his story begins in November 1979

inside a spire made from gaping

mout hs stitched together by their lips
- mouths screaming the negation of
all of hope, all oflove, and even all
of existence in its manifold entirety.
Our scaly tale lashes across the years,
taking in a n episode during which
I was t he Great White Spirit
controlling everything by
wires from the fifth
dimension,
another
in which
I held a tea party
for Victorian ladies
wearing fluorescent
crinolines in a portable conservatory
t hat happened to be the back of a
Mini Club man (the old, authentically
mini kind - not t hose modern
BMW imposters), and a more playful
chapter during which I fl ew
a miniature kite in the airstream
from a household fan, much to the
amusement of my future wife, who
had just returned from the Last Night
of the Proms and was as high as one
(a miniature kite, that is). Our
narrative zigs in, and zags out oft he
months and t he years, with no interest
in the banalities of chronology.
Sometimes it incorporates other
people's perspectives - disparate
individuals, a handful intimates,
most never known - snuggling up
behind their eyeballs like a hideous
psyche-schlupping body snatcher,
and everywhere this pinpoint of
view pricks the thin skin stretched
between what-is and what-is-not,
it draws blood: red blood, heliotrope
blood, blood the thick, slick surface
of which is patterned ... like tweed.
Yes, and when all is said and done,
and we've pushed the rental bike to
the top of the hill, freewheeled down,
then returned it to the spotless garage
under t he Hauptbah nhof, so the
ravenous monologue remorselessly
returns us to the waking nightmare ...
Those screaming mouths stitched
together - and did I mention the
skeletons .. ? You know the ones ... they
have shreds and globs of putrefying
flesh dangling from their griddle rib
cages, and they use carved fibulas
and tibias to play upon glockenspiels
the keys of which are other ribs,
picked clean. Did I mention the
skeletons ... ? Because t hey're the most
loat hsome thingsofall, not, you
appreciate solely because in their
number and their aspect they form
a n orchestra-
sized memento
mori (there are perhaps a hundred
of them, and they each have a bony
instrument to saw, pluck, beat or
blow), but because of what they play:
the rinky-dink, bang-crash-wallop, tin
pan alley schmaltz that is Gershwin's
"Rhapsody in Blue" ... Christ! How
I loathe it - how I regret putting
the record on the turntable: when
I dropped t he needle into the groove
I pinioned myself to this undulating
bed, where I lie staring up into that
spire of howling orifices. I've been
here for a while ... I'm here now ... It
feels horribly as ifl' ll be here forever ...
In case you hadn't bitten down
on the bitter pill by now, this is a story
about drugs - specifically about major
hallucinogens, and in particular
about lysergic acid diethylamide,
commonly known on the street as
acid. Although this is an idiomatic
expression I've always found a little
confusi ng; after all, which "street"
does it refer to? Certainly not
Lichtstrasse ("Light Street") in Basel,
Switzerland, where, on the morning
of 5 February this year, I found myself
standing astride my stalled rental
bicycle and addressing a pair of
employees, who had quit the Novartis
"campus" (as the HQ of this huge
pharmaceutical company is styled) in
order to enjoy a rather more mundane
drug experience: ingesting nicotine.
They were surrounded by a gaggle of
heavy-puffing colleagues whose
smoke and condensation rose up into
the gunmetal sky. Beyond them t he
Mondrian-modernist glass panels of
the campus buildings formed a grid
of rationality upon which to plot these
billowy curves of self-harm. I'd picked
this duo because they looked slightly
and hipper than the rest.
After establishing that this wasn't
the main entrance, and that I'd have
to backt rack t o Fabrikstrasse (yes,
I know you know what this means),
I asked t hem if they'd ever heard of
Albert Hofmann.
They looked blankly at me, as
I spluttered: "Y'know, Hofmann, he
was a research chemist with Sandoz
- now part of the Novartis group ... "
The blankness persisted. "Hofmann,
the man who first synthesised LSD ... "
The blankness intensified. "L-S-D,"
even though their English was
faultless; I spelt it out for them with
trans-cultural emphasis: "acid - the
drug, the hallucinogenic drug. It was
first synthesised right here, on 16
April 1943 by Albert Hofmann, surely
you know that?" But they surely
didn't know that. Indeed, not only did
they not know about Hofmann, I'm
not altogether sure they even knew
what acid was. That evening in the
hotel bar, I struck up a conversation
with a woman in her early Thirties,
and she wasn't on the same street as
acid either - cocaine and marijuana
she admitted to having heard of
(although she swore she'd never taken
either), but LSD was a complete terra
incognita to her; she'd certainly never
lain on a writhing mattress staring up
into a spire full of screaming mouths
- the very idea was preposterous,
and quite at variance with the
atmosphere of Basel; staid, moneyed
Basel, where Switzerland, Germany
and France nuzzle up against each
other in a welter ofbanki ng accords
and powdery profitability.
Thinking back on these episodes
later, it occurred to me that mine had
been thecommonerrorofmy
generation: a late baby boomer (born
in 1961), since the demographics have
made me and my peers the greatest
part of the western European
population, I/we naturally assume
that the cultural foment of our
childhood and youth remains
zeitgeisty. Perhaps, ifI'd asked the
Novartis fag-smokers about K-holes
they'd have opened up - but quite
possibly not, after all, the last thing
you want to 'fess up to when you
churn out licit drugs for a living is
taking street ones. And Basel is a
company town: there were adverts for
Sandoz's products ranged along the
travelator at the airport, so
t he main reception on Fabrikstrasse,
t he man in black behind the marble
desk nearly corpsed when I asked if
I, a mere member of the public, could
stroll around the campus. What a
ridiculous notion! Then, in between
issuing plasticised name badges
to pukka drug dealers, he took pity
on me, a nd explained that the city
council ran a tour on Saturdays.
What a fool! This was what every
acid-addled journalist should always
remember: whenever you have to
access t he heavily guarded corporate
HQ of a multinational drug company,
s imply go on the weekend tour. But it
was Tuesday, so instead all I could
year-old research chemist had
been synthesising for the second
time a batch ofLSD-25. He'd already
performed this task five years
before- deriving the colourless,
odourless salt from ergotamine,
a substance which itself derives
from a fungus naturally occurring
on r ye seeds. Ergotamine had some
uses reducing blood pressure in
women affected by preeclampsia
during pregnancy- and Sandoz was
interested in discovering new blood
pressure drugs, but LSD-25, when
Hofmann had tested it on various
lab rats, seemed to affect them not
one jot, so he discarded it and
went on tinkering with different
molecular arrangements.
In his charming account of the
discovery, LSD: My Probl em Chil d,
Hofmann describes the "peculiar
presentiment" he had which
1'1ULTtNATto om \ ~ \ ' i i
NAL DRUG COMPANY. SIMPLY GO ON 111 'tlt.\L-.
that you reached led him to do was to stare plaintively through
the gates at the original Sandoz
arrivals feeling like a
dissolving human pill, a bubbly
effervescence streaming out of the
back of your head.
Anyway, I'd had the same blank
response from the PR flacks
at Novartis and Sandoz when I got
in touch with them to ask whether
I could see the laboratory where the
drug that launched a thousand trips
had been synthesised: emails and
phone calls went resolutely
unanswered. If it hadn't have been
for the sleuthing of an Anglo-German
friend who lives in Cologne (and
who spoke to both the archivist at
Novartis and to Hofmann's own son),
I'd never have discovered that the
chemist's 1943 laboratory is still part
of the campus, nor the precise
location oft he modest suburban
house Hofmann cycled to on that
April afternoon.
building - a smaller, calmer, beige
stone cuboid set among all those scary
tesseracts - then mount my six CHF-
per-hour steed and head for the hills.
As I pedalled along the achingly
prosaic Basel streets, t he blood
draining from my wind-chilled
fingers, it seemed to me that never had
life seemed more anodyne: the streets
were grey- my thoughts were too.
Normally, thecombinationofa
quixotic little excursion such as t his,
involving an early morning start from
London, a bumpy plane flight and an
unfamiliar city at the end of it, would
at least induce a mild alteration in my
consciousness - a disorienting sense
of the expanding possibilities of the
universe, and t he dilation of my
psyche as it struggled to encompass
t hem - but not today. Today I was
dull and earthbound. How unlike this
it had been for Hofmann, almost
70 years ago to the day. The then-37-
resynthesise
LSD-25 (the "25" refers simply to
it being the 25th variant derived from
ergotamine), and describes the very
first acid trip ever "coming on" (as we
say down my street), with this equally
charming understatement: "I was
interrupted in my work by unusual
sensations." Hofmann asked his lab
assistant to accompany him home,
and this being wartime (although
lJ 1
Switzerland was a neutral country,
there were still fuel shortages), they
mounted bicycles, and as Hofmann
pedalled across town he also
proceeded into a parallel world.
Stick that in your pipe and smoke
it, Lance Armstrong!
When the research chemist
reached the nondescript house
in the hilly suburb ofBinningen,
he la id down "and sank into a
not-unpleasant intoxicated-like
condition, characterised by an
extremely stimulated imagination.
In a dreamlike state, with eyes
closed (I found the daylight to be
unpleasantly glaring), I perceived an
uninterrupted stream of
distortions, symptoms of paralysis,
desire to laugh ... Home by bicycle.
From 18.00 - circa 20.00, most
severe crisis."
The "severe crisis" that began on
the bike ride was a full-blown bad trip:
"Everything in my field of vision
wavered and was distorted as if seen
in a curved mirror. I a lso had the
sensation of being unable to move
from the spot. Nevertheless my
assistant later told me that we had
travelled ver y rapidly." At home, after
collapsing onto a sofa in a swoon,
Hofmann saw that" familiar objects
and pieces offurniture assumed
grotesque, threatening forms." Being
a Swiss, he asked his assistant to
borrow some milk from the next door
neighbour (I love t he idea of a dairy
ant idote), but when she pitchered up:
vividly changing image with its own
consistent form and colour."
But ifHofmann's decision to test
LSD on himself was remarkable, still
more astonishing - and I think
a major factor in the multicoloured
mayhem that radiated out from the
impact of that o.25mg bomb - was
his reaction; bad trip or not ,
Hofmann was a convert. In the words
of the erstwhile Harvard psychologist
Dr Timothy Leary - who became the
Pied Piper oft he hippies - Hofmann
had turned on, tuned in, and, while
he may never have actually dropped
out, things were never going to be the
same again for him.
The following morning, he took
a stroll in his pocket-sized garden:
"Everything glistened and sparkled
in a new light, I felt as if! had been
reborn." Within a remarkably short
time, Sandoz was offering t he drug to
responsible practitioners - mostly
psychiatrists and psychotherapists
- to use in practice, on the basis that
by producing a "model psychosis" it
4 040101-, S Q ~ \ _ ...
IV 1140 r, {) ~ N D
... 4K[N Possrss10N OF MY BODY. MIN
fantastic pictures,
extraordinary
shapes
intense,
kaleidoscopic
play of colours."
After a couple of hours of
this, t he colours subsided and
Hofmann fell to considering what
had occurred. He reasoned - rightly
- t hat if it had been t he LSD-25 that
had affected him the substance must
be highly potent: he had observed
correct lab procedures and it could
only have been absorbed t hrough his
fingers. But how could he be sure?
And here comes the true loveliness
of the story- if you'll forgive an old
hippy's fl oweriness - because while
almost any other dull Swiss research
chemist would've exhibited aching
caution, Hofmann became wild ly
abandoned, and decided to test the
drug on himself. Three days later he
ingested o.25mg of LSD, reasoning
that this was t he smallest amount
likely to be an effective dose. His
d iary of this self-experiment is
marvellously terse: "17.00, Beginning
d izziness, feeling of anxiety, visual
"She was no longer Mrs R, but rather
a malevolent insidious witch with a
coloured mask." As if these external
freakeries weren't bad enough, poor
old Hofmann was disintegrating
internally: "A demon had invaded me,
had taken possession of my body,
mindand
enabled practitioners to both
understand mental illness and t reat
it. There followed a long twilight
period in the late Forties and through
the Fifties when acid, perfectly legal,
could be obtained from Sandoz under
the predictably dull trade name of
Delysid. All sorts of
1 2
soul.. . I was seized
by the dreadful fear of going insane.
I was taken to a nother world, another
place, another time. My body seemed
to be without sensation, li feless,
stra nge. Was I dying?"
But far from dying, Hofmann lived
to be 102, and remained to the end of
his days a devoted fat her to his
strange mind-child, believing that
the LSD journey could be profoundly
meaningful - ifundertaken in the
right, medically monitored
circumstances. On this formative
occasion a doctor was indeed called
by the trusty assistant, but by the
time he a rrived the peak of
Hofman n's alp-sized bad t rip had
been reached, and the intrepid
research chemist was gently coasting
down the far slopes, transfixed by the
characteristic synaesthesia provoked
by LSD: "Every sound generated a
people worked
with LSD, notably the English-born
Dr Humphry Osmond, who had
considerable success in Canada with
the t reatment of ch ronic alcoholism.
But as time went by the semi-
permeable membrane between
psychological investigation and
bohemian experimentation began
to be penetrated by these
supercharged molecules. Somewhere
along the street, Hofmann's problem
child was waylaid by the egregious
Leary, and introduced to the
Eton-educated novelist and
psychonaut Aldous Huxley, whose
account of his own mescaline
experiences, The Doors of Perception,
had a lready become a handbook for
the emergent counter-culture.
Leary and Huxley had very
different ideas about what to do with
this new and still more powerful
psychedelic drug- Huxley favouring
the initiation of a small group of
influential adepts, Leary going for
mass tripping with a vengeance - but
by then it was too late. Those hipsters
who experienced acid trips as portals
into a mystical consciousness also
saw something cosmically
coincidental about Albert Hofman n's
bike ride. Noting that it took place at
around the same time the Manhattan
Project was gearing up to produce the
atomic bombs that would be dropped
on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, they
reasoned that God or gods had given
LSD to humankind so that the
turned-out masses would recoil from
the nuclear Armageddon. If any
younger folk reading this require a
couple of primers on what happened
next, I can heartily recommend Jay
Stevens' Storming Heaven: LSD and
the American Dream, and Tom
college room in 1979, staring up at the
interior of a spire stitched together
out of mouths screaming my own
annihilation - and everyone else's.
At the time it seemed that acid trips,
far from being some avant-garde
voyaging, were already hopelessly
passe: cheap day returns to the
garden of earthy delights taken by
already ageing hippies in Gandalf
costumes. Illegal since the late
Sixties, acid was just another street
drug. Or was it? True, I probably
ended up taking it scores of times -
perhaps as many as a hundred - but
at an unconscious level I always
ensured I didn't ingest sufficiently to
return me to the spire of nothingness.
Once was enough. However, every
time I did take acid I had the same
epiphany: I might've been getting
pissed, smoking weed, and taking all
manner of other intoxicants, but
when my pulse began to accelerate,
and my pupils dilated until their
blackness smudged my pasty face,
and the objects in the room became
charged with an unearthly vitality,
and the faces of my companions took
druid Getafix has long since dunked
me in the cauldron of magic potion; so
that nowadays, even on cold and dull
mornings in Basel that seemed to
betoken not expanded consciousness
but a pitiless shrinkage of all mental
faculties, it only took a few pumps on
the pedals, a few squints at the
pollarded trees along the boulevard
- which writhed like the severed
limbs of giants - and a couple of
whacky conversations with elderly
Swiss ("Do you know where I can find
the house of Albert Hofmann ...
y'know ... the man who discovered
LSD?") for me to peel away the
transfer of my psyche from this
cardboard backdrop and begin to fly.
By the time I reached Albert
Hofmann Weg (or "Way"), the tiny,
stepped alleyway named in honour of
Basel's most influential 2oth-century
inhabitant, I was as high as a
miniature kite. The house where he'd
laid supping milk and staring at
phantasmagoria was a shuttered
ct_\It.\) B ~ \tit ORtAOFUL FEAR OF GOING IN
\ ~ t>.S .:i SANE"
Wolfe's The Electric
Kool-
box that gave
Aid Acid Test,
between them these two books
paint the Sixties up in the right
Day-Glo shades. (Actually, even older
readers could probably do with a
rebriefing; after all, if you were there
at t he time you almost certainly can
no longer remember what happened.)
myself, I think I probably only really
did the Hofmannesque bike ride once
- by which I mean full-blown
hallucinations, ego death and
rebirth. And that's where you came
in: with me lying on a bed in my
on the aspect of masks either comic or
tragic ... Well, it dawned on me once
again that this was what was meant by
"drugs" - all the rest of it was mere
doodling in the margins of
consciousness, while this was
shaking the Etch A Sketch of your
mind until it disintegrated.
So, in answer to the question that
I know is preying on your resolutely
sober mind, no, I didn't drop acid
before I recreated Albert Hofmann's
famous bike ride. LSD and paternity
don't mix (what if you had a head full
ofit and began to see your children as
malevolent demons?), and apart from
a briefreimmersion in the psychedelic
maelstrom in between marriages
- hence the aforementioned
miniature kite flying incident, which
took place around 1996 - I haven't
messed with my head in that way since
Thatcher was off her own in Downing
Street. Besides, I didn't need to: like
Obelix in the Asterix comic series, the
nothing away
- but what about this bush .. ?
Why ifI squinted at its leaves closely
enough I could make out tiny cellular
worlds in them. And what about this
electricity junction box with its
cryptic graffito - surely it was telling
me something? And as for the
airy-fairy sky, mounting up above me,
surely ifI got back on my rental bike
and pedalled hard enough I'd soon be
up there eating fondue with the Swiss
mountain gods and Heidi's uncle ... ?
So I got on the bike, and pedalled
for all I was worth, and shot back
down the hill then along the
boulevard to the Hauptbahnhof, and
down the curved ramp into the bicycle
garage, which was so insanely clean
and orderly that I could barely stop
laughing long enough to return the
bike. As for the spire full of screaming
mouths - it was nowhere to be seen.
I suppose the moral of this story is:
kids, don' t do this at home - do it first
of a ll in the past. .. and then in Basel. F
1J 3
SO Things
Montgoniery Clift's
haircut ... and 49
other things no
stylish tnan should
be without this

spring
Including but not limited to: a scooter, a suit,
a supermodel, a sports car, a snack, a soft shoe, a soccer
player, and plenty of other things not beginning with
"s". Like, for example, a really fricking life-changing
pair of pliers. And a warm-weather cocktail that'll make
you look at the world in a whole new way (number 37)
104
0
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The Vespa 946
Re-make, re-model
Piaggio claims its pretty new Vespa " looks
beyond the perspectives of tomorrow", and
while it will help you nip in-and-out of the
gridlocked road ahead, it's the styling cues
from the brand's rich heritage that you' re really
buying into - it even takes its name from the
1946 prototype. Boasting a seven per cent
increase in power over the previous model, the
swooping curves of the monocoque frame are
pleasingly modern but not so as to turn off mods.
You could definitely see Wiggo on one. And it
wouldn't hurt to slap on a racoon tail and a
few extra mirrors.
USP: Traction control - a first on a Vespa -
makes it much easier to throw over Beachy Head.
From 7,200 I vespa946.com
SO Things
106
Benjamin Black's Quirke
Prime-time crime on the BBC
Gabriel Byrne stars in this adaptation of the
literary crime novels by Benjamin Black (pen
name of Booker-winning author John Banville),
co-written by TV big noise Andrew Davies.
Set in Fifties Dublin, Quirke (it's just Quirke) is
a charismatic loner and chief pathologist in
the city's morgue. Each of the three
90-minute episodes sees him investigating
the death of someone unfortunate enough to
end up on his slab. The BBC promises "a rich
and smouldering world brimming with
sexual tension".
USP: "The series is beautifully acted and shot,
and conjures up Dublin in the Fifties
with extraordinary accuracy and a pungent
sense of that dark place and time,"
John Banville tells Esquire.
Quirke starts on BBC One this spring
=
COLC:\l
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Trail '- \ LI
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there, making itSonos's most i:iowerful si:ieakeryet.
0
CD
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....
0
A copy of Purienne
by Henrik Purienne
11
You know, the usual ... ''
South African photographer Henrik Purienne,
who has shot ad campaigns for Costume
National and American Apparel, knows his way
around a Seventies-style sunkissed goddess
- as you'll see from his eye-catching new book.
ESQUIRE: You started out taking pictures of
your friends and girlfriends - is that just what
girl s look like where you come from?
HENRIK PURIENNE: Sure, I've been trying to
get less attractive friends, but it's tough in
South Africa.
ESQ: Are there any British women you'd like
to photograph?
HP: lfl could travel back in time, I would love
to shoot Charlotte Ram piing, Pattie Boyd,
Sue Murray, Ingrid Boulting, Vicki Hodge and,
of course, Marianne Faithful!.
ESQ: What is your definition of sexiness?
HP: A nonchalant attitude, a genetic disposition,
tanned skin, secretly being really poor or really
rich, a hot ass, guilty feet. You know, the usual.
ESQ: What is your favourite part of a woman's
body to photograph?
HP: Mmm ... It's between her soul and her aura
Or wait, it's her ass. Again. (Secretly, it's her face.)
ESQ: How do you make your subjects feel
relaxed when you take their picture?
HP: I just call them aside and talk to them softly
while stroking their hair.
ESQ: How old are you?
HP: Young enough not to care.
USP: See visual evidence, right.
Out on 30 April, 30 (Preste/}
...........
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. . . . . . . . . . .
...........
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. . . . . . . . . . .
The T3 Player
Brains +Braun
Ever get the urge for a little more Dieter Rams in your life?
Given the veteran Braun designer's influence on Apple it
was only a matter of time before someone joined the t wo
perfectly drawn dots. Now you can replace your iPhone
interface with this music player app, a digital recreati on of
Rams' iconi c Si xties Braun T3 pocket radio. Says designer
Eder Rengifo: "We imagined a tool where you could listen
to your music in a simple and elegant environment."
USP: Original T3s are extremely hard to find. (And cost
considerably more than 69p.)
0.69 I itunes.apple.com
108
USP: Rafa Nadal swears by his.
TheNEX-3N
Swivel on this
SO Things
If you're tempted to blow a bit ofcash in duty-free this
summer, you could do worse than Sony's new entry-level
compact, aimed at a nyone wa nting to make the jump from
pocketable compact t o a camera with a n interchangeable
le ns s yste m. Smalle r and lighter than its F3 predecessor
and with a 16-megapixel image processor, the NEX-3N's
rea r LCD screen tilts right round for self-portraits a nd
swivels out 90 for ove rhead s hooting.
USP: Sony's new 16-50mm le ns is included as standard.
400 I s ony.com
@
Trying on the Gatsby look
White suits get a green light
After a number of seasons of Mad Men-inspired,
mid-century style - slick hair, tight suits,
skinny ties and all - this summer menswear
heads 40 years further back into the past for a
rendezvous with its inner Jay Gatsby (probably
on a Long Island lawn, at dusk, with a mint julep
in hand). As Baz Luhrmann readies his new
big-screen adaptation ofF Scott Fitzgerald's
jazz-age classic, putting Leonardo DiCaprio and
Tobey Maguire in Roaring Twenties duds
(Brooks Brothers is the "official men's clothier"
of the fi lm), prepare yourself for a seasonal
outbreak of pale, three-piece suits, turn-ups
on t rousers, monograms on shirts and hair
floppi ng in the breeze.
USP: Hackett's spring/summer collection
(right) shows how smart and appealing the
Gatsby look can be.
hackett.com
109
r _lA
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....
I
....
....
SO Things
/
t ~ \
~ ~ . ~ ;
' .
The concept
The Mrs Carter Show
An evening of domestic bliss - just you, Beyonce, her
entourage, 120 back-up dancers a nd 20,000 yelping fans.
Sold out in ...
12minutes.
Costume changes
The python, iguana and cow hide number from the Super Bowl?
The Marie Antoinette outfit from the tour promo? Both?
Trademark dance moves
The ring-finger waggle; the ostrich strut; the Exorcist
spinning-head-but-without-the-pea-soup hair twirl.
Special guests
She's known to be an admirer of A$AP Rocky and Kendrick
Lamar, and perhaps more surprisingly ofleft-field indie,
including Grimes and Lykke Li. Which would be nice.
Look out for ...
Andy Murray: Bey calls him "the true definition of inspiration",
proving that she uses a different brand of dictionary to us.
The dates
26 April to 9 May.
111
The concept
The Diamonds Tour
Rihanna's glitzy return to stadiums after 2012's more
intimate 777Tour. (You may have read something about that.)
Sold out in ...
1ominutes.
Costume changes
Let's just say that she starts off at racy and strips
down to less.
Trademark dance moves
The "cake cutter"; the crab-wit h-a-full-bladder shimmy;
the crotch-grab 180 gyrate.
Special guests
David Guetta's a given; A$AP Rocky is confirmed for the
US tour, while Eminem and family favourite Chris Brown
were on the album. Might he be tempted to "swing" by?
Look out for ...
Rihanna on the London Underground: last time she played
at the 02, she used the Jubilee Line to get there.
The dates
10 to 20 June.
~
...
I
CW)
...
....
(JI
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......
A copy of Money:
The Unauthorised
Biography
by Felix Martin
A history of (loose) change
The origins of money were simple, right?
It grew out of basic bartering: "I give you this
golden nugget, you give me that mammoth," etc.
Not so, a rgues leading economist Felix Martin,
in his examination oft he origins of cold, hard
cash. Told through stories of Roman
debaucher y, Soviets, and a vampire squid,
Martin challenges perceptions a nd ponders
the very future of capitalism.
USP: It's a wealth of understand ing for
understandi ng wealth.
Out on 6June, 20 (The Bodley Head)
SO Things
112
A pair of cargo pants
Jiggawhat?
Following years of bad PR from girl
groups, I'm A Celebrity contestants
and Ray Mears, cargo pants, those
mid-Nineties wardrobe wonders, are
back in favour. (Even Jay-Z says so.)
Worn slim and in soft shades, the new
breed of flat-fell seamed utility trousers
looks best with a deconstructed blazer
or a close-fitting linen jumper. Fill your
patch pockets at your peril, though:
them's just for show.
USP: Ralph Lauren does them best.
1751 ralphlauren.com
SO Things
....
co
114
This dog Is not one
of the 50 things
But if you do want to
give a (very l arge)
home t o a Great
Dane, contact the
Kennel Club:
thekennelclub.org.uk
0
~
.
..
SO Things
A ride in the new Mercedes G-Wagen
Four wheels good, six wheels better
Mercedes-Benz have revealed a true monster truck as the flagship
of their prestigious AMG G-Class range: the new 6x6 all-wheel drive
G63 SUV. It packs a twin-turbocharged 5.5-litre VS delivering
536bhp to its 37in wheels, with a 0-62mph time of just
over six seconds. It's expensive, too bigfor town, and
hopelessly non-green - God, we want one.
USP: Because 4x4s are just too common.
350, 000 I mercedes-benz.co.uk
115
Bleary, egg-shaped eyes ...
... from staying up late to watch
the British and Irish Lions
This year's big sporting event that only happens
every four years is the British and Irish Lions' tour
of the Southern Hemisphere, the first in Australia
since 2001 - and the Aussies are pumped.
Tickets for the three tests sold out in 15 minutes,
and Wallabies players are likely to be pulled out
of club games in preparation. England captain
Chris Robshaw is favourite to helm the Lions, and
with the tourists after their first series win since
1997, it should to be a thrilling excursion.
USP: The chance to see the Lions beat the
Aussies is well worth losing sleep over.
1 June to 6 July, Sky Sports
N
(JI
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A cup of filter coffee
There's a buzz about it
Forget steamed milk and double-
venti-caramel-mochas - the coffee
you should be drinking is, quite
simply, filtered. Drink it in response
to the ubiquity of high-street chain
coffee houses, with their increasingly
ridiculous prices (men, we are
entering t he era of the 3 latte). "With
filtered coffee you get an unrivalled
clarity of flavour," says John Kyle of
t he Coffeesmiths Collective. "Go for
beans from a single farm, as opposed
to a blend." Esquire recommends
Indonesian Blue Batak from
Monmouth Coffee: it's delicate, with
almost whisky-like notes.
USP: No need for expensive
machinery. To prepare, just grind the
beans and filter t hrough a Hario drip
cone (bonus points for heating the
water to exactly 92C and for pre-
heating your decanter).
2.35 I monmouthcotfee.co.uk
The Last of Us
Playundead
Proof that Sony's outgoing PS3 isn't ready for the grave just
yet - or has risen from it, maybe? - this atmospheric
first-person shooter is gloriously cinematic in scope, with
more in common with I Am Legend and The Road than
other playable peers. Set in a post-apocalyptic near-future
where a parasitic fungus has ravaged humankind, you
control Joel, a grizzled survivor tasked with protecting his
14-year-old companion Ellie from the undead. The action is
frantic and violent - zombies are dispatched with a brick
to the head, a shiv to the throat or a point-blank shotgun to
the face. The characterisation is strong, and the storytelling
develops like a season of The Walking Dead.
USP: It has what all zombie games want brains.
Out on 14June, 40
SO Things
118
An appointment with
Michael Landy
Yes, it's rubbish!
Famously, he binned his possessions
in t he name of art. New show Saints
Alive sees the YBA revisiting his love
of refuse at The National Gallery.
USP: Turns trash into cash!
From 23 May I nationalgallery.org.uk
SO Things
The Wake
Both graphic and novel
Take award-winning writer Scott Snyder (Swamp
Thing) and acclaimed artist Sean Murphy (Punk
Rock Jesus), combine their talents and what do you
get? The Wake, a sprawling sci-fi epic that has comic
fans (this is 2013, you're allowed to like comics) hot
under the collar. And it begins with a terrifying
discovery at the bottom of the ocean ...
USP: It's the comic-book event of the year - and
there's not a superhero in sight. Phew.
Out in May, 2.20 (Vertigo)
119
Vampliers
Twilight in your
toolbox
The curved jaw tips with
vertical and horizontal
serrations allow these
multipurpose pliers to
bite into almost any
surface, without slipping
or stripping the screw.
USP: The name, obviously.
23 I vampiretoo/s.com
A cut-out-and-keep spring style cheat sheet
And as if by magic ...
One thing everyone can agree on is a navy blazer. The most under-utilised
style in a man's wardrobe is often the button-down short-sleeved shirt. But
worn right, this can look as smart as a long sleeve (certainly smarter than
a polo shirt). Don't pack light, pack smart. Waterproofand water resistant
are not the same thing. White jeans are good; white suede derbies are better.
Everything improves with age. Except white T-shirts: these look better new.
Get a lighter suit. Make the switch to fabrics like linen and cotton. And
ditch those heavy soled shoes from winter, too. Try a simple lace-up or a
loafer. Hats: they should be stylish as well as functional. The best panamas
a nd straw fedoras are woven in a way that they can block light, retain shape
and allow airflow. A classic linen jacket can last you a lifetime if you treat it
right. Slightly wrinkled looks relaxed. Just-rolled-out-of-bed looks sloppy.
I fin doubt: Keep it clean, keep it light, keep it understated.
The shoulders
Built up from several layers of
die-cut felt and canvas, the
shoulders get the balance right
between formality and comfort.
~
The Ludlow suit
The cult of J Crew
comes to London
Besides bigger portions and tax-free
shopping, in recent years the other
major perk of a trip to the US has been
the chance to visit J Crew. Known for
its super-smart cashmere and
well-priced tailoring, the high-street
brand has found high-profile fans and
high-fashion approval. Now, at last,
there's a huge store planned for
London's Regent Street later in t he
year, though it's actually been
possible to order on line for a while
now. The perennial star of their
collection is the Ludlow suit: the
perfect casual (and affordable)
summer suit option.
USP: As worn by Jake Gyllenhaal
and J ohnny Depp.
jcrew.com
A worryingly big TV
Watch this space
Thirty-two. That's how many TVs Panasonic will
release in 2013: one every 10 days. From their
flagship LED Viera WT65 series are new 47 and
55in models with Swipe & Share 2 .0: the ability to
take photos and videos from your phone/tablet
with the swipe of a fi nger.
TBC; out in June
SO Things
121
The hand-finished collar
With most mid-range tailoring, you'll
find that thecollar(thesection of fabric
that surrounds the back of the neck and
connects to the front lapel) is machine-
attached and finished. Every Ludlow
suit has its collar sewn in by hand.
You can tell the difference.
The lapels
T he Ludlow is cut with a 2.5in
lapel, a good o.5in slimmerthan
most suits. It's also pad-stitched to
create a natural roll - meaning it
stays ti ghtly pressed to the chest.
The fabric
The beautifully soft blue chambray of this
suit is sourced from the Collect Mill in
Kojima, Japan. It's designed to soften and
mould to your body as you wear it.
A long cool paloma
A d i o s ~ margarita
This is what the discerning man orders
when those around him are knocking
back margaritas. "A good paloma is
light, refreshing and simple," says Nick
Ouattroville of Soho's trendy Mexican,
La Bodega Negra. "It shouldn't be too
salty, sweet or sour. You'll get pepper
and vanilla notes, butthe salt and lime
balance out the fl avours."
USP: And it's this easy: pour 50ml
tequila (Ouattroville recommends
Heradura Blanco} and 25ml freshly
squeezed lime juice into a highball
glass filled with ice. Top up with
grapefruit soda (try Ting}. Salt the rim
and garnish with a wheel of lime.
Something to decorate
your coffee table
Like, oh, we don't know,
maybe this?
Containing everything you need to
know for a stylish spring-summer,
from the best vintage cars to where to
buy a good cigar, Esquire's handsome,
even better dressed and somewhat
wealthier relation, The Big Black
Book, is an unputdownable resource
for the successful modern man. It has
sartorial advice from everyone from
Ralph Lauren to Sir Ian McKellen, as
well as nice shiny paper and lots of
fancy type. All that for only 6!
USP: The only other men's mag
endorsed by Esquire.
The pulled-pork crepe
at Shutterbug
Hey, it's a macho
pancake!
We never thought the day would come
but Esquire has overdosed on food
truck burgers and hipster hot dogs.
We can't even look at a street pizza
without feeling queasy. Our new
fashionable fast-food fix? The savoury
pancakes at Cathy Radojcin's
Shoreditch creperie-cum-cocktail bar,
Shutterbug. Our pick of the menu:
pulled pork with mature cheddar and
pickles on a buckwheat crepe (7 in;
6 take away), best enjoyed with a
Rivington Harlot cocktail: tequila,
fresh lime and chipotle topped with
Brooklyn Lager.
USP: Coffee comes from Sasha
Rainey, of Fixcafes, favourites with
east London bean aficionados.
Shutterbug, 1 Rivington Place, London
shutterbug-london.com
SO Things
Neil Young The Who
aged67 Roger Daltrey, aged 69; Pete Townshend, aged 67
Battle of the bus passes!
Two veteran music legends rock the UK this year.
But who makes the bigger noise?
Rumours of his demise have
been greatly exaggerated ...
Last year, NBC reported the loss of"astronaut Neil
Young, first man to walk on the moon".
Special guests
Touring his first album with Crazy Horse in a
decade, Young is reunited with the band's classic
pre-2001 line-up - featuring Billy Talbot, Ralph
Molina and Frank "Poncho" Sampedro.
Avoid
Using your mobile phone. Young recently
mocked gig-goers who had the impudence to
text during his show, perhaps saying how much
they were enjoying it - plus he hates MP3s.
Celebrity fans
Noel Gallagher, Bono, Mumford & Sons.
The set list
Hits like "Rockin' in the Free World" and "Old Man"
have been absent from recent gigs, although he
has begrudgingly played "Heart of Gold".
Going through the motions?
Released two albums last year: just warming up.
The dates
10to17June;18 and 19 August.
124
Rumours of their demise have
been greatly exaggerated ...
A recent story about a "Pete Townshend is dead"
hoax turned out to itself be a hoax.
Special guests
The late-Nineties Quadrophenia tour featured
Phil Daniels, um, Gary Glitter - and Annie
Lennox playing the sea. The new show promises
to be a more back to basics affair.
Avoid
Using your iPhone. Townshend branded Apple a
"digital vampire" that "bleeds the music business"
like a digital Northern Rock. He added, "People
may as well steal my son's bike while they're at it."
Celebrity fans
Liam Gallagher, Paul Weller, Sir Bradley Wiggins.
The set list
Quadrophenia in full, plus an encore of hits
including "Baba O'Riley", "Won't Get Fooled
Again" and "Pinball Wizard".
Going through the motions?
Yes, ifthe motions include arthritic windmills.
The dates
10 to 30 June.
50 Things
A catch-up with Jennifer Lawrence
Girl's on fire
From the moment she stomped onto cinema screens as the steely,
self-possessed hillbilly girl in the gritty 2010 indie movie Winter's Bone,
it was clear J ennifer Lawrence was a talent to be reckoned with. But
few would have predicted that within two years she would become the
hottest actress in Hollywood, star of two enormo-franchises - X-Men
and The Hunger Games - and, at 22, already a Best Actres s
Oscar-winner for Silver Linings P/aybook, in which she outshone not
only Bradley Cooper but also Robert De Niro. So the girl can act. It
hasn't escaped our notice that she's also curvier than a California
canyon road, and apparently as down to earth as a dirt track.
USP: She's funny. "This is nuts," she said, having tripped on the stairs
on the way to receive her Best Actres s Oscar. There followed a
gracious, amusing s peech, with no blubbing whatsoever, followed
by a post-win interview in which she smartly deflected the wolfis h
attentions of one J Nicholson, Esq. Suddenly, all othe r actre sses
seemed as faded and bedraggled as last year's red carpet gown.
125
Ownership of a Pebble
Wristy business
One of t he very few things to
recommend i99o's Dick Tracy
movie was getting to see Warren
Beatty bark commands into a
t imepiece that doubled as a phone.
With Apple and Samsung both
rumoured to be producing smart
wristwatches, it's no secret t hat
the next big gadget fad is likely to
be something you wear. And
newcomer Pebble- a Kickstarter
phenomenon - has beaten the big
guns to the punch. With an endlessly
customisable e-paper display, this
watch interacts wit h your phone,
so you can answer calls, check texts,
emails a nd tweets or control your
music without reaching into your
pocket. And with apps, it can be
used as a GPS for sports li ke golf
and cycling, even swimming. It's
a lso waterproof.
USP: It a lso tells t he t ime.
$i50 lgetpebble.com
Turned-up trousers (but not too
turned up - dear God, no!)
Please allow Catherine Hayward,
Esquire fashion director, to explain:
"Tom Ford is championing t he silhouette of shorter, narrow
turn-ups on trousers for autumn/winter this year.
Hermes has done it too, for spring/summer 2013," says Hayward.
"Team with soft leather loafers and just a hint of bare skin. Or a
classic sneaker: very on-trend." Glad we got that settled, aren't you?
SO Things
126
Cannondale's Trail SL 29er 3 SS
single-speed mountain bike
Head for the hills
Spring is here and the countryside is just begging to
be ridden all over - with this. While the price-point
i s entry level, the specs aren't: a super-lightweight
aluminium frameset, disc brakes, oversized head
t ube for greater control and performance to rival
high-end hardtails, in a package that would have set
you back the best part of 2k just a few seasons ago.
A single-speed bike, it's stripped of complicated
components like the derailleur, shifters and
sprockets, making it a lighter, purer ride t hat's easier
for maintenance - great for when you're cleaning
off mud (and you're going to have to get used to that).
USP: It's a hell of a lot cheaper (and more fun) than
a Land Rover.
600 I cannondale.com
SO Things
Tickets for an Apocalypse party movie
You wait years, then two come along at once
There's nothing like impending end t imes to crank up the jeopardy
in a plotline, but at least cinema's seeing the funny side. Come
summer, Simon Pegg a nd Nick Frost and director Edgar Wright will
fi nish t heir so-called "Cornetto Trilogy" (so far: Shaun of t he Dead,
Hot Fuzz) wit h The World's End, about five friends who go on a
provincial English pub-crawl, with apocalyptic results. Meanwhile,
Over There, Seth Rogen directs himself and a bunch of American
An appreciation
for the silky skills
ofNeymar
The face and feet
(and hair!) of Rio
1
14
At 21, the Santos FC and Brazil
striker is among the most
exciting attacking footballers
on the planet, as well as his
country's biggest pin-up after
Gisele, plastered on billboards
across Brazil for Nike, VW,
Red Bull and more. Often
compared to Leo Messi,
Neymar cuts a more
outlandish figure, his frequent
changes of hairstyle more
reminiscent of David Beckham
in his pomp. Speculation
abroad concerns which
European superpower will
successfully lure him across
the Atlantic, but at home all
eyes remain set firmly on the
summer of 2014, when he will
carry the host nation's hopes.
USP: It has escaped no one's
notice that last time Brazil won
a World Cup on home soil the
team's talisman was a Santos
FC striker. His name? Pele.
comedy actors in This is the End. The twist here is that they
play themselves, faci ng down Armageddon at a bash at J a mes
Franco's house (yes, it really is the end of the world). How do t hey
fare? As Rogen tells us: "I think t he fact that we're all in the
Apocalypse and none of us get sucked up in t he Rapture suggests
we're a ll pretty terri ble people."
USP: It's a battle of t he supporting casts. In the Brit corner: Ma rt in
Freeman, Paddy Considine, Eddie Marsan. For t he Yanks: Danny
McBride, Paul Rudd, Jonah Hill. Ding ding! Your round.
This is the End is out on 28 June; The World's End is out on 14 August E
127
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ADRIANA
LIMA
Statistics never seemed so vital
I
PHOTOGRAPHS BY MATT JONES
This, gentlemen, is Adriana Lima - model, actress and
force of nature. For those of you inexplicably still reading
this text, here's what you need to know:
Born in Salvador, Brazil, she stands 5ft 1oins and her
measurements are 34-24-35.
She's an angel -well, clearly. But she's also a Victoria's
Secret Angel, that elite club of the world's most
mind-meltingly beautiful women.
Her pre-show routine is unashamedly rigorous;
for nine days before she hits the runway, Lima consumes
only protein shakes and water.
A devout Roman Catholic, Lima remained a virgin
until her 2008 marriage to Serbian NBA player
Marko "Luckiest Man in the Universe" Jaric.
One of the 50 mostgoogled women in the world, Lima also
has 2.5m fans on Facebook, with around 100,000 people
"talking about her" on the social network at any given time.
She's a charitable soul, too. Lima works to improve
conditions at the Caminhos da Luz (Ways of Light)
orphanage in Salvador, and buys clothes for poor
children in the area.
Her acting work includes appearances in Ugly Betty,
How I Met Your Mother, and a 2001 short film
commissioned by BMW co-starring Clive Owen and
Micky Rourke.
The influential site models.com ranks her as their
No 1 Sexiest Model in the World. Who are we to disagree?
MaxOlesker
PIN-UP
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I
MAY 2013
PIN-UP
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MAY 2013
PIN-UP
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I
MAY 2013
THE SECOND
COMING OF
w
:E
0:::
u
reminded John Pridmore of a zip.
Murphy: Irish geezer. Lanky and greasy
hair. All mouth. Desperate to be a face,
but he was just a little car thief, little street
dealer. Allfuckingrabbit. Pridmore was
one of the most dangerous criminals in
London. He'd just bought some cigarettes
from the machine in the Oliver Twist pub
in Leyton when he accidentally brushed
past Murphy, the zip man, the rabbit man,
thefuckingnothingman. Up at the bar,
Pridmore popped the lid of the packet and
chatted with the landlord about what was
happening on the news. It was 1991, the
end of the first Gulf War. Murphy came
up behind him.
"When you bump into people," said
Murphy, "you're supposed to say sorry."
Pridmore turned.
Fucking rabbit man.
"What did you say?"
Fucking zip.
"What are you?" said Murphy. "Deaf
as well as ignorant?"
Pridmore grabbed Murphy's throat,
threw him on the floor and slammed his
fist into his head again and again and
again. There was Murphy struggling on
the ground. And there was blood, heavy in
Pridmore's shirt. Murphy had stabbed him.
Then, down his back, a kind of tingling.
Pridmore looked up. Murphy's mate had
a Stanley knife. He'd slashed him.
The landlord's wife strapped
Pridmore's wounds as the two men fl ed.
She ordered him to hospital. "No way,"
Pridmore told her. He called his associate,
Phil. "Come straight away, and bring a
gun." Phil arrived with a .38. They drove
to Murphy's flat, kicked in the door, and
discovered his wife and three children
watching TV. Pridmore aimed his weapon
at the woman's face. She begged, "I haven't
seen him." They waited outside the flat
for three hours. No Murphy. They
looked for him the next day, in The
Beaumont Arms pub where he sometimes
worked. No Murphy. They asked around
the local drug dealers. No Murphy.
Then, a year later, a tip-off. Murphy
sometimes picked his son up from school.
Pridmore waited outside for days. Still, no
fucking zip man. And then, finally, there he
was, with his six-year-old boy. "Murphy!"
cried John. "Remember me?" John
levelled the Irishman with one punch,
knelt on his throat and began smashing
at his face with his fi sts. As parents and
children screamed around him, he picked
Murphy's head up by the ears and began
slamming the back of his skull into the
pavement, slam, slam, slam, slam.
"You're murdering him!" someone said.
Pridmore dropped him. "The next time
I see you, I'm going to kill you." At work that
night, Phil congratulated Pridmore on
finally dealing with his problem. "How did
it feel?" he asked. "Great!" said Pridmore.
Days later, Pridmore was celebrating
a profitable drug deal in The Beaumont
Arms in Leyton when Murphy's father
approached. He was in his sixties, and
upset. "You've traumatised my grandson,
watching his dad get beaten up in front of
him like that." Pridmore picked up a pint
glass and punched it into the old man's
face. Murphy's brother lurched in to
defend his father. Pridmore slashed him
with a stiletto knife and glassed him. He
glowered at the silenced drinkers. "Come
on then!" A fat man moved towards him,
"I don't care who you are, you shouldn't be
glassing a 60-year-old." Realising he was
outnumbered, Pridmore left the pub,
changed out of his suit, and phoned two
associates. They returned with golf clubs.
Pridmore beat the fat man senseless,
leaving him sprawled on a pool table,
before smashing all and everything and
threatening to kill the landlord ifthe
police were called.
A few weeks later, outside a nightclub
in the West End of London, Pridmore
smacked a drinker with a knuckle duster
and watched his head explode with
blood on the pavement. "You killed
the bloke, John," tutted his mentor,
Buller, as he drove him home. "You've
got to calm down." Pridmore sat a lone in
his flat, in the Beaumont Estate, Leyton,
smoking a spliff and drinking a can of
Special Brew. There were swords on the
wall , pizza boxes and pornography on the
floor. The room was painted black. Buller
was right, he had been a bit touchy lately.
He needed to calm down: ifthat man
was dead, he might get 10 years for
manslaughter. What was required, he
decided, was a week off.
As he thought this, in Capworth Street
a few miles away, his mother was saying a
nine-day prayer (a novena) to St Jude, the
patron saint oflost causes. She begged for
her son to be taken. It broke her heart to say
it but he was evil. He was better off dead.
Pridmore heard a voice. It was telling
him all the bad things he had ever done.
The violence, the women, the drugs and
the betrayals. "This is your life," it said.
"This is what you've done." He thought it
was the TV. But how did it know?
"Hang on," thought Pridmore.
"There's something wrong, here." He
turned off the television. The voice
remained. And he knew it, then, what
the voice was and what it was telling him.
Pridmore was going to hell.
"Help me," he cried to the sky on the
street outside his flat. He felt bathed
in a feeling of beatific wonder; ofliquid,
golden awe.
It was the early hours when he arrived
on his mother's doorstep. "Mum," he said.
"Something's happened. I've found God."
She looked at him, astonis hed.
"Found God?" she said. "At one o'clock in
the morning?"
J
ohn Pridmore looks exactly
as you'd expect: 6ft 4in,
shaved head, black T-shirt,
goatee beard, a heavy
jewellery watch loose
around his wrist. Huge. He sits square in
front of me, his left fi st planted knuckles-
down on the arm of the chair. I meet
him at his mother's flat, in Leyton, east
London. We talk for hours, as the evening
rises through the light around us and
the woman who prayed for his death
listens in, occasionally interrupting with
some remark or other. His story whirls
and swoops about many subjects:
fury and hope; evil and redemption; love
and its absence; belief and its causes and
functions. But, as I listen, there's one word
that I keep writing down in the notebook
in front of me. Control.
Life's simple assurances were swept
away, one evening, when Pridmore was
10. He'd just come home from Sea Scouts
and was still in his uniform when he was
told to go upstairs. Pridmore had been
AS A DRUGS GANG ENFORCER
JOHN CARRIED A MACHETE, A
STILETTO, CS GAS, A KNUCKLE
DUSTER AND AMMONIA SPRAY
a happy boy. His memories are of holidays
in Hastings, long drinks of Hor licks and
t rips with his policeman dad to watch
John Wayne films at the Granada Cinema
in Walthamstow. On the night everything
changed, his parents came up to see him.
They sat on different sides of the bed.
"You're going to have to choose who you
want to live with," said his dad. John didn't
understand. He thought they were playing.
"Why?" he said. "Is it a game?" His mum
spoke next. "We're getting divorced." John
was baffled. "But I live with you both," he
said. "You're my mum and dad."
His father moved in with another
woman. His mother moved into a
psychiatric hospital. He used to visit her
there - an hour on t he bus after school to
get to t hat disinfectant-stinking building,
where men with frightening stares
wandered the corridors and women
screamed in distant rooms. It scared him
so much that he wanted to vomit. He
missed his mum. But when he saw her, she
usually didn't know who he was. Once,
she told him she was Joan of Arc. Another,
that he was "t he Devil's son". Pridmore
broke out in a nervous rash that covered
his body. The doctor thought t he visits
weren't helping. He was ordered to see
her no longer.
Back at home, life was hard. His dad
wasn't t he same, since he'd met his new
woman. It was like a t inderbox. You never
knew what you were goi ng to walk into.
Prid more began over-eating. He started
taking coins out of his fat her's ashtray and
using them to play t he machines. His dad
and stepmum told him they were going to
put him into care. He tried to run away.
He stole from school and from Debenhams.
You'd never know it to look at him, but he
was angry, seething.
With his mates Chris and Kenny, he
broke into a pet shop to nick some white
mice. When the police arrived, they
searched his home. Pridmore went t o
court and admitted to 60 counts of theft.
He served t hree months at the Kidlington
Detention Centre in Oxfordshire, where
he learned to fight.
His mum, now recovered, fell in love
with a man named Alan. On his release,
Pridmore took a job at an electrical shop.
He began stealing from the t ill, and from
elsewhere, and at 19 was sentenced to three
months in Hollesley Bay Young Offenders
Institut ion near Ipswich. Out of his cell
window, Pridmore had a d istant view of
the sea. He watched the water and he
thought about killing himself. He wrote to
his mum, saying sorry for letting her down.
"I did think he'd let me down,"
nods his mother, as Pridmore tells
me about the letter.
"Well , you didn't come visit, did you?"
says Pridmore, not directly looking at her.
"I was very annoyed about that."
"I would've gone because it's not so
far, really, by train. But I think it was Alan
that put me off."
"Why did he put you off?" I ask.
"Well," she says, "Alan never really
wanted to do things for the whole day,
did he? He used to say, ' Oh, it's such
along way'."
I ask Pridmore if it hurts, listening
to all this. "No," he says. His mot her,
however, is beginning to look teary.
"It hurts me because I feel bad for John,"
she says. "I feel I've let him down, really."
he first time Pridmore met
Buller it was at his second-
hand office furniture shop
in Boundary Road,
Walthamstow. Pridmore got
to know and admi re Buller. He enjoyed his
stories of East End villainy, and began
drinking and gambling with him. He
started working for him regula rly and was
introduced to his son, who ran a business
providing security for nightclubs and
concerts. Pridmore enjoyed bouncing. He
enjoyed fighting. He took pride in t he time
he'd spend around the sort of cha racters
his dad had always used to talk about.
One day, Pridmore was asked to pick
up a Land Rover from Dover and drive it
back to London. He was paid5,ooo. He
didn't know what was in it: drugs or guns
or gold or something. But he did it and t he
jobs quickly became bigger. By the time
he was in his mid-twenties, he was
working as an enforcer with a London
firm that ran a protection racket and
controlled the West End drug trade. He
had a designer leather coat with special
pockets sewn into the lining, one for his
machete, t he other for his CS gas. They
complemented his portable armoury of
a stiletto knife, a knuckle duster and a J if
lemon juice bottle filled wit h ammonia.
Every day was violent. You had
to cont rol people. You had to control your
conscience. He controlled his unquiet
voice by silencing it, by partying. Sex and
cocaine made for lovely, if not wholly
efficient, pain killers. He drove a 7 Series
BMW a nd had a penthouse flat in St John's
Wood that overlooked Lord's Cricket
Ground. He attended champagne and
w
:E
w
:E
0:::
u
00
,.,
.....
11
A YEAR AGO, THIS GUY SPAT
AT MY MUM - SO I CLUMPED
HIM. BEFORE I FOUND JESUS
I WOULD'VE REALLY HURT HIM"
crack parties in Notting Hill. He became
angrier and angrier.
Pridmore used to bounce at Break for
the Border, at the Borderline Club off
Tottenham Court Road. It was frequented
by the famous, and sometimes hosted
secret gigs by hugely popular international
acts such as REM. Pridmore fancied the
guest-list girl. It was a relatively common
thing for people to claim to be on it,
honestly or otherwise, only to find their
names absent. The kind of place it was,
there usually was no trouble. Until one
night, when there was.
"We're coming in anyway," said this
guy. "You can't come in unless you're on
the guest list," said the girl with the
clipboard, to the two chippy customers.
Pridmore looked at the pair of them. They
were no threat at all. One of them noticed
Pr id mo re's attention. "And you're not
going to stop us," he said.
"What they were doing, in my eyes,
was belittling me in front of this girl," says
Pridmore. "She's stunning, so I'm trying to
get off with her. And the last thing .. . " He
shakes his head. "I'm known as someone
who's got a certain amount of authority.
And she's seeing these two muppets aren't
respecting me. They're taking away my
reputation. So I get a bat from behind the
bar and I beat them. And I can honestly
say that I nearly killed them."
Pridmore had everything: money,
women, cars, drugs, three homes,
a personalised number plate. All his
material wealth, though, was peripheral.
Pr id mo re's core enterprise was not
to build up possessions, but reputation.
He was a man who walked on top of the
tales that would be told about him in the
pubs, clubs and estates of his life's stage.
His business was story, the construction
of character, and the narrative that had
to be told of him was one of power and fear
and control. No conflicting tale could
ever be allowed to leak into the streets.
"If you're not looked up to as being the
most hard, the most strong, the most
vicious, if you lose your name, then you're
nothing," he says. "The only thing you've
got is other people's respect. I remember
one time, when I was first starting out,
I was outdrinkingwith Buller and there
was this little guy who was always trying
to get some work or something off him,
and every time he used to see me he'd say,
just jokingly, 'Hello Lanky, how are you?'
One night, I picked him up by the neck
and said, 'If you ever belittle me in front of
anyone again, I'll tear your head off.' And
Buller said to me, 'Now you're beginning
to understand what this is a ll about'.''
As Pridmore's notoriety ascended,
his law enforcing father didn't seem
ashamed. "The more I became a villain,
the more I felt I was winning his approval.''
At a cricket match, one day, someone
irritated Pridmore's father and he told
them, "If you don't turn it in, he'll get his
sawn-off out of his boot." He was sounding
off: he had no idea what his son had in his
car boot. The thing is, there was a sawn-off
shotgun in it. "I hadn't opened the boot,"
Pridmore says. "He must've been
surmising. He knew I'd got to that point.''
Pridmore had grown up listening to
stories about the kind of man that he was
to become. His father would arrive home
from work swollen with gossip about the
latest shenanigans of the East End faces.
"He seemed to have more admiration for
villains than he did for policemen,"
Pridmore says. "The stories that he would
tell us, it was a kind of fantasy world. He'd
talk to me about the people he'd met, like
the Krays, Lenny McClean, Roy Shaw -
he told me it took eight men to arrest him.
I idolised them because of what he'd said.''
"But I suppose it was different in those
days, wasn't it?" says his mother. "Most of
the criminals weren't vicious.''
Pridmore shakes his head in
disappointed astonishment. "You see this
is the sort of thing .. .'' he says, momentarily
lost for words. "This is the perfect example,
my mum thinking they weren't that bad.''
He looks at her. "The Krays and all the rest
of them were armed robbers, you know?"
"But they didn't mug elderly people in
those days, did they?" she says.
"That's utter rubbish," he says. "The
amount of time I've heard this thing,
especially from old people. These are men
who shot a pensioner, a guy who owned
a sweet shop and wouldn't pay protection.
They dragged him out of his shop and
shot him in both kneecaps.''
The myth that the villain makes of
himselfrelies, in part, on his beliefin his
own shatterproofloyalty. He tells himself
he's a good man because he'd never stitch
his mates up. But, when the situation
demanded it, Pridmore would do so, and
solve the dissonance by mentally
reassigning the friends he'd put in danger.
"Your close friends become 'associates'
because, at some point, you have to maybe
hurt them or betray them," he says,
recalling a tense situation in which a
senior villain named Joe was given cause
to ask if one of his friends was a rat.
"I know I can really stick up for this
guy, but I'd lose all respect with Joe. And
Joe would think nothing about hurting
him. And so that's the choice you've got.
So straight away I'm thinking: 'We're not
that close, really. He's just an associate.'
And it's complete rubbish, because he's
a friend. I sold him out and thought
nothing of it. I just said, 'Yeah he's a rat.'
And that guy got badly hurt.''
"Did he?" I ask.
"Yeah. Really badly. And I could've
stopped that by standing up for him. But
I would've lost respect. That's why it's
so sick. There's no loyalty. There's no
morality. There is none.''
Pridmore once met a boy who said he
wanted to become a villain. Pridmore
asked him, "Do you think you'd make a
good one?" "Yes," he replied. "Would you
torture someone's seven-year-old son in
front of them because they couldn't pay
a debt?" "No," he said. "Well, then, you
wouldn't make a good gangster."
In that world, a man judges his
success by the control that he exercises
over his conscience. "The more dead you
become, t he more ruthless, the more
pathological, the higher you climb up the
ladder," Pridmore says. "I remember one
guy who thought the absolute pinnacle
of his career was when he beat this
65-year-old man half to death in front
of his 68-year-old lady, who was begging
him to stop. When he realised he felt no
conscience at all he thought, 'At last , I've
made it.' And I understood totally what he
meant. He had killed that bit in him t hat
was always saying, 'This is wrong.' I don't
think you just switch it off. I think it dies."
he resurrection of
Pridmore's conscience
came suddenly. When he
realised t hat the voice
condemning him was not
coming from the television, he says he felt
"the life draining out of me". Believing it
was a message from God, he ran out of his
flat and said the first prayer of his life: "All
I've done is take. Now I want to give." He
immediately experienced relief, and not
just that. "It was for less than a minute, but
I felt this incredible sense of the love of
God. The greatest buzz I'd ever felt." Even
better than crack? "Not even in the same
ballpark." He recalls that first night, at his
mother's house, filled with supernatural
portent. Hell noises surrounded him:
bangs and crashes and howling. "It was
just very weird." In the morning, John's
stepfather, who apparently also heard
the racket, told him, "The Devil was very
angry about you last night."
For Christians, this glorious yet
everyday conversion holds no mystery.
But for the rest ofus, it is the most curious
thing: the metamorphosis of a persona lity
in a moment. It has some of t he ha llmarks
of a psychotic breakdown: a stressful
period, extremes of emotion, apparent
ha llucinations, delusional ideas about the
world and the place of the individual
wit hin it. But, unlike madness, it does not
appear to be disordered.
In fact, there is a worldwide institution
that has existed for centuries that seems
to understand the structure of Pridmore's
experience precisely, and to know that it's
one that had been shared by millions of
converts like him. Hierarchies of men and
women, numbered in the hundreds of
thousands, have devoted their lives to the
stories that feed into these conversions.
Religion layers parables and rules on top
of these frightening emotions, so to contain
them. To control them.
From t hat night onwards, violence
could no longer help Pridmore control
reality. The fight of his life was not for his
own sake, now, but for God's. His daily
business wasn't battling t hose who
t hreatened his reputation and owed him
money, it was with Satan. Only complete
supplication to the codes of the church
could help him. The voice that he'd
struggled to silence through drugs and
women, for all those years, had roared
back. He had solved the problem of
controlling it by letting it win.
It's tempting, but perhaps dangerous,
to look back on the 27 years of Pridmore's
life prior to his God moment, and see hints
of what was to come. His father was
effectively non-religious, while his mother
was a "sporadically" practising Catholic.
According to his book, From Gangland to
Promised Land, as a child he was "always
fascinated by God" and once asked his aunt
to buy him a Bible. And yet, as a teenager,
at Kid lington Detention Centre, he'd see
t he Catholic priest with some oft he other
boys, "in order to get out of Wednesday
afternoon PE class .. . I remember looking
forward to the sessions, but I think it had
more to do with the tea and biscuits than
with any interest in religion."
If there's evidence here to suggest a
vein of God always running through his
psyche, it's hardly enough to account for
his eventual overwhelming. But perhaps
there was sufficient belief within Pridmore
that the spectacular reorganisation of
his ego - what atheists would consider
a purely neurological event -would
naturally take on Catholic form so that,
in the moments that it was happening,
dread was automatically assumed to be
t he Devil and elation the breath of God.
Pridmore's journey to peace wasn't
immediate. When he discovered that
truly anonymous confessions could be
heard at Westminster Cathedral, in
Central London, he spent two minutes
there, confessing "the worst things I could
think of. As I walked out, I felt really good
inside, like I wanted to dance.'' Weeks
later, he said a fuller confession to a priest
at Aylesford Priory in Kent. It lasted for
"hour after hour," he says in his memoir,
"At the end of it [the priest] placed his
hands on my head and absolved me. But
they weren't his hands. I felt they were the
hands of Jesus. I could feelJesus's blood
running down my face and an incredible
love going through me."
After another confession (he has had
many, at one point taking four in a single
day), Pridmore had what he describes in
his book as, "a miracle with the Eucharist.
The only way I can describe it is, every
good feeling in my life, including that
feeling of standing outside my flat, and
after [the previous] confessions was just
magnified and magnified. It lasted for
maybe two or three minutes, but I knew
it was Jesus. It was like a slice of heaven."
Following his conversion, Pridmore
started volunteer work, driving
pensioners to a drop-in centre. Under the
protection of Buller, he managed a safe
retreat from his firm. Today, he lives in
a commune in Ireland and is a popular
speaker, having flown all over t he world to
offer testimony at Catholic events. For the
first time, he feels loved and at peace with
his sinful past. "And one of the biggest
changes is that I don't feel fear much
now," he adds. "The more you fill yourself
with God, the less fear there is. And t he
more I let God be in control, t he more
peaceful and patient I am. Everything's
going wrong? What difference does it
make? It's not my agenda, it's God's.''
But despite all of this, traces of t he old
John Pridmore remain.
"I still get wound up," he says. "If! see
someone unjustly t reating someone else,
or swearing in front of a woman or that
kind of thing." He looks at his mother.
"There was that incident about a year ago
where that guy spat at you."
"At least the car window was shut,"
she says.
"This guy spat at my mum while I was
pulled up at some lights, so I got out and
clumped him," says Pridmore. "I sent
him and his phone flying down the road."
"And it didn' t feel like you were
spinning out of control?" I ask.
"Not at all. But before I found Jesus,
I would've really hurt him," he says.
"I wouldn't have stopped." fl
John Pridmore's three books, including
From Gangland to Promised Land,
(co-authored with Greg Watts, XT3 Media)
are out now
w
:E
Photographs by
Tomas Falmer
Fashion by
Gareth Scourfield
HIDES
TO
SEEK
:>,by
hirt, 55,
nchinos,
cks,
130, by The Kooples Sport. Black cotton
trousers, 275, by Paul Smith. Black cotton
socks, 12, by Falke. Black patent leather
penny loafers, 425, by Jimmy Choo
+
Hans Wegner Airport chair, 1,795 per set of
four, by The Modern Warehouse
Dior Homme Navy leather blouson,
3,000; navy cotton
jumper, 350; white
cotton shirt, from
310; blue d enim
jeans, 290, all by
Dior Homme
Burberry Brit Black leather bomber
jacket, 895; grey
cotton chambray
shirt, 150; black
May 2013 - Fashion
p.145
denimjeans, 150,
all by Burberry Brit.
Burgundy leather
belt, 80, by Paul
Smith. Grey suede
desert boots, 570,
by Dior Homme
+
Hans Wegner Airport
chair, 1,795 per
set of four, by The
Modern Warehouse
''
I
haven't visited Pakistan much in
my life, but when I was 18, I went
with my family for a wedding,"
Riz Ahmed recalls. "We were
out shopping, and for about
30 quid, I bought a full-length leather trench
coat. I rinsed it, I wore it solidly for three years.
Crazy look, but yeah, I pulled it off. Or at least
I think I did."
Whether it's "Matrix-style" outerwear or
Esquire's edit of the best leather items for
spring, Ahmed has a knack for pulling things
off. The enthusiastic 30-year-old polymath
still lays down tracks under the name Riz MC,
but he's long since swapped "treacherous,
adrenalin-charged" rap battles for acting,
with lead roles in films as diverse as Michael
Winterbottom's Tess of thed'Urbervilles
adaptation Trishna, Chris Morris's black
comedy Four Lions, and Eran Creevy's crack
cocaine caper Shifty. However, he calls The
Reluctant Fundamentalist his "first movie".
It's based on Mohsin Hamid's 2007 novel
of the same name. "I read the book soon after
it came out," Ahmed says. "I fell in love with it.
I actually phoned up the publisher to see who
had the rights. I didn't hear anything for a
while and forgot about it. Then I hear Mira
Nair's got them. She's one of my favourite
directors - this is my double-dream scenario."
Then there's the cast: Kate Hudson, Liev
Schreiber and Kiefer Sutherland, whom
Ahmed describes as "a machine - he's been
doing it since he was a kid."
Like a conversation with its lead, The
Reluctant Fundamentalist - shot in Lahore,
Istanbul, Delhi, New York and Atlanta -
takes you to far-flung and interesting places.
Ahmed plays Changez, a Princeton-educated
product of Pakistan's crumbling old-order
elite. The film follows his metamorphosis
from Wall Street whiz-kid to zealous cleric
with a possible link to the abduction of an
American professor. To accurately portray
a private equities analyst, Ahmed went as
far as taking admission exams for McKinsey
& Company. Quite a stretch for "a rapper
from Wembley", albeit one who studied
PPE at Oxford.
"For me to get to this character is to get
to shit I'm totally not at peace with," he
says. "Maths, economics, reading and
understanding Urdu poetry, which is basically
Persian." He downplays the significance of
his Pakistani heritage to the role. 'Tm British.
It's like an Italian-American playing an Italian.
The language, the culture, the way you carry
yourself, how you relate to people - there's
a whole different social ecology there."
Next up is Criminal Justice, HBO's take
on the BBC series, with that alpha Italian-
American, James Gandolfini. It's just a pilot,
but there's good reason to be confident that it
wil 1 be picked up for a full season: "I don't know
if anyone has the heart to say no to Mr Tony
Soprano," Ahmed grins. Jim Merrett
The Reluctant Fundamentalist is out on 10 May
Berluti Brown lambskin leather
jacket, 3,450; white cotton
trousers, 620, both by
Berluti. Green cotton socks,
12, by Falke. Grey suede
loafers, 425, by Jimmy Choo
+
Hans Wegner Airport chair,
1,795 per set of four, by
The Modern Warehouse
Alexander McQueen Black leather jacket,
651, by McQ
AlexanderMcQueen
at Matches Fashion.
Navy/white cotton
jumper, 195,
by Paul Smith at
Matches Fashion.
Grey cotton T-shirt,
55, by Orlebar
Brown. Blue denim
jeans, 95, by Diesel
P
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Photographs by
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Styling by
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DOUBLE
NOTHING
The double-breasted renaissance continues apace: this
season, contemporary suits are about soft fabrics,
sharp cuts, muted colours - and, yes, lots of buttons.
Theo Hutchcraft, sinqer with platinum-selling synth-pop
duo Hurts, demonstrates how to hit the riqht notes
p .151

I o.id ' hyp.,-modm 'P"lmoot
in north London, Theo Hutchcraft, 26-year-old
Yorkshireman, contemplates the dramatic
glass walls. irs like Patrick Bateman's
house; he muses, American Psycho-chic
himself in a double-breasted Burberry suit.
1 feel l ike some sort of playboy, or
deranged serial killer. Which is good!"
It's a fitting fantasy for the sculpturally
handsome singer/songwri t er !li ke a
gangster Matt Goss from Brosi who fronts
Hurts, Manchester's gloom-pop f ashion
fiends, forever looming on-stage through
a moody matrix of slicing strobes. Stealthily,
Hutchcraft and Adam Anderson 128, synths].
have become two-million-albums-selling
successes. Clubbing mates, they formed Hurts
in 2009 f rom two previously failed troupes
!Bureau, Daggers] enduring miserable" years
of bedsit dole life, defiantly carrying on:
we had nothing else, so we couldn't fail."
Their debut album, 201D's glacial
Happiness, made them enormous throughout
Europe. So much so that Berlin's Weinmeister
Hotel invited them to design their very
own tribute suite, the tantalisingly t itled Hurts
Chamber, f eaturing huge black and white ~
Hurts portraits and leather curtains. They've 7
yet to sleep there. "I couldn't," cackles
Hutchcraft. "It would be like some insane
narcissi sm den of creepiness."
In a world of fol k- rock, banjos and beards,
theirs is an unapologetic style-pop ethos;
a stipulation of their deal with Sony was that
they gave them new suits and combs. In the
dole years beforehand, they'd travel to London
on the 12 Mega bus, overnight, carrying
charity shop suits in pl astic bags, for
a Superman-style transformation.
"We'd put them on in the disabled toi lets
at Victoria Coach Station, with a clean white
shirt," smiles Hutchcraft. "I j ust always
wanted to live in a film. It's pop music isn't it?
It's showbiz!"
Today, their lives are as wide-screen as
their music, second album Exile as grandi ose
as a synth-pop Muse, a sonic reflect ion of
their new position as bans viveurs hanging
out with Elton, drinking t ill Sam with Noel
Gallagher ["Noel taught me a l ot, but it's secret
knowledge"), throwing arch-pop shapes in
high-gl am clubs and carousing in cars full
of women. Last year, as the hedonism peaked,
there were shows they can't remember
playing, "blackouts, literally", and protracted
states of "insanity, like being kicked off a hill
in a snowball".
Hutchcraft is now single-handedly
re-hoisting the flag for the tragically
endangered international playboy [his
girlfriends include Alexa Chung and burlesque
temptress Oita Von Teesel. "It's a heavy flag
to carry," he lies. "We like to have fun . It's too
hard to resist." Sylvia Patterson
Hurts' album Exile (Sony/Major Label) is out now
Etro
Navy kni tted cotton mix
double -br east ed jacke t,
760; whi t e cot ton shirt,
E ~ 3 0 , bot h by Et r o. Navy
cot ton chi nos, 395, by
Br un el l o Cucinelli
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02 I G-Shock stainless
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03 I Green cott on chinos,
129, by Sand
04 I Blue cotton
long-sleeved polo shirt,
155, by CP Company
05 I Navy vintage duff le
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byWoolrich
06 I Grey leather/suede
Fairbrooke high-tops,
90, by Lacoste
01 I Grey canvas/tan leather
envelope bag, 21<0, by
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02 I Yellow waxed cotton
raincoat, 165, by
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03 I Ball Engineer Master II
Aviat or Dual Time watch,
2,300, by Chisholm Hunter
04 I Grey wool roll-neck
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05 1 Blue denim Slimmy jeans,
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06 1 Brown leather/grey felt
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STYLE: HARRINGTON
PAGE 36
Baracuta +44 161 831 7870
Available at oipolloi.com
Ben Sherman
+44 20 7437 2031
bensherman.com
Levi's
+441604 599 735
levi.com
Paul Smith
+44 800 0234 006
paulsmith.co.uk
Richard James
richardjames.co.uk
Victorinox victorinox.com
CHRIS PINE
PAGE 88
Acne Studios acnestudios.com
Bally +44 20 7491 7062 bally.com
Belstaff +44 20 7495 5897
belstaff.co.uk
Berluti Available at Harrods
harrods.com
Burberry +44 20 3367 3330
burberry.com
Canali +44 20 7290 3500
Dior Homme +44 20 7290 3500
dior.com
Dunhill +44 845 458 0779
dun hill.com
Ermenegildo Zegna
+44 20 7495 8260
Grenson +44 1933 354 304
grenson.co.uk
Louis Vuitton +44 20 7399 4050
louisvuitton.co.uk
Maison Martin Margiela
+44 20 7629 2682
maisonmart inmargiela.com
Moscot Available at Liberty's
+44 20 7734 1234
Paul Smith +44 800 023 4006
paulsmith.co.uk
Ray-Ban avail able at David Clulow
+44 844 264 0870
Z Zegna +44 20 7518 2700
zegna.com
RIZ AHMED
PAGE 140
Berluti Available at Harrods
harrods.com
Burberry +44 20 3367 3330
burberry.com
Cos +44 844 249 2079
cosstores.com
Diesel +44 800 840 4249
di esel.com
Dior Homme
+44 20 7172 0172
dior.com
Empor io Armani
+44 20 7823 8818
armani.com
Photograph by Yu Tsai
Falke falke.com
H&M +44 844736 9000
Jack Purcell for Converse
converse.com
Jimmy Choo +44 20 7495 7195
jimmychoo.com
John Varvatos Available at
Matches matchesfashion.com
Lanvin Avail able at harrods.com
McQ Alexander McQueen
Avai lable at Matches
matchesfashion.com
Oliver Peoples +44 20 7627 5753
oliverpeoples.com
Orlebar Brown +44 20 7734 5892
Paul Smith +44 800 023 4006
The Kooples Sport
+44 20 7734 8020
The Modern Warehouse
themodernwarehouse.com
Topman topman.com
Trussardi
Avai lable at Matches
matchesfashion.com
Valentino at Matches
matchesfashion.com
THEO HUTCHCRAFT
PAGE 150
Brunelle Cucinelli
+44 20 7730 5207
brunellocucinelli.it
Burberry burberry.com
Church's +44 1604 751251
church-footwear.com
Etro +44 20 7493 9004 etro.com
Giorgio Armani
+44 20 7235 6232 armani.com
Grenson +441933 354 304
grenson.co.uk
John Varvatos Avai lable at
matchesfashion.com
JM Weston +44 20 7629 9494
jmweston.com
Lab Pal Zileri +44 20 8749 2820
lab.palzileri.com
Mr Start +44 20 7729 6272
mr-start.com
Ralph Lauren +44 20 7535 4600
ralphlauren.com
DIRECTORY
PAGE 160
7 For All Mankind
+44 20 7730 1234
Available at harrods.com
Casio casioonline.co.uk
CP Company +44 20 7494 1983
cpcompany.co.uk
Diesel diesel.com
+44 800 840 4249
Dune +44 20 7258 3605
dune.co.uk
French Connection
+44 20 7036 7300
frenchconnection.com
Lacost e lacoste.com
Oliver Spencer
+44 20 7269 6444
oliverspencer.co.uk
Sand sand-europe.com
Woolrich +44 20 7494 9772
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Sold e xclusively in Louis Vui tt on s t o r es and a t l ouisvui t ton . com. Tel . 020 7399 4 050 LOU IS VU ITTON