Tuscany in our DB9 Volante
Discussion
Rosanne said:
Better than that, though, back in 1985 Hubby drove a Lynx "D" Type Jaguar replica to Geneva for the celebration of the release of the "E" Type many years earlier. His co-driver was a famous motor racing driver. Coming back via the Cote d'Azure and with both of them a tad pissed from a very vinous lunch, the famous motor racing driver drove the Jag off the road and into the sea in Monte Carlo. It cost not a lot to crane it out, but it cost thousands of dollars to spark up and move ten super yachts out of the way
At some point between leaving the boat on which this escapade began and arriving at Wellington`s Mermaids strip bar as the sun was starting to make it`s presence felt, we had become relatively inebriated. Finding an obnoxious member of the NZ Black Caps cricket team in the same club making lewd comments towards the lovely, semi-attired Polly who was chatting with us at the time presented the opportunity for some commentary, and as said fellow became quite aggressive and began name calling we collectively felt the need to sit him on his arse. Of course the actual deed fell to me as actors other than the great kiwi Russel Crowe don`t usually do their own fighting.
A huge applause (well, huge for the 10 people in attendance) ensued and a libation of alcohol quickly followed. Even the large Cook Island bouncer gave me a pat on the back before trundling off to get us some fish and chips.
As it transpired one of the customers was a well known rally driver that I had met previously and as fate would have it he had a show car nearby as he had been performing rides for guests of his sponsors. With some wheedling and cajoling we convinced him that we should get the car and I should take my American friend for a ride in the hills, having had extensive experience going sideways at great speed in a Mazda rally car of my own. Actually it was he that should conduct the experience but upon arriving at the vehicle he deferred to me due to his excessive vomiting and somewhat blurred vision. After a flat white and two steak and cheese pies from the BP petrol station I was ready to go and strapped into the four point harnesses with a full roll cage. I was feeling no danger.
We roared off into the hills with much hilarity and wheel spin and my actor friend saying things unrepeatable on daytime television as they tried to drink their Courvoisier. After some ill-advised vehicular mayhem not out of place in a Burt Reynolds (R.I.P) movie, I went through a damp left hander with the steering in opposite lock and clipped a letter box and a couple of metres of farm fencing, but recovered, and the car seemed undeterred so we continued on but with a little less fervour. Upon returning with the car we unbuckled and hopped out to inspect the damage and other than a crease in the bodywork behind the back wheel there was nothing serious to report, and it was then that we saw the metal number 9, clearly from the letter box, wedged into the rubber seal around the rear window.
This created a great deal of mirth and as we recalled the story to our rally driver friend, the car, seemingly with a mind of it`s own, rolled across the car park and performed a flying front dive into the harbor. While there were no super yachts in attendance, the moment certainly rates highly on my things I have been involved in file, and even better somehow avoided the local news, cleverly, as it was decided to remove the car late the following evening to avoid unwanted attention. To this day I still have that number 9.
Oh, Mr Tremlini,
My fat husband (aka " El Chubbo " ) asks me to report that even he is humbled by your eloquence, vivid description, and life time experience. Or at least he would have if Chiari the bar maid at our hotel, the Grand Citea, Via Carlo Alberto, Turin, hadn't been kind or foolish enough to offer him samples of every single malt on offer. Right now he is prostrate on the bath room floor. When I ask him if he is alright, he seems to either groaning or stating that he is praying to the Chief Distiller of the Lagavulin Distillery, whose 16 year old malt he states to be beyond praise.
Two days after we get back to England, he and three mates are pushing off in a very elderly Disco to the Highlands and Islands of Scotland for two weeks. At the last count the holiday largely comprised visits to nine distilleries and four breweries. I expect never to hear from any of them ever again..........hopefully!
Ciao, and thanks for your fascinating and amusing post
My fat husband (aka " El Chubbo " ) asks me to report that even he is humbled by your eloquence, vivid description, and life time experience. Or at least he would have if Chiari the bar maid at our hotel, the Grand Citea, Via Carlo Alberto, Turin, hadn't been kind or foolish enough to offer him samples of every single malt on offer. Right now he is prostrate on the bath room floor. When I ask him if he is alright, he seems to either groaning or stating that he is praying to the Chief Distiller of the Lagavulin Distillery, whose 16 year old malt he states to be beyond praise.
Two days after we get back to England, he and three mates are pushing off in a very elderly Disco to the Highlands and Islands of Scotland for two weeks. At the last count the holiday largely comprised visits to nine distilleries and four breweries. I expect never to hear from any of them ever again..........hopefully!
Ciao, and thanks for your fascinating and amusing post
Hubby is still puwling and muwling on the bathroom floor. He tells of a story that happened back in the '70's. At the time he had a Series one SP250 Daimler Dart. The early Darts were renowned for having very flexible fibre glass bodies. Indeed, he used to secure the doors shut tight with bits of string. One night in an attempt to impress a real hotty, he drove the car at very high speed into a select and exclusive road in Marlow where she lived. Taking a corner on two wheels, the door flew open, and not having seat belts, the girl was rocketed out through a low privet hedge and into an ornamental fishpond. He then reversed and confirmed that she was alright and that she was where she lived. She was. Despite that she still married him.
Rosanne said:
Oh, Mr Tremlini,
My fat husband (aka " El Chubbo " ) asks me to report that even he is humbled by your eloquence, vivid description, and life time experience. Or at least he would have if Chiari the bar maid at our hotel, the Grand Citea, Via Carlo Alberto, Turin, hadn't been kind or foolish enough to offer him samples of every single malt on offer. Right now he is prostrate on the bath room floor. When I ask him if he is alright, he seems to either groaning or stating that he is praying to the Chief Distiller of the Lagavulin Distillery, whose 16 year old malt he states to be beyond praise.
Two days after we get back to England, he and three mates are pushing off in a very elderly Disco to the Highlands and Islands of Scotland for two weeks. At the last count the holiday largely comprised visits to nine distilleries and four breweries. I expect never to hear from any of them ever again..........hopefully!
Ciao, and thanks for your fascinating and amusing post
This is most intriguing Rosanne, as I once met an "El Chubbo" in a small fondue bar in Zermatt in the late naughties, so small it was in fact, that he had had to enter through the skylight, but in the time that we had together there was a small amount of conversation between us, and a huge degree of imbibing, and sure enough we found ourselves sitting on top of the same hostess, comparing our Swiss timepieces and laughing uproariously at the very concept of a quartz watch, and at this juncture he admitted that his actual name was El Gordo, and that El Chubbo was a colloquialism from a his regular life. My fat husband (aka " El Chubbo " ) asks me to report that even he is humbled by your eloquence, vivid description, and life time experience. Or at least he would have if Chiari the bar maid at our hotel, the Grand Citea, Via Carlo Alberto, Turin, hadn't been kind or foolish enough to offer him samples of every single malt on offer. Right now he is prostrate on the bath room floor. When I ask him if he is alright, he seems to either groaning or stating that he is praying to the Chief Distiller of the Lagavulin Distillery, whose 16 year old malt he states to be beyond praise.
Two days after we get back to England, he and three mates are pushing off in a very elderly Disco to the Highlands and Islands of Scotland for two weeks. At the last count the holiday largely comprised visits to nine distilleries and four breweries. I expect never to hear from any of them ever again..........hopefully!
Ciao, and thanks for your fascinating and amusing post
How could a life be regular, I asked, as he quaffed snifter after snifter of Dalmore 64 Trinitas while mocking the neighbouring guests who languished with some Laphroaig Quarter Cask?
At this point he was whisked out through the skylight and the thrum of helicopter blades beating in the direction of Monte Rosa and the wonders of Italy beyond, was all I had as an answer.
Could you, when your El Chubbo relinquishes his grip on the Turin tiles, ask him if he has any recollection of this encounter? I would be most grateful as it would satisfy a curiosity that I have had for the last two decades!
Mr.Tremlini said:
This is most intriguing Rosanne, as I once met an "El Chubbo" in a small fondue bar in Zermatt in the late naughties, so small it was in fact, that he had had to enter through the skylight, but in the time that we had together there was a small amount of conversation between us, and a huge degree of imbibing, and sure enough we found ourselves sitting on top of the same hostess, comparing our Swiss timepieces and laughing uproariously at the very concept of a quartz watch, and at this juncture he admitted that his actual name was El Gordo, and that El Chubbo was a colloquialism from a his regular life.
How could a life be regular, I asked, as he quaffed snifter after snifter of Dalmore 64 Trinitas while mocking the neighbouring guests who languished with some Laphroaig Quarter Cask?
At this point he was whisked out through the skylight and the thrum of helicopter blades beating in the direction of Monte Rosa and the wonders of Italy beyond, was all I had as an answer.
Could you, when your El Chubbo relinquishes his grip on the Turin tiles, ask him if he has any recollection of this encounter? I would be most grateful as it would satisfy a curiosity that I have had for the last two decades!
I am intrigued ! I married El Chubbo in 1998. He was slim, lithe and very tanned then, but mysteriously vague about his past. Although I was a bit put off by his car ( pearlescent white DBSV8 with a Leopard skin interior, and acquired in a poker game at the PlayBoy Club ), I permitted his courtship to continue. Yes, he had lived in Switzerland, and I don't doubt that he had allowed a lot of hostesses to take liberties with his person ( and v.v, I suspect ). What most intrigued me was that every time I met him in those days ( about every six weeks ) he had a different limb encased in plaster. He explained this by saying that he had a fondness for paragliding off the mountains behind Geneva, but was not much good at it. He even produced a Polaroid showing him in skintight Lycra standing on a wooden ramp with a parachute contraption strapped on. I particularly noticed two things- his helmet was a disgustingly luridHow could a life be regular, I asked, as he quaffed snifter after snifter of Dalmore 64 Trinitas while mocking the neighbouring guests who languished with some Laphroaig Quarter Cask?
At this point he was whisked out through the skylight and the thrum of helicopter blades beating in the direction of Monte Rosa and the wonders of Italy beyond, was all I had as an answer.
Could you, when your El Chubbo relinquishes his grip on the Turin tiles, ask him if he has any recollection of this encounter? I would be most grateful as it would satisfy a curiosity that I have had for the last two decades!
shade of orange, and that his Persol sunglasses covered nearly all of his upper face. Indeed,
were it not for the fact that he clutched a bottle of very expensive Stolichnya vodka in his hand,
I would not even have believed it to be him. I must go, we are heading for Dijon soon and I can hear him demanding that I run him a bath.
T.B.C.
t, but Mr Corbett was a wonderful gentleman.
Rosanne said:
Pericoloso said:
If you're in Turin and doing car museums,the national motor museum is near the
Lingotto building.
I have checked their website. Their collection is fantastic. They even have a Bugatti Type 35 B. Hubby has a passion for Bugatti's, ever since he hired a Veyron for two weeks in Florida earlier this year. He says that it's air conditioning was not much good, though. Lingotto building.
We'll definitely go to the Turin museum. Thanks for the tip.
If you can't do it this time then how about seeing Bugattis on the roads of Italy ?
You'll need to go in May ,for the Mille Miglia,the best car event EVER !
Drive to Brescia via Mulhouse.
Rosanne said:
I am intrigued ! I married El Chubbo in 1998. He was slim, lithe and very tanned then, but mysteriously vague about his past. Although I was a bit put off by his car ( pearlescent white DBSV8 with a Leopard skin interior, and acquired in a poker game at the PlayBoy Club ), I permitted his courtship to continue. Yes, he had lived in Switzerland, and I don't doubt that he had allowed a lot of hostesses to take liberties with his person ( and v.v, I suspect ). What most intrigued me was that every time I met him in those days ( about every six weeks ) he had a different limb encased in plaster. He explained this by saying that he had a fondness for paragliding off the mountains behind Geneva, but was not much good at it. He even produced a Polaroid showing him in skintight Lycra standing on a wooden ramp with a parachute contraption strapped on. I particularly noticed two things- his helmet was a disgustingly lurid
shade of orange, and that his Persol sunglasses covered nearly all of his upper face. Indeed,
were it not for the fact that he clutched a bottle of very expensive Stolichnya vodka in his hand,
I would not even have believed it to be him. I must go, we are heading for Dijon soon and I can hear him demanding that I run him a bath.
T.B.C.
As you now head north, we decamped from home yesterday and drove south to Tuscany ourselves, now resting up on the balcony of my in-laws after a terrific three course meal cooked by my father-in-law, a retired Italian chef of some skills who once came second (or maybe third) in the World Pizza Making Championship with his sublime margharita. Sitting here overlooking the horse riding in the neighbouring property of Salvatore Ferragamo while everyone in my household is in a red wine induced siesta I thought I would see how life advances on the Aston forum and note you are headed for Dijon. If you find yourselves in the area of Beaune, as a mustard aficionado I would recommend a visit to Edmond Fallot Mustard Mill, their Moutarde Aux Noix, a walnut infused dijon is an absolute king, and I have deviated there a few times to fill the boot of the Aston.shade of orange, and that his Persol sunglasses covered nearly all of his upper face. Indeed,
were it not for the fact that he clutched a bottle of very expensive Stolichnya vodka in his hand,
I would not even have believed it to be him. I must go, we are heading for Dijon soon and I can hear him demanding that I run him a bath.
T.B.C.
Well, Roseanne, it would seem that while there are characteristics and geographical similarities to our mutual El Chubbo experiences, your 1998 version seems too lithe of girth to be one in the same, although your mention of garish colour, both that of his head wear and car interior, does remind me that the high-spirited fellow in question in Zermatt was wearing a jumpsuit patterned like Emmental cheese, festooned with purple tassels and knee and shoulder pads, complemented with a toweling headband emblazoned with illustrations of Snoopy and Pluto in compromising positions. A rather original ensemble it`s fair to say, the like of which I have never seen since.
Paragliding brings back some memories too, as it is a sport in which I also have dabbled, albeit rather badly. My most indelible instant for all the wrong reasons was having a kite slightly too small in volume for that of my own, after an overindulgent winter, the end result being that it was incapable of lifting me off the ground in the less than adequate breeze and instead dragged me off my feet and down a slope which had a seemingly strategically placed patch of stinging nettle through which my unstoppable trajectory hauled me face first. While both infuriatingly embarrasing and agonising I was able to soothe both pains as a nearby group of hipster glampers wearing ridiculous amounts of ethnic beads and facial hair, including the women, and baggy Balinese trousers called my over to their enclave and plied me with chilly craft beers and marinated artichokes until I was feeling no pain and could continue downward in a more acceptable fashion, that being flying as the wind had picked up, and I certainly couldn`t have walked after all that 10% ale.
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