The Rugby Players Association launched the ‘Lift The Weight’ campaign in 2017. A Professional Players’ Federation (PPF) survey of retired players revealed 62 per cent experienced some sort of mental health issue. We sat down with James Haskell and Damien Hopley, RPA Group Chief Executive, to find out why it is so important to #lifttheweight.
For thousands of years, the nomadic herders of the Khangai Mountains have stewarded the land home to the Khangai yak. These semi-wild indigenous species roam the rugged grassland steppes of the remote far reaches of Mongolia. Its intense wild landscapes are capped by glacier-tipped mountains, separated by green river valleys and shadowed by soaring peaks.
I was headed for check-in at the Boston Harbour Hotel, a recipient of both the Forbes Five-Star and AAA Five-Diamond awards. The hotel sits on Rowes Wharf, formerly a neighbourhood called South Battery. Created by early settlers during the seventeenth century, one of the city’s most prolific businessmen, John Rowe, purchased the land in 1764 and put up the original Rowes Wharf which was extended into Boston Harbour.
The Morgan raced on down the lane as the late October rain pelted the demure metal figure of British engineering. The storm had been battering my small enclave of the British Isles for some time. So much water had risen, I was beginning to forget a time before the flood.
Considering how prime its position on the square is, the exterior is rather understated. Though the interior decor is about as dramatic as anything I have ever seen. The floors are made of rare esmeralda onyx marble imported from Iran. There’s a large shoal of Frank Gehry fish lamps above the red stone bar that are guarded by some rather buxom bronze mermaids from Damien Hirst. Interior designer Martin Brudnizki has curated the interiors with Art Deco light fixtures, coral-coloured leather banquettes and a sizeable ceiling mural that covers the 190-seat restaurant.
Directed by Andy Newbery with Cinematography by Oona Menges, The Host is the first internationally distributed, English speaking, Dutch feature film.
For the longest time, The Savoy has eluded me. I’ve passed its decorated facade on many occasions, but for some reason, its heavily recessed entrance has never drawn me in.
Deck the halls: it was 1978 and gravel-voiced, slide-guitar-wielder Chris Rea was driving home for Christmas. Except he wasn’t. Rea had lost his license for hitting the sauce in perfectly rock-star fashion.
Join us as we interview some of the worlds most prolific collectors from infancy to the collections zenith. This time we sit down with Alex Clark, founder of Bitstew to talk about his burgeoning Ferrari collection whilst he hunts down a new addition to his collection, The Ferrari Monza SP1.
The year was 1989. George H. W. Bush had been elected President with 53.4 percent of the popular vote. The Exxon Valdez was spilling 11 million gallons of crude oil into the Prince William Sound. And I was in the back of my mother’s Mini Cooper, none the wiser to any of it. We had been bundled into the old Mini at horrendous o’clock in the morning by my dear mother, who was resolute in her intentions to make it into the stone circle before sunrise. But, even as a precocious six-year-old, I knew nothing of the politics and social battles that had raged for the past decade. Stonehenge has…
After two nights spent crisscrossing the urban metropolis of Bangkok trying to catch up with old friends, I was rather glad to be arriving on the tropical island of Koh Samui.
Five percent. Only five percent of the ocean has been topographically imaged. This means that 65% of our planet, where you and I live, is unknown. We’ve mapped Mercury and have an incredibly detailed “Idiot’s Guide to the Moon”, complete with ramblers maps which show you how to trek around the international claims of the US and Soviet governments. But comparatively, we know very little of the abyssal plains and continental shelves.
It had been almost a decade since I strapped into a Ferrari for anything other than a brisk weekend jaunt. In reverse order, The Ferrari 488 Pista in San Francisco, the F12 Berlinetta and GTC4Lusso in Vancouver, and the 2012 California 30 in the Loire Valley. Considering the amount of time and craftsmanship that goes into fettling a Ferrari to life, 48 hours seems like an affront to the great and the good in Maranello. Not wanting to appear obtuse, I boarded the earliest train from Cheltenham bound for the ‘Welsh Riviera’ to seek out the Ferrari Portofino. Ideally to ‘take her a prize’.
It was forty-five minutes past the witching hour and all was tranquil. The torrential rain that had marred our otherwise scenic drive had gladly ceased leaving Marylebone Lane awash with the glow from the ornate street lamps. Spirits were high, bolstered by the recent nuptials at the Powell Burke wedding in North London that very evening. By this point in the proceedings, I had imbibed enough to play Summertime by Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong in some sort of homage to My Fair Lady. Which incidentally was actually shot on neighbouring Wimpole Street. I abhor anyone playing music on their mobile phone in public. Unless it’s the First Lady of…
I should start with full disclosure. I was born and bred in Wiltshire. With its rolling chalk download and grazing farmland, it really was an incredibly wonderful and rural place to grow up. I remember hot summers at the Marlborough Jazz Festival and trudging through Savernake Forest, winter walks around Avebury and Stonehenge, and weekends spent at Bowood House and atop Silbury Hill. So deep are the county’s agricultural roots that our houses at school were named Stonehenge, Whitehorse, Ridgeway and Sarum. So, when I decided to spend a long weekend at West Barn Lodge, near Favant, it felt more like a homecoming. We booked our stay with Premier Cottages….
When I dwelled in the soot-covered streets of central London, I didn’t really have much need to pay dues to a members’ club. London is hectic, in a way that makes even the most confident and athletic appear grey and lifeless over time. But that wasn’t me, babe. I was living out of a certain hotel on Brook Street circa 2007 and all was gin-soaked and well with the world. Except, quietly, it wasn’t, was it. BNP Paribas was quietly blocking withdrawals from two of its hedge funds. The Dow Jones peaked at 14,164.53 and then started to decline faster than Gordon Gekko’s prison sentence. Shortly after the US bailed its players out to the tune of $800 billion (that we know of), the European ripple was in…
As part of our series of films with Cooke lenses, we asked the ladies and gents in white coats at Rolls-Royce if they could make available a marque that would befit our interest in helping them get ‘The Cooke Look’. What the team suggested wildly exceeded our expectations.
As I continue to rack up the years like tree rings laced with gin and bittersweet symphonies, I am constantly reminded of the ever-increasing gap between the young and the no-so-young. This widening fissure between generations presents itself more often in the usage of phrases that my grandparents taught me when I was growing up. After all, the language we use in our formative years becomes our cultural lexicon. So, when I say to you that Jonathan Turner is ‘salt of the earth’, I expect those of you without the knowledge of the term to research it, whether you are scholarly or not. Established in 1919, in Leeds, by a…
will be the first to admit that we are spoilt for choice in Europe when it comes to finding tall mountains to assert dominance from. The Matterhorn, Eiger, Montblanc and Dolomites are all majestic mountain ranges conjuring up images of bearded climbers ascending to untouched peaks with leather bound crampons and supplies of Kendal mint cake.
We arrived in San Francisco a little after 9 pm on a Tuesday. Fuelled by the debauchery of the Grammy Awards the night before, then sundowners on Venice Beach, we were ready for cocktails in the 415. As a former tech marketer during the ‘00s and growing up with the likes of ‘A View to a Kill’, I was intrigued to see what the face of tech-boom San Francisco looked like from the windows of the Nikko Hotel. We rode the monorail or AirTrain for what seemed like days, eventually finding our way to the Fox Rent a Car facility. Note: use a hire car company that drops your vehicle…