Matthew Steeples laments the loss of one of what once set London apart: Manners and gentlemen
In September in London, “normality” – if such ever exists – is meant to resume. The ‘Silly Season’ is supposed to end but yesterday, on 1st September, anything but such was apparent.
With streets still peppered with yellow Bentleys (nobody would object to a yellow Ferrari but a yellow Bentley, yes, a yellow Bentley; certainly not) and gaudy pink G-Wagens, shisha remained all the rage and perfume still strongly wafted. The Arabs paraded and Russians flashed their cash; bodyguards pushed little old ladies out of the paths of their charges, loud music blared from rickshaws and all in all, I noted the aura in Knightsbridge and South Kensington to be nothing but dreadful.
An English voice is rare now in this neighbourhood and with the sad passing of such legends – and true gentlemen, wherever they may have originated from – such as Sir Peter O’Sullevan and Omar Sharif, a wonderful thing has passed. One simply has to ask: “Where have all the gentlemen gone?”
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