in their droves year on year to drink ale and talk about the wind. There is an unassuming magic about the place, buzzing with strange people escaping, however briefly, their varied and hectic lives. An one-legged Etonian drives a tractor about the camp; a plank of wood nailed crudely to the back seats his three young children. Three well-off Lebanese tourists in grotesque Prada training shoes amble about, prodding aimlessly at 25 year old window displays in the small camp shops, marveling, one hopes, at the charming amateurism of it all. One man drives past on a golf-buggy with a portable toilet attached to the back, his rifles propped up neatly in the seat beside him. To the outsider, it is a place of utter madness and eccentricity, but it stands to me as one of the few remaining bastions of real England. The sport itself, my father's dearest pastime, is socially inclusive, clubs contain individuals from startling walks of life. It is not unusual to see three or four Kenyans, dressed in scruffy, ill-fitting clothes, carrying state-of-the-art target rifles over their shoulders, chattering excitedly in Swahili about anything and everything. How odd that a place with so little acquiescence to political correctness avails itself of true diversity with such ease. Yet it is the true spirit of the amateur sportsman that prevails here, companionship and friendship built of common passion for a minority activity precludes social distinction.

It is no doubt difficult to envisage such a place. But the depth of feeling the thought of Bisley provokes in me is tangible, for it represents everything to which I wish I could return. A gently aging paradise in which one can wander as if in a dream, thoughts punctuated softly by the distant crack of rifle rounds scorching across the ranges, the sun warming the backs of pale legs, timeless, innocent and magical.

Winds of Destruction

Musings on Eurocentricity

There is little space in this world for a man who is culturally Eurocentric. Modern society dictates that acceptance and respect for Afro-Asian literature and arts is the safe, acceptable position - so much so that I can state beyond doubt that it has infiltrated the English university system seemingly irreparably. This trend has coincided with the dissolution of Western European power and has precipitated the encroaching rot of multiculturalism. The diversification of society on ethnic grounds clearly precipitates increased exposure to cultures which had never previously meaningfully crossed paths with our own, at least not in a domestic context. Yet it is not these cultural touchstones that built the artistic tradition that influenced my ancestors, and me. It is unquestionably taken as a good thing that these traditions are now taken into consideration, respected, and acknowledged as equally valuable to our own. But why? The utter folly of diluting our own enormous artistic, musical and literary canon with the detritus of other societies cannot be seen until the assumption that cultural progress is synonymous with cultural diversity is questioned. But it is not - it is utterly unquestioned in the collective consciousness. Even the term 'Eurocentric', coined by scholars in the decolonisation period, is innately and definitively negative. Yet it is just this that I seek - a respect, acknowledgement and above all, protection of European cultural and intellectual traditions against the regressive influence of those societies that cannot boast the same depth and wealth of achievement that Europeans as a whole can boast. 'Pan-Europeanism' in the political sense is misleading and misguided, but the power of shared blood, and thus cultural tradition across European nations should be celebrated and preserved. Think on it.