For several years now, I’ve had a secret hankering to join- or at least to apply for membership of- The London Whiskers Club. Beards, however, can be a risky proposition. The secret is to go for the “Rugged English Gentleman Explorer meets the James Robertson Justice” Look. But there’s a wafer-thin divide between looking like the Tsar, a Victorian Liberal MP or HRH Prince Michael of Kent and the cheeky geezer who’s come to mend the washing machine, the Gormless Middle-Aged Dad as portrayed on numerous and tiresome television commercials, or even worse, an earnest guitar-playing Play School presenter from the 1970s. And then there’s that worrying hipster thing, which despite being So Last Week Darling, still lingers- like a bad smell that just won't go away.
The Commander channels The Captain Scott Look
So last month, purely as an experiment, you understand, I stopped shaving. And as I’ve now reached the golden twilight years of Late Youth, the bristles that appeared on my manly chin were silver in colour, and shock horror actually looked quite good. Mrs Aitch seemed to like it. And then, despite the promising start, it all went wrong. Suddenly I was walking around with a wiry bog brush glued to my chin. An oily, matted, painful horror which itched liked mad and cried out- no begged- to be removed.
The Commander in action. That beard...
Possibly one of the most splendid beards of the mid-twentieth century is the groomed specimen pictured above, as sported by Commander Schweppes, aka Commander Walter Edward Whitehead CBE, RNVR (Rtd.), president of Schweppes (USA), polo player, fisherman, gourmand, explorer, sailor, author of How to Live the Good Life: The Commander Tells You All and star of David Ogilvy’s famous advertising campaign.
I love David Ogilvy’s ads. They’re so urbane. I suppose in those days- we’re talking about the late 1950s- people aspired to become crusty, smooth-talking, tonic-drinking Naval officers. I used to waste hours in the Gothic gloom of the school library pouring over dog-eared back-copies of The New Yorker, with its tantalising advertisements for Harris tweed, expensive hand-built cars, rare whiskies, Sotheby’s cigarettes, Napoleonic Cognacs and tailored Viyella shirts worn by a mysterious silver-haired gentleman with an eyepatch- peddled in a glorious, backlit, soft-focus Technicolor.
And despite the unstoppable march of the excellent Fever Tree, I’m still drinking Schweppes Tonic. Partly because of a nostalgic feeling for that famous yellow and black label (although how splendid it would be if they brought back some a special edition tonic in the original glass bottles) and because the proper stuff is actually quite good. But unless you’re trying to lose weight, avoid the saccharine slimline version at all costs. Artificially sweet, in my opinion. Thinking about it, if you’re trying to lose weight, I’m not sure you should be drinking gin in the first place?
