My Kind of Man

My kind of man - Julian Allen - Petticoat September 1971

Illustration by Julian Allen.

Scanned by Miss Peelpants from Petticoat, September 1971

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Rings and Things

rings and things

Illustration by Alan Cracknell.

Scanned by Miss Peelpants from Petticoat, December 1970.


Mother Wouldn’t Like It

Mother Wouldn't Like It

Have just formed a new organisation. It’s called SPOCC or the Society for the Protection of Clothes Customers. Idea came last night when I collected a couple of suits from the cleaners, only to find that the shoulder padding of one jacket was lost somewhere down the sleeve, and the trousers, supposed to be drip dry, were wrinkled like a Dutch dyke. The first suit came from Carnaby Street, the second from the Kings Road. Jose, my flat-mate, tried to pacify me by saying, “I thought you said clothes now are fashionable and short-lived. So what do you expect?” Simply that a suit shouldn’t disappear at the first clean! I accept built-in obsolescence and all those rubbishy excuses for using cheap materials, but I expect a suit to last a year, not a month. How about you? Let me know what you think … it might add up to some interesting revelations. Like the super trousers in the sketch. They’re Newman jeans from France; they cost much more than English or American but, in my view, are twice as good. I got a pair from the Heavy Metal Kids in the Kensington Market for £5. Elsewhere you can pay up to 8 gns. Shirts are another racket. The shirt here looks as if it costs 10 gns., and so it can at some places. In fact, it’s made by a man called Bryan King, who works in a Queensway attic, turning out great shirts handmade, frilled, tapered, for £2—£4, and sells them at his stall, Mother Wouldn’t Like It, also in the Ken Market. The tie-makers have become so ridiculously expensive that ties are out except for the odd occasion, and these shirts are as logical a take-over as the polo sweater. If Bryan can turn them out at this price, why can’t others? Remember—next time you think you’ve been rooked, let Luke SPOCC Jarvis know.

Written by Luke Jarvis.

Illustration by Wendy Buttrose.

Scanned by Miss Peelpants from Honey, March 1968.


The quickest way to his heart

quickest way by leslie chapman

Don’t say it’s only pretty pictures here at Vintage-a-Peel, sometimes you get bonus recipes with your amazing art deco-inspired illustrations…

Illustration by Leslie Chapman.

Scanned by Miss Peelpants from Petticoat Magazine, December 1971.


Pucci’s Venus

Pucci's Venus

Illustration by David Wolfe for Fortnum & Mason.

Scanned by Miss Peelpants from Vogue, February 1971.


Well, there has to be a first time, doesn’t there?

Well, there has to be a first time, doesn't thereHe’s twenty-five. He’s wearing boots. He has this smile that makes you think of your pony back home in Sussex. He asks you out. You’ve been in London three weeks. You’ve been to the movies alone five times. You’ve eaten thirteen tins of baked beans. You think he looks dangerous. You accept. He takes you for a meal—one they used to put on expense accounts and now write off to personal sex accounts.

He’s wearing a snakeskin suit. It has the insidious imprint of the King’s Road Own Seduction Corps. King’s regulations are strictly for the birds and you’re barely hatched. You’ve made the first move backwards by wearing a very almost-not-there dress which Mummy said was common when you were home last weekend.

His car smells of polished leather and Brut and you were warned that Devon Violets is suspect, in spite of granny-chat. It’s a cover-up for you-know-what. You murmur among the traffic lights. You park among the foreign number plates. The CD’s scream their immunity from dangerous corners, double yellow lines and fire station forecourts.

The restaurant is sadly assembled. Small and dull, you share the regulation banquet with eight others. Tables have to be shuffled every time some-one wants to move.

You trail fringes in and out of your neighbour’s potage au pea and, again, later, through the empty plate, scooping and spinning the spoon.

You have a dry martini because they do in TV serials and in TV commercials with suave celebrities and because your father suggested it when his advice was sought. His reasons are probably the same.

You restrain a shudder as your larynx dehydrates and grab at the whitebait as it arrives like a marooned sailor would whistle for mermaids. Similarly. you wish the tiny heads were less wistful, the tiny tails less anguished. But you’re absorbed in the effort to show interest in your Mate’s Progress whilst trying to clean up the soupy and fringy bits without appearing to be scratching the bottom of the bowl.

You order something that looks like Coq au Rising, because it’s one of those witty places where the menu is badly chalked on an old slate with remarks like, `sorry drakes, the duck’s night off—try our Boeuf Havitoff instead’.

Everything is going to be disguised in tomato sauce with chopped peppers to hush it up and a few mushrooms, tired of waiting, to tone it down.

The creamed spinach has bits of the label off the tin concealed in it. After guiding it on a tour of your teeth, you swallow it rather than eject it from tongue to table. The sherry trifle is reminiscent of school lunches. Mucky, spongy left-over in a thin sauce. 

The coffee is aggressive. It scrapes the protesting throat. Nevertheless, sour and stewed, down it has to go, setting up a sacrificial reaction ‘from the wine, something red and spiteful, which could have been emulsion with thinners. The martini is already forgotten but not forgiven.

Your head blows off when it meets Fulham freshness.

The flat—his—is in a block where the central heating boasts with absurd exaggeration and there’s no air to need conditioning! It’s on the fourth floor. The lift is silent with warning.

You drop your coat on the hall chest, which itself has a mistletoe bough threat from its Peter Jones mock studdery. He leads you to maturity via a Conran sofa where, with all those occasional tables and two plastic poufs, romance would perish even between Heloise and Abelard. 

He says you’re very lovely, aren’t you? Enigmatically you smile at him as you unhook the fringe tethering his pocket zip to your prudent bust. He adds that you’ve an untouched quality. Enigma changes to wistful nostalgia for opportunities lost and then you feel a sudden, terrifying attack of wind. Losing your virginity is one thing, the risk of losing control of digestive outlets, is quite another.

Your muscles assume a rigidity in their counter-attack, which he assumes is modesty. He murmurs softly to relax, little girl, you can trust him. Trust him for what? A tablet to bring express relief? But the moment passes. Relief prompts honesty so you admit that you are, indeed, untouched.

He gently pulls at your shoulder strap. Here it comes. The pay-off. Your neckline was designed for display rather than subtlety and the slide of the shoulder strap suggests gar-rotting rather than seduction.

The wine, the warmth, the hum of collective combustion below, make soporific nonsense of energetic passion. Virginity is never its own reward, only someone else’s, but we must have something to tell Sue and all the others.

Zips slip. The silence is describable. Like heavy breathing or deep down from an eider. More compelling, much more inviting, more mysterious, more exciting than Mantovani’s melodious mood music.

Eyes close slowly. Langour is your mantra.

Moment of truth . . . a novice in the Yearling Stakes, you surge forward on the thrust of optimism. But the whitebait and the chicken stew and the trifle rise, too, in defence of your honour and purity.

Hold it! The sour coffee, the sauce, the one martini—yes, even and the almost dry martini, forgiven. Control is ruined and so is the Conran gingham. But not, dear, your virginity!

Text by Diana Cooper.

Illustration by Malcolm Bird

Scanned by Miss Peelpants from 19 Magazine, April 1972.


I see the gypsy in your soul

honey20alan20aldridge20small

Illustration by Alan Aldridge.

Scanned by Miss Peelpants from Honey, July 1968.