Guy ShepherdAll Hallows’ Fun – but a Mole Problem Awaits..
As we move smoothly into Guy Fawkes night, our Man in Mayfair hints at fun Halloween goings on. Away from the throbbing dance floor a variety of interesting anti-mole strategies are put forward
Column by Guy Shepherd
It has come to my attention that I have been writing too much about death in recent times. Please let me assure you, dear reader, that it is not your Mayfair jeweller’s intention to be glum. On the contrary, I wish you only a smile after reading my articles. However, I do apologise for once again starting on the same morbid theme but only with a promise to finish full of the joy of life, living and freedom.
Halloween was never really a feature of my childhood as we concentrated on the more homeward heresies of my namesake Mr Fawkes several hundred years ago. Papal plots aside, my own belief is that our American cousins’ celebration only ever really took on any significance in this country after The Extra Terrestrial was spotted in a basket a front a BMX bike dressed as a ghost in the early eighties. And I thank Señor Spielberg for it all these years later as I delighted in my five year old son trawling around the mean streets of Notting Hill in search of Georgian mansions boasting sensationally gory details, buckets of sweets and even a Caribbean steel drum band in one. Amazing. He and his friends were mesmerised, bounding from home to home, politely saying thank you after their trick or treat requests were rewarded with the latter. I had to pinch myself when he yawned a couple of hours earlier than I was expecting and asked to go home to bed because he had collected enough sweets already.
So if Halloween had been an alien concept (“Ouch!”) to me as a young boy, so was The Day of the Dead celebration until far more recently. Do we have another great children’s film to thank for this too? The spectacle of colour, face paints and skeletons that this Mexican tradition offers is perfect for any aspiring reveller. Luckily, my beloved Shepherd Market came up with the goods in abundance.
Firstly, the glamorously beautiful and social Miss Sophie Edmonds hosted a themed party in the newly refurbished salon at GUY&MAX for her breathtaking entourage. The newly blacked out windows provided the privacy whilst the charcoal grey walls, reduced shop lighting and plethora of church style candles provided the spook. Max’s bone study edition, Phoenix, from our Digital Nature Collection was pinned in entomology cabinets and illuminated by hand held torches that made it pop (thanks once again to our transatlantic friends for this important vocabulary). Thirty fabulous guests, including beautiful girls whose black and white skeletal costumes appeared to have been applied by spray can, proved the old adage that people make a party as they laughed and quaffed champagne two hours beyond the preordained finale until yours truly eventually called time.
Secondly and luckily for our prestigious guests, the world’s greatest private member’s club is the block situated beside our own street and Hertford Street. At the best of times, this is the Mecca of any party devotees. This comparison is for ultimate goal not congestion reasons. No, I’m never going to tell you who eats, drinks and dances there because that’s why they do. It is always tremendous fun backed by an exquisite atmosphere that makes you feel like you are snuggled up at home, only with staff who happen to be beautifully polite, helpful and friendly. I have an adoration of dancing there that is fuelled by Dirty Martinis (“Filthy, please Barman”) and tunes more timeless than contemporary. I would give examples but I know none from the latter by name although I’m sure the artists would be prefixed by an initial or two. They are sometimes to be heard on the same dance floor later on a Thursday night.
And then Number Five goes beyond this perfect everyday club into the realms of fantasy and theme. New Orleans and Alice in Wonderland are still vivid memories etched into the happier recesses of this addled mind but their Day of the Dead parties last week were off the scale. My hearty thanks and congratulations to all those involved. It was amazing. Every member of staff was dressed and painted up in conjunction with Mexican masked wrestlers, demure transvestites, terrifying skeletons who all writhed among the fancy dressed ticket holders who took it turn to rest their limbs on a massive throne beside the dance floor. Themed cocktails were liberally dolled out to keep the dead alive and the decor inside the bars and dance floor punched with fun, freak and colour, as did the music. The only picture I have is of myself entombed in prayer next to a skeleton in a bridal dress. No, I’m not sharing it.
But I am alive. With this in mind, I went to my cottage in Wiltshire where the chap that cuts the lawn informed me that I have a mole problem. Indeed, every step across this modest expanse of England’s green and pleasant resulted in that sinking feeling. I was reminded of an interesting luncheon conversation some time ago with a septuagenarian solicitor who insisted that the best time to deal with moles was at eleven in the morning or four in the afternoon. He knew this because he had sat quietly on his lawn for a few days armed with a twelve gauge. My gardener had also suggested various forms of trap but all resulted in death for the burrowing rodent.
Except one. He told me how one elderly couple in the neighbourhood never have any long time mole problems because she makes her husband pee in a bucket outside the garden door and, whenever a fresh mole hill appears, she digs down until she finds the tunnel entrance and pours the bucket down it. Apparently, male urine contains sufficient odours that repulse the moles into moving far away. They do not drown apparently. My housemate, son and I have specific instruction to go for a stroll with a trowel and find the freshest mound of earth whenever nature calls. We find it far more satisfying to aim true rather than rely on the inaccuracies of a bucket. Apparently, it works for foxes too but, given recent political and sporting history, that would be opening a whole new can of worms. Or is that just for the moles? And are the moles male? Life can be very confusing sometimes.