THREE, TWO, ONESIE

 

Amanda and I were in the smoking room at the bank.  Yeah, they used to have them, honest.  In the good old days you were at liberty to kill yourself slowly on the clock, and the bank’s main entrance didn’t look like closing time at the Hippodrome.

I was showcasing my new, dark brown, three-piece suit.  I spun round and the smoke offered an additional choreography.  Personally, I think it worked really well.

“What d’you think?” I said.

Amanda waved her fag towards me.  “You’re not cut out for this banking malarkey.”

“What?  Why not?”

“Well look at you.  You look like a cross between Professor Yaffle and Mr Hanky The Christmas Poo.”

“Well he sounds clever.  Not sure about the Hanky poo part tho.”

It was always the same.  Suits and me just didn’t go together.  Most mornings on my way to work, I felt like I’d put in an eight-hour day before I even got to the office.  Shower, wet shave, clean shirt, collar stiffeners like razor clams, cufflinks like drawing pins, tie like a noose, jacket, handkerchief, jabby pointy watch, brogues with sharp edges that had to be shoe-horned on. 

Daniel Craig and his smug suits : a SPECTRE to me long before filming started

Even with all this effort, I looked awkward.  I’d usually have to hold my stomach in and my back fat would poke out if not checked on the minute.  I never mastered the art of walking in leather-soled shoes either.  The slightest suggestion of rain and I’d be clinging to the outside of Waitrose, screaming at my own reflection in wet marble.

At my workstation, I spent my days sucking in and sitting up and just rolling around in front of flashing red numbers like Billy Bunter.

“Dave – you don’t look comfortable here,” said Harry.  “Why don’t you get Guru to sort you out?”

Harry was borderline-hot ex-Army and his shoes always clicked like a horse coming down the corridor.  He always ironed something into his shirt called a sweat crease and he was in danger of saluting everyone after every morning meeting.

“Who or what is Guru?” I said.

“Oh, he does all the top brass, mate.  I’ll get you his number.  If he can’t sort you out, no-one can.”

Harry insisted his Asian market updates were kept informal

#

Two days later and Guru, tailor to the top floor, was fussing around me, heavy-breathing, measuring everything and anything reachable. 

“Mmm …” he said, stepping back and tilting his head to one side.  He looked like he was doing long division, his eyebrows drawn together and downwards with confusion.  “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.  Were you ever in a car accident … when you were younger perhaps?”

“Not that I remember," I said.  "Although there wasn’t a safety belt or a headrest in sight.”

“Something else life-changing?  Maybe?”

“Um.  I did do a cream round,” I said.

“A cream round?”

“Yes.  I used to sell cream door-to-door in Aberdeen.”

“Interesting.  How much did you used to sell?”

“Not very much.  That’s why I had to carry most of it on my back.”

“It could have been that.  Anyway, Mr Vanderpump, I’m afraid to tell you that your arms are quite different lengths.  So are your legs.  I’m not sure.  It doesn’t quite add up.  In all my forty years …”

“Guru – please just fax Calcutta and get them to run all this up pronto.  I’ve got to get back.  I’ve got some Greek long-dated zero coupon convertibles to sell and frankly, they make selling pots of cream to every fiftieth house in Scotland seem like a dream job.  And quite lucrative.”

With the right tie, Guru said people wouldn't notice.

#

Despite more pins and adjustments than your average haberdashery might see in a year, the right sleeve always rode up and the trousers were too short at the front, too long at the back.  It was like their seamstress was working part-time for “Tales of the Unexpected”.

“You need to stand differently,” said Guru, prodding at me on the fifth fitting like a petulant horse.  “Stand forward and they will be right.  Twist your upper body.  Ok, head up Mr Vanderpump, up.  Ok.  Just hold that.  Now, pull your core in.”

“This is fucking ridiculous,” I said.

“It’s a suit, Mr Vanderpump.  Not a magic cape.  There.  You’re ready – you looking great Mr Dave.  Go.  Please.”

Harry grimaced and took cover behind Amanda as they saw me sailing across the trading floor in my new get-up, like a big bride in a meringue on wheels with an imaginary book on my head.  I imagined Joan Collins might feel like this on the red carpet.  One false move and it was all going to come tumbling down and out, buttons popping right and left, shoulder pads and back fat and gunt and all.   

“Wow, sorry mate,” Harry said.  “I feel responsible.” 

Amanda looked at me like she had stomach cramps.

I bravely soldiered on, sitting down to do a lengthy conference call about what we were going to do about this whole collapsing financial system thing.  I couldn’t concentrate.  The trousers cut in and rode up and the jacket twisted me until I was barely able to breathe.  I was forced to let the phone drop from my hand like I’d been poisoned.  I needed to be free of all this.  “I can’t do it," I said.  "It’s not working.”

Someone on the other end decided that, for once, I was right and we should just leave the financial situation as it was a bit difficult to fix and it was nearly lunchtime.

Popping to Pret was a humiliation

#

Luckily I didn’t have to be uncomfortable for long.  Days later, Ed was sitting in the corner meeting room, grimly shaking his head and talking about deteriorating market conditions.  I paced around, desperate to free myself of Guru’s miserable and not inexpensive cloak.

“Dave,” said Ed.  “Why don’t you sit down and we can go through the terms of your redundancy?”

“I’d prefer to stand if that’s alright.  This is all very difficult for me.”

“I understand,” he said.

“I don’t think you do.  I’d like to sit but I’m scared.  I’m not sure what will happen.”

“We’re all scared of these financial markets, Dave.  We’re all scared.”

#

For people that go to work in normal, civilian clothes, they have no real understanding of the horrors of suit-wearing.  It’s great if you enjoy dressing up and would secretly like to wear a hat and shoulder pads, maybe carry a snuff box, but alas – for everyone else, a life of misery.

These days, if it’s not soft cotton and pull-on, I’m not interested.  Quite simply, I’m drawn to the drawstring.  A capsule wardrobe a la American Apparel and I’m thrilled.  I literally could not be happier.

 “For your birthday present,” said Hubby, “I was thinking of getting you something for your new career direction.”

My back stiffened suddenly, chin jutting away from my martini.  “New career direction?”

“Yeah - a onesie.”

“What?” I said.  “Are you kidding me?   You mean like a one-piece soft leisure suit to wear around the house?  Made of cotton?  With a hood?”

“Yeah, would you not like that?”

“Yes I would.  I would like that.  I’d like that a lot.”

DVP

VEG BOX

I’m so sorry I’ve not written my blog for more than a year.  Everyone’s been screaming at me “Dave – we can’t live without your blog.  What’s happened?”  It’s been a constantly rising chorus of desperation.

Thing is, everything was going absolutely fine this time last year.  I felt like I was connecting with my follower on real-world issues.  But it all changed one day in summer when Hubby, my friend Justin and I went to the Lambeth Country Show.

Look, he definitely said change at Stockwell

It’s a country show, but on a patch of grass in Brixton.  Sounds dreamy, right?  Well it was, until…

“I’ve got you a job” said Hubby.

Justin and I were lying on the grass under the shade of a big tree, drinking beer out of plastic cups.  We were getting down with the good, wholesome, country folk of Brixton.  I squinted and looked up at Hubs.

“What was that?” I said.
“A job. You know, a new direction.”
“I’m very focused on the blog at the moment.  My follower needs me.  I’m working on a very interesting entry about the non-standard nature of snap-on hose fittings.”
“What are all these empty plastic cups, Dave?”
I looked at Justin.  “Well, we were interested in the novelty vegetable collection.  In particular, the resemblance that augmented sweet potato bore to Margaret Beckett.  It was uncanny.  I loved the way they’d done her teeth and the hair.  But then we … then Justin and I happened upon the beer tent.”
“So I see” said Hubby.  “You know, the idea of coming to the Country Show is to get involved in the local community, not just to get pissed.”

I really felt like the pop-up stall for local favourite "Wok This Way" nailed it.

“Hubs, it’s a local micro-brewery.  We’re supporting the local economy.  The man who sold us these pints of lager for seven quid each lives in VNEB borders and everything.  Honestly, it’s true – you can ask him.”
“It was a woman” said Justin.
“Well, there you go” I said.  “That’s nice for her.  And for him, or her or whatever she’s dating.  Or if she’s single, all those lucky people that are still in with a chance.”
“Well” said Hubby.  “You start this new thing on Thursday.  Don’t worry, you’re working from home.  Now, I’m just off to do a conference call, the reception’s a bit dodgy here.”

I watched Hubby walk away and looked at Justin who still had two thirsty eyes.

“Did you hear that, Justin?” I said.  “A new direction?  The cheek of it.”
“The free-range, slow-cooked pig’s cheek of it.”
“This is your fault, Justin.”
“Really?  Why?  I don’t recall forcing this baker’s dozen of refreshing pale ales upon you.”
“Yeah but you exploit my weakness.  You know what you’re doing.  You’ve done it before, countless times.  There’s a clear pattern.  All those times at the Vauxhall Tavern and up West.  You’re a monster.”
Justin drained his plastic cup.  “Another Whitstable Bay?”
“Yeah, rude not to.”

Winners of the "Hanging Basket-Case Relationship" Award

My new employer was in the business of distributing vegetables and was immediately all over me like purple on beetroot.  They were the vegetable-distributing version of PPI.  Calling me up and asking me questions and this and that and quite a lot besides.

Looking at their website, I decided it was not dissimilar to the bank I used to work at.  They had products, in this case vegetables, probably rotten.  They packaged them up (a bit like Collateralised Debt Obligations) and then sold them on to unsuspecting people.

“I hope it’s not like that time I had to sell those zero-rated Greek convertible bonds” I said to Hubby, handing him a cheese straw.  “I’ve still got the scars to show for it.  I’m telling you.  They stick to the book like trampled manure to tarmac.  Not even Sandra on the PIIGS desk could get rid of them.  And she could sell anything after a night out with the brokers, if you know what I mean.  I mean she’d have to y’know do the y’know …  to get rid of the really toxic stuff.”

“I’m surprised you even remember that long ago.”

“Don’t be like that, Hubs” I said.  “Look, Geordie Shore’s on.  Come on Giggy, it’s your favourite.  Do a hup-hup and get on the sofa.”

###

At about noon the next day, a van drove up outside the house with “Riverdance Farms” or something written on it.  I was going to go out and introduce myself to my new boss but one of the houses on "Homes Under the Hammer" was an absolute shitbox and I was waiting for the swoosh that made it all magnolia.  It was going to be an amazing before and after in Doncaster.

I crept outside.  I was worried I might get caught again by Janet from number twenty.  She would want to talk endlessly about the wailing cats and what we were going to do about them.  I kept low.  There was a box down by the basement window.

“Stay back, Giggy” I said as I jabbed at it like a bomb disposal expert.  Giggy was whining.  He doesn’t like change.

The note inside the box said “Dear Mr Vanderpump, Welcome to Riverdance Farms.  We will be back in a week to collect your empty box.”

I looked at the contents.  We’ll be back in a week?  I looked at Giggy whose head was tilted to one side.  We were both confused.  It seemed like quite a tall order considering Hubby and I only ate tiny, miniature vegetables that were vacuum-packed in rows and air-lifted through Dubai.

But a job’s a job.  I immediately got to work, emptying the contents of the box onto the kitchen table along with a load of old soil.  I separated the vegetables into two categories.  There was the “things I know what it is” pile and then there was the “things I don’t know what it is” pile.  I looked at Giggy and he agreed.  There were a lot in the “things I don’t know what it is” pile.

I called Justin.  “Seeing as you got me into this mess, can you help me out?”
“Well” he said.  “I have some student papers to read.”
I heard a door close.

Justin has a pretend job at a university but really he works for MI5, even though he denies it.  His cover job is UCLA in North London and I always go along with it brilliantly.

“Oh yeah, those student papers.  Yeah, students.  Papers” I said.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Not yet.”

Justin went to a school where he was allowed to address the teachers by their first name and classes were optional, depending on whether he felt like going.  Often he didn’t, allowing him plenty of time to drink cider at the local bus stop.  Despite this, he knows a thing or two about veg.

A typical day at Justin's school

At my school in Scotland, addressing teachers by their first name and not turning up to class would have been absolutely fine, assuming you didn’t mind being caned until you were sick.

I sent the pictures of the vegetables over to MI5 and waited for the Justin-oracle to start responding.

“Oh it’s a blah-blah-blah” said Justin.  “Just steam it for twenty minutes or you can fry it in butter.  They eat them in blah-blah-blah a lot.  They’re very blah-blah-blah.”

“Oh” I said.

And it went on.

“Oh those” said Justin.  “They’re like small peppers.  Spanish people eat them with cold beers on the streets in Spain.  Poble-sec, Gracia.  Places like that.  Some cracked salt on them.  They’re delicious.”

“Oh” I said.

And it went on.  A bit like the conference calls I used to be on.  “I’m working” I said to Giggy.  “I’m back at work.”

It took the power of Microsoft Project to make sure everything would be consumed within the one week deadline that I’d been given.  Like the deals I’d worked on at the bank, there was a lot of it to shift and it was mainly European crap that no-one understood or wanted.  I would sell it to Hubby in disguise.

The implementation plan looked like this:

Thursday – Broccoli bake with courgette batons and a baba ganoush dip
Friday – Butternut squash three-ways – en croute, a la mode and fritters in a basket
Saturday – Generic green soup with a whole baked swede with sprouts in its hair
Sunday – Pasta-free vegetable lasagne “mille feuille”
Monday – Aubergine “tarte tatin” on a bed of pan fried kale a la mer en face de la patisserie
Tuesday – Rocket and tomato reduction with a courgette coulis, ou est la gare madame
Wednesday – Free-style vegetable jerky jambalaya “Lambeth Country Show” style, served in a steel band

I paced around the kitchen, wondering if Riverdance Farms were really the company for me.  I mean, it was like Canary Wharf in terms of the amount of work.  But I wasn’t sure about the prestige.  “There’s gonna be some all-nighters, Gigs.  I hope you’ll be there for me.”  Giggy looked at me, hoping that meat was not entirely off the menu.

The next few months were a bit of a blur if I’m honest.  What I do remember is that I was pushed to breaking point.  Even my afternoon martini had a courgette on the side.  No sooner had I finished cooking up the last load of fennel, broccoli and something soup and there he was again in that fucking bastard van.  I blended, grated, mashed, baked, boiled and chopped until I was ashen and wordless.  The doctor prescribed Diazepam in the twenty milligram.

“When’s all this going to end?” I said to the guy as he got down from his dreaded vegetable horror truck.
“Summer veg coming back soon” he said.
“Summer veg?  Again?”

It was then that I realised that this job involved no annual leave and I collapsed under the weight of a box of bouncy spring greens.  I’ve been signed off work since.  For those of you still in the employ of Riverdance, I take off my carrot top hat off to you all.

As for us, we’re a meat only household now.  It’s like a branch of St. John in Smithfields.  And Giggy’s thrilled because squirrel’s firmly back on the menu.


DVP

WASTE NOT ...

“You seem unhappy, Dave” said my mother.

“Really?” I gazed out of the window at the freezing haar with only the prospect of a drafty grammar school where they could have filmed Harry Potter and two paper rounds to look forward to.  “I can’t imagine why.”

Any chance of a lift to school?

“It’s just something you said the other day in the kitchen”, continued my mum, clasping her hands in front of her as if she was about to read the evening news.  “Made your father and I think that … y’know … you could possibly be … y’know …”

I didn’t dignify these ramblings with a response.

My dad cleared his throat and sat forward, almost dislodging a plate of bourbons.  “Thing is, Dave – are you … I mean … do you have urges, call them tendencies … to recycle?”

“No” I said.  “And how dare you, Sir.”

But it was too late.  I was the last to know and suddenly everything began to click into place.

Years spent fretting over empty glass bottles of pop going to landfill - CLICK. 

      

Inexplicable pining for newspapers I delivered at 6am that were never read and cast out in bin bags wrapped around old chips and deep-fried black pudding – CLICK.

Concerns over plump, organic piggies being denied my leftover Chicken and Cashew - CLICK.

“It’s just a phase” I said.

“Really?” said my mother.  “Then why did we find six empty bottles of Malibu, a dozen cans of Tenants Lager and a bundle of undelivered Press and Journals in the basement?”

Where are you Beryl?

They had found my stash, the crafty bastards.

“So what if I enjoy recycling?” I said, getting teary.  “So what if I want my own complex bin system?  I need to sort things into bags and boxes according to a strict regime that I barely understand.  It’s the only way I'll find true happiness.”

My dad looked out of the window at the sleet.  “Heaven is weeping” he said.

“No dad" I said,  "It's just another freezing fog comin' off the sea without no warnin'."  The final part of this sentence came out deep and breathy, like a pirate and you know to this day, I'm not sure why.

#

In retrospect, I was a thought-leader.  That year, I set up a company that recycled glass and cardboard and ran it alongside an existing one that sold radishes exclusively to Mrs Benson at number six.

I would love to tell you about my huge entrepreneurial success but this was Aberdeen.  No-one was interested.  They were too interested in digging out oil and the company folded almost immediately like a large foldable piece of un-recycled cardboard.

It was only years later when I moved to London that I really found the inner-recycler in me.  People would chat openly at dinner parties about recycling systems, laying their habits bare without fear of retribution.  I was in seventh heaven.

“They don’t take lids in Lambeth” they would say.

“Do you have a food-bin system in Westminster?”

“Do you rinse?”

“Yes I do, I always have” I would reply proudly.

At last, I was among friends.

I began to understand why we needed four hundred and thirty-three slightly different recycling systems in the UK.  We needed them all and they all needed to be slightly different because that was the most efficient way to do things.  They also needed to change frequently.  But just slightly.

The thing is, even though everyone on planet earth is doomed to die of heat exhaustion, huddled around the North Pole gasping for air, it feels good to recycle.  “But Dave, we’re saving the planet” I hear you cry ...

In answer to your cry, I suggest you look east.  Anyone who has been to Hong Kong will realise the moment they step off the plane that our little boxes of organised crap are about as hopeless as going into a den of hungry lions, naked, covered in prosciutto, holding up your hand and shouting “STOP”.

But it’s about doing our bit.  It’s about knowing the system.  I know where that goes.

Entrepreneur: it should have been me

Left unchecked, my obsession with recycling became increasingly debilitating.  When people came to stay or the cleaners were coming, I would feel a surge of anxiety.  They don’t understand the system, I would think to myself.  They’ll take shortcuts.  They think dead flowers are food.  They won’t rinse.  I would creep around trying to catch them black-bagging recyclables and jump out to surprise them.

Unbeknown to my parents, both my sister and my brother also have their own recycling-related anxiety disorders and I am officially outing them on this blog.

Clara Vanderpump suffers from a very serious condition known as Premature Recycling Deconstructionism (PRD) where, in her mind, the food represents an unwanted and unnecessary barrier to her being able to recycle the packaging.  “When that’s finished, it will go in that blue box over there.  It’s not finished yet though.  Do you want to eat some more so that it is?  Or I can just put it in the food bin now?  That's the small caddy bin.”

My brother, Gavin Vanderpump, has a more private obsession.  He recycles alone, in the evening, down the side of his house in Surrey, with the aid of a headlamp, where he polices a huge array of coloured boxes and bins that are obviously too complex for his wife to understand.  “Surely the green bin is for recyclables?” she will say, to which he will scoff loudly.  “No, no, no.  That’s the blue bin.  The green one is just for card but just white card.  Not paper.  Knowing when paper becomes card is a considerable gift."

He admits to neglecting his young children and I wonder how much longer he can hold down a full-time job as well.  When I visited him recently, he proudly showed me their new nappy-recycling box which still had some of the original complimentary bags.  I needed some CK-One on a towel jammed up my nose in order to get near it, but I was impressed.  Jealous almost.

Sorting things into huge wheelie bins is FUN.  And you know what else?  They look GREAT.

“I want a separate dog shit recycling bin for Giggy” I said.  “It’s speciesist not to have one.  He needs to be recognised, he has recycling needs.”

Just as I said that, Giggy trotted up to us, tail wagging and began settling down to gnaw on a dead, decaying blackbird he’d just found in the garden.  My brother and I didn’t find that unusual at all but spent a good amount of time considering which bin it should go in.  We had to agree to disagree in the end as it was just getting bitter.

That night, I had a dream.  I was at a huge clanking recycling centre that had giant boxes for everything.  It was based on the recycling centre at Wandsworth but there were more marshmallows dangling from the ceiling.  Small creatures a bit like oompa loompas in high-vis jackets were sorting through objects and playing a sort of recycling bingo.  Like “Sale of the Century” except with bits of stinking rubbish on a conveyor belt and not live from Norwich.  The oompa loompas would determine each item’s fate.

“Empty milk bottle, not rinsed, lid on, plastics, bin 1.  Baked Beans can, rinsed, lid removed, metals and tin, bin 2.” 

But suddenly, I was on the conveyer belt too.  Paralysed, I was moving along towards the oompa loompas.  I was about to be recycled.

Step away from the polystyrene, bitch.

“Useless, late-forties-investment-banker coming through” shouted one of them.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.  “Early forties thank you.  And I was very good back in the day.  If you forget Enron.  Oh, and that Scottish Equitable thing.  And those mortgage-backed securities - they didn’t work out.  Pretty good otherwise, apart from Parmalat, that was a total fucking disaster…”

“Shut up, shut up Dave, no-one’s interested” said another, poking me with small fingers like raw chipolatas straight from the fridge.  “What do you want to be, Dave?  What do you want to be recycled into?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t know!” I screamed.  “I’m trying to find my way as a househusband in VNEB but it’s hard.”

“What's VNEB?” he asked.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter”

“Ok, I get the idea.  General waste” shouted the oompa loompa.

“No! I’m recyclable, I must be recyclable, I must be, I must … I must"

That’s when I woke up.  And that’s when I realised.

I must recycle myself.  I must get a new job.

“I’m going to be a success” I said to Hubby.  “You’ll see.”

Hubby looked at me over his coffee cup.  “Isn't that what Muriel Heslop says right before she steals all her father’s money and goes on holiday to Hibiscus Island?”

“Well, I’ve never been.”

WINE OF MASS DECEPTION

Apologies to all my readers, my three Google followers in particular, for the brutal neglect I have shown you in the run-up to this festive season.  The reason for this lack of communication is a very valid one.  Let me explain.

Every year just before Christmas, Hubby and I take part in the Haversham Gardens Christmas Carols.  This is an opportunity to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our neighbours around a large fire stoked with furniture dragged from surrounding streets and to sing jolly Christmas songs while drinking mulled wine from “bring-your-own” mugs.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Last year, Mrs Fossington-Gore from number twenty-eight couldn’t keep up with demand for the mulled wine.

“My goodness” she said.  “This mug has come around many times for a refill”.  She was referring to mine.

In fact, Hubby and I had come to support the event with several friends and with a set of six matching mugs from Liberty.  Therefore, the mug she saw coming around "again and again" for a refill was, in fact, not the same mug but a different mug.  Sorry, but it’s still a bit raw, even a year on.

Everyone could see she was panicking and lashing out unnecessarily.  It was a thirsty crowd and there was a slight fault with one of the outdoor stoves.  I've seen people working under extreme stress, I know what it's like.

During a lesser-known verse of Good King Wenceslas, a call went out from the mulled wine dispensing area asking for help from anyone that could heat the contents of a pan.  With my considerable cordon blue experience, I felt confident I could help and put the comment about the frequently-returning mug to one side.  It was Christmas, after all.  “Yes”, I said, putting my hand up.  “I can heat stuff up.  Particularly canned products.”

And so, almost instantly, our powerful induction stove was the saviour of the evening and quite the talk of Haversham Gardens for some months to come.  “I used the boost function”, I said.

This year, in recognition of this, I’ve been recruited to the Haversham Gardens Mulled Wine Subcommittee.  This group reports to the Haversham Gardens Residents Association Christmas Carols Working Group, a temporary spin-off from The Haversham Gardens Residents Association, headquartered at number thirty-two.

“It’s not exactly a job”, I said to Hubby, as we sat in the sitting room watching TOWIE, eating Maltesers.  “But it is a considerable responsibility.  Also, because of my twenty years investment banking experience, they’ve put me in charge of taking the money on the night.”

“That’s quite surprising given the recent headlines.” he said.

“Well, d'you know what?" I said,  "It's amazing how quickly I'm getting back into the cut and thrust of finance.  I haven't seen the profit and loss from last year's event but it was £2.50 per head, free for children.  I’ve got a spreadsheet going and I’m cutting some numbers.  I suggested to Mrs Thomson that we charge two hundred quid each, man, woman and child.  Then we’ll hear them squeal.  But maybe that’s the Goldman Sachs talking.”

Hubby glanced up from a big, secret-looking document he was reading and marking with a red pen.  Something about Syria.  "After what happened in Morocco" I said to him, "I don't want to go on any exotic holidays.  National Trust is fine for me and Giggy.  I've had up to here with being dragged down the souk."

“Yeah” I said, “I’ll show the Gardens how it’s done this year.  I’m really gonna kick the arse out of this mulled wine do.”

*

The Subcommittee meets every week on a Friday at Mrs Thomson’s place at number twelve.  The last meeting was a tasting where people brought a sample of mulled wine they had made from scratch for the others to try.  I adopted a managerial position as my experience was limited to heating it up rather than making it.

Each subcommittee member voted for their favourite using a complex scoring mechanism.  It’s a bit like on Strictly Come Dancing when they combine the judges’ scores with the public ones - I didn't understand it but felt powerless to question.

The tasting went on considerably longer than expected, some surprisingly chunky progressive house being dialled up at about 1am.

The next day, Marjorie from number nineteen, who had been charged with the noting of the scores, claimed that the numbers were accurate but that she couldn’t be sure which numbers related to which samples.

It had made perfect sense at the time ...

“That is the core of it” I said.  “Right, I hereby enact Force Majeur.  The winner is Mrs Forbes at number forty-two.”

"Oh thank you Dave" said Mrs Forbes, looking smug rather than thankful.  "It's my own special recipe, handed down the generations so I'm very proud and honoured".

It was pretty much a random decision on my part, to be honest.  Sometimes you just have to show leadership.  You won’t be stopped in most cases.

We decided to have a couple of days off from the frantic organisation.  We had the mulled wine sorted now, but we didn’t have a table to put the mince pies on.  “So many things to think of” I said to Marjorie.  “With it only being two months away, shouldn’t we have another committee to do the mince pies?  If I’d known it was mulled wine and mince pies, I’d have asked for more resources.  I can see why people only do this job once and then burn out.  Just burn all out.”

About a week later, I was on my way back from the corner shop with some Monster Munch and a bag of Sports Mixtures when I noticed a large, brown cardboard box on the front step of Mr and Mrs Forbes’s house.  They had been away for the weekend and were still away, judging by the absence of their blue Ford Granada 3.0 Grand Luxury.  The box was ripped open.  Well, ok, it was slightly ripped - it tore quite easily when I yanked it.  I looked at the contents and what I saw shocked me to the core.

*

“Ladies and … well, Ladies”, I said.  “If we could come to order please.  Welcome to the fourteenth Mulled Wine Subcommittee meeting. I’m afraid I have a very grave announcement to make.  Most very, very grave indeed.”

Teacups went down and I went on, standing and pacing the room purposefully.

“Our local VNEB intelligence sources inform me that someone has been stockpiling mulled wine mix for use at this years Christmas Carols.  Yes, that’s right.  Mulled wine mix.  Here, in Kennington”.

There was a pause which was longer than I had anticipated.

“What’s VNEB?”, asked Mrs Thomson.

“Oh God, it's not sticking is it?  It’s Vauxhall Nine Elms Battersea”, I said.

There were several gasps around the room.  Two sets of actual pearls were clutched.

“Since when were we called that?” she said.

“Look”, I said.  “That’s not really the point.  The point is that someone has been intending to employ a commercial mix and feed it to us in the name of festive cheer."

"Is that why Mrs Forbes … isn't here tonight?" asked Marjorie.

"Yes.  She has been ejected from the committee and her invitation to the Christmas Carols rescinded.  Her family may attend but will be openly mocked.”

“She seemed so nice”, said Mrs Thomson.  “I’ve met her son, he works for John Lewis as a store planner.  Such a disappointment.  Have you any proof, Dave?  It's a very serious allegation.  I think we'd all like to be sure.”

“Oh yes”, I said, producing the holiday brochure I had borrowed from Hubby’s office.  “I have detailed photographs here that suggest that she was intending to, shall we say, falsely enrich red wine.”

They crowded around the evidence, joined by Mrs Price and Mrs Williams who seemed to be holding their cards rather close to their chests on the whole issue.  Thick as thieves, those two.

South London

“Oh my goodness – it’s rather desolate isn’t it?” said Marjorie.  "I didn’t realise there was so much open space.  What’s this huge factory and this convoy of trucks?”

“That’s the Christmas market being set up in Brixton” I said.  "Here's Mrs Forbes's house and here is her stockpile.  In the garden probably, where no-one can see it".  I pointed vaguely at the map.

I continued, sensing I had them on my side.  “This mulled wine mix could have caused widespread embarrassment and social deprivation.  It is unacceptable for anyone in the Gardens to have stock-piles of this type of thing.  I am immediately requesting that she hand over all her mulled wine mix to the Haversham Gardens Residents Association in order that it is properly and safely destroyed.  Possibly at sea.  I am sure you all agree".

But it seems that I misread the crowd because it turned out that there were an almost equal number of people on the working group in favour of letting standards drop and cutting important corners as there were those against it.  Mrs Price and Mrs Williams, otherwise notable in their silence, kept trying to veto any kind of direct action.  "If we can't get a resolution tonight on this then we're in trouble" I said.  "May God have mercy on us this Christmas Carols event night.  It's on a knife-edge."

And so, a great divide has been created.  I just hope this difference of opinion can be overlooked during the carols, but if not, I have several plain-clothed operatives ready to carry out a “Hunger Games”-style clamp down.

More importantly for me was that, amid all the arguing, I was somehow saddled with the task of making the mulled wine myself.  I went home and immediately started researching the only way anyone does these days, by Googling “making mulled wine from scratch”.  Once again, I was shocked to the core.  Talk about an own goal.

Cinnamon?  Bay leaves? Limes?  Lemons?  Oranges?  Cloves? Nutmeg?  Vanilla Bean? Sherry? Star Anise?

And so this is the reason I have not written my blog.  I have been hard at work perfecting the best mulled wine ever tasted by humanity.

So, without further ado, I bestow the result of my tireless work upon you:


DAVE VANDERPUMP’S MULLED WINE

Ingredients

1.     Red wine
2.     Mulled wine mix (yeah, I know, but seriously, just pretend you made it from scratch.  They won’t know the difference)
3.     Couple of oranges, sliced
4.     Some old bits of twig

Method

1.     Tip it all into a pan and heat it up using the boost function if you are lucky enough to have one


“Jingle Jingle”, mulled wine for everyone (apart from Mrs Forbes).


DVP

TO FLY, TO CRASH

Before I embarked upon my career as an aspiring housewife, I would sit among the glinting towers of the City of London saying things like “global footprint”, “pushing forward” and “lock-stepped strategy”.  “I’m going to adopt a lock-stepped strategy and push forward on the footprint.” I would say.  People would nod and we would talk about “the markets” at lunch with no wine.

The problem with all of this was that I wasn't hugely interested in “the markets”.  They went up, they went down.  Usually just little bits every day.  Yawn.  I wanted a job that was exciting, that took me places.  Something that involved engineering, a bit of elbow grease and an actual physical product.

As far as I was concerned, there was nothing more exciting than the men and women zooming around in giant flying machines owned by British Airways.  Secretly, I wanted to work for them.

The sheepskin seats are an optional extra

“Did you want to be a stewardess?”  I hear you mock.

No.

“Did you want to be a pilot?”

No.

“Engineer?”

No.

“Customer service?”

No.

“Catering?”

No.  Give up?

“Push-back truck driver?”

No.

“Ok, this is boring.  Tell us”

I wanted to be the British Airways Gold Executive Club Cardholder.



And one day, in a moment of frantic despair and boredom, I called BA and boldly asked them for the job.  I was pleasantly surprised at how I was received.

“Of course, Mr Vanderpump.  We’d be delighted for you to join”, said the lady on the phone.

Wow, I thought.  They asked me lots of questions about my current job.  When they found out I was working for a bank, their interest only increased.  I was being headhunted.  I was so excited.

“I want to be your Gold Cardholder”, I said, putting it all out there.

“It involves a lot of travel.  Mainly in Club World and First class” they said.

“That sounds ideal”, I said.  Roaring around in planes drinking wine and watching films was the perfect job for me.  I knew I would be good at it.

“What do I have to do to get the job?” I asked.

“Well”, she said, clicking away on her keyboard.  “You need to start travelling.  A lot.”

Luckily, the bank had offices all around the world.  And so I took on the task with gusto, criss-crossing the globe haphazardly.  New York, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Sydney, San Francisco.  Now, I would sit in meetings overseas while the miles and points clocked up saying things like “global” and “global footprint” and “pushing forward globally on the global footprint”.  People still nodded and then we went out for sushi, noodles, sashimi or ribs.  Still no wine.

It wasn't all plain-sailing, mind you.  I had to start my career with BA at the bottom as the blue cardholder.  It was all horribly pointless.  They treated me like a complete nobody.  I had to queue up everywhere and when I said I was working for them and flashed it, they just rolled their eyes.  “I’m going for the top Gold Cardholder job”, I would say.  I might as well have tried to get an upgrade with my Clydesdale Bank Squirrel Account cash card.

Is anyone on the 6 o'clock Alicante?

But the people at BA soon realised I was going places – literally, in their planes, a lot – and we were in almost constant contact.  They would send me letters regularly saying how much they wanted me.  The top job of Gold Cardholder was in my sights and so I just kept going.

"Why are you travelling so much?” Amanda, our assistant at work, asked.

“Because I’m ambitious.” I said.

“Oh, get you, love.”

I ignored everyone at the bank which wasn't difficult because I wasn't there.  I was exhausted, travelling my arse off, drinking limitless quantities of chilled Sancerre and enjoying the constant and inexplicable availability of the movie “Firehouse Dog”.

About fifty trips later, devastated that Firehouse Dog 2 was still stuck in pre-production, I got the call from BA saying that I had been promoted to the role of Silver Cardholder.  I was pleased but I explained to the man that it wasn't the job I wanted.

“You need to fly more,” he said.

“More?  Really?  I’m hardly ever at home.  What do you want, blood?”

These BA people were obviously tough employers.  I noticed that even with my silver card, they treated me with a level of suspicion, like I was slacking off, only doing two Hong Kongs and a Sydney every week.

But still, my ambition burned inside me.  I told them I was willing to go all out, put the late, long-haul hours in.  Drain the galleys dry, plunder their club world lounges and raid the larder with breath-taking regularity.  I would do it.


*


“Ed has a gold card”, said Amanda one day, at work.

I was in between trips momentarily.  I took my feet off the desk.

“What?” I said.

“Yeah.  He travels loads.  But he’s married.”

“Since when was he the Gold Cardholder?  What’s he doing working here still if he’s got that job? And more importantly, you fancy him?  You know that’s not his real hair, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I’d do him a heartbeat” she said, plumping her breasts and fanning her face with her hands as the phone rang, unanswered.

“He’s all yours.” I said. “Seriously, go for it.”

Slightly thrown by the fact that someone could fancy Ed, I remembered that I appeared to have been beaten to the job.  I couldn't believe they’d given it to Ed.  I would have to oust him.

“Get me a taxi, Amanda,” I said.  “I’m going to New York.”


*


I remember the day.  I remember where I was.  I remember what I was doing, wearing, drinking, banging on about, the moment I discovered I had got the job as the Gold Cardholder.  They must have fired Ed, I thought, smugly.  I was standing at the baggage carousel, exhausted, having just arrived back from Tokyo on a business trip to meet Mimi Yamamoto’s shih tzu.  We hadn't got on.  It had torn my new coat.

Not to be upstaged under any circumstances

I immediately called hubby and my parents.  “I’m really going places in the organisation”, I said.  “They want me.  I've been promoted, again.  It’s the top job this time.”  They were all delighted for me.

“It’s about time they promoted you”, said my dad.

"I know" I said, "I know."

I got the job offer in the post from them and awaited true spiritual happiness, my passage to the Concorde Room lit by the grace of BA, drawing me to the summit of my own Everest, the champagne bar at Terminal 5.

You don't even have to speak

The next day in the office, I was just about to let everyone know about my promotion and imminent departure to work for BA full-time when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a bag in Ed’s office that had a British Airways “Premier” card attached to it.

“What’s that?” I asked Amanda.  She’d been out drinking again and smelled of cheap Chardonnay.

“Oh, that’s Ed’s new Premier card”, she said.

“Oh – fired, was he?  Couldn't keep it up, could he?  Shame because …”

“No Dave." she interrupted.  "It’s the one higher than gold, they don’t mention it much.  Very exclusive.  He’s just been promoted.”

My world started falling apart like a piece of clothing from American Apparel after its second wash.  I felt betrayed by my new employer and stupid for imagining that I had secured the top job when all the time I was still going to be reporting to Ed even when I worked at British Airways.  I slumped down in my seat just as someone said something about a meeting I was supposed to be in.

“Not now”, I said, almost hallucinating from jet-lag.  “I need to get back to Heathrow.  Amanda … please ... I need to go somewhere far away and then come straight back.”

Amanda ignored me, painting her nails in a variety of lurid colours.  “He got it ‘cos he flies backwards and forwards to New York, Hong Kong and Tokyo every week, twice a week sometimes.  He's amazing”, she said.  “I’m off for a fag”.

“That’s ridiculous”, I said.  “It’s barely possible.  Trust me, I’ve tried it.”


*


When the financial crash came, something called the “travel budget” meant that I could no longer pursue my dream job.  The bank was all like “Dave - you've abused the travel budget”.  I was like “what’s a travel budget?”

But more worryingly, BA were suddenly all frosty.  They didn't seem to want me to do the top job anymore.  I called my parents in tears.  “It’s not working out”, I said.  “It’s not for me.  I gave this job everything, they just threw it back in my face.”

“Never mind” said my dad, “I don’t think you’re cut out for banking.”

“Who said anything about banking?”

Nowadays, I’m actually pretty happy flying down the back with Monarch.  It’s stress-free in comparison to working for BA.  You don’t have to try to impress them.  Monarch have no idea who you are and they don’t care.

On a recent flight to Dalaman, I was amazed at the attention to detail on board.  BA cabin crew could learn a thing or two from these yellow-and-black-clad canaries.  First of all, we were offered (and this is to the entire plane on the tannoy system) champagne which promised a palate which was “a symphony of apples”.

Not sure what symphony they were playing

Then, to go with it, Mini Cheddars made with real cheese.  Finally, and this is the best part, they offered a twin pack of OK/Hello which featured a “radiant Kate’s return to Royal duties”.  Monarch – I salute you for your sheer class, I lapped it all up.

BA can stick their Premier card up their huge, shiny Airbus A380.

Now, it's appropriate to share my recipe for an Aviation.  This cocktail was very popular in the US when commercial jets started flying.  It was often downed to calm the nerves.  The recipe should, in theory have something called "Creme de Violette" in it, but finding this in the shops is about as much fun as ironing a fitted sheet.

The Aviation

2 shots of gin (preferably Miller's but can be any)
1 shot of fresh lime juice
1 shot of maraschino liqueur
1 shot of eldeflower cordial

Shake in ice and then strain into a cocktail glass.  Garnish with a twist of lemon.

Couple of these and you'll be flying too, trust me.


DVP