Richard “Richie” Paradise was so ashamed of his wedding attire that he couldn’t even face the camera. Quite right too. This is the sort of suit one might get divorced in – if one wanted to impress upon the beak how years of marriage had severely impaired one’s sartorial judgment.
Imagine being upstaged at your own wedding by the chauffeur of the vintage car you hired for the day. That is exactly what happened to Mark Hutchinson-Lyons. When the bride throws her bouquet after the ceremony, it is supposed to be caught by one of the bridesmaids, not land on the groom’s lapel, missing his buttonhole by several inches.
“This photograph was taken of me during a lull between pheasant drives,” writes Huw Mitchell. “Where is your manservant proffering the freshly loaded partner to your shotgun?” I hear you ask.” More to the point, where is your tailor? Did you shoot him too? If so, he fully deserved it.
“Our friend Mr. Moment,” writes Carol Tennet, “turned 50 this year and decided, perhaps with your influence, that he needed to be more of a grown up.” Yes, and when is he going to start that?
At a vintage festival on the South Bank in July 2011, this young fellow declared himself to be 17 years old and a devotee of this publication. He had turned up to the event on a scorching July day wearing a top hat and a fur coat. We knew then that Zack Pinsent would retain an important role in the development of this publication, and he has. He now, aged 23, runs his own bespoke period tailoring company www.pinsenttailoring.co.uk
Good heavens. The eye, naturally repulsed by every item of this man’s clothing, is drawn away, to anything else in the room…and alights on some sort of rodent enclosure, a print of one of the lesser St. Ives School artists, and a Ken Follett novel. Life in this household is just one endless round of misery, it would seem.
You know when 99 per cent of you screams “NO!”, yet that one per cent of you, which abandons all convention, rules, regulation and common sense, silently and subtly whispers “Yes.” That whisper triumphed in the case of this, er, fellow/lady/woodland creature disguised as a human.
Did the following conversation really take place in the home of Thomas Johannessen, of Norway: “Honning, could you take a photograph of me for The Chap?” “Shouldn’t you remove your headphones first?” “No, I think I’ll keep them on; they really make the outfit.”
“An evening of poker and debauchery,” was Will Jeffery’s brief accompanying missive to this photograph. An evening of pulling one’s trousers up (if indeed Mr. Jeffery is the fellow in the middle) would have been far more constructive.
On the left we see Andrew Trigg, celebrating his birthday with a glass of bubbly. What’s wrong with that? Nothing, if this were within the pages of a magazine about kitchen units.
“This picture,” writes Benjamin J. Fitch “was taken by a rather sweet young filly I bumped into when stumbling back to my cabin from the bar on the Orient Express. Needless to say I felt it was my duty promptly to turn around and escort her back to the bar. A lady, alone, on the Orient, Never!” A shirt, with no studs, on the Orient Express? Never.
“This is a photo of Mr. Harry Bamford, who we believe is a Chap of the highest order, we hope you agree.” A man who wears tablecloths and celebrates Christmas in the middle of June cannot possibly be taken seriously.