We’ve been toying with the idea for a while now. It’s not unusual for Straight-Six and The Prodigal Fool to crack open a bottle after a meal and get down to some impassioned watch chat. And when they do, the wit, the insight, the downright genius of these two men is unequalled. If only, we thought, we could channel some of that magic and bottle it, if only we could harness that repartee, leverage that peerless chemistry, then surely the world would be enriched immeasurably.
Our first couple of attempts? Yeah, not a total success. We didn’t get the mix quite right: a little too much Cognac, not quite enough, you know, coherent speech. But now, dear readers, we think we’ve finally cracked it. We’ve managed to capture the alchemy on film and are delighted to present it for your viewing pleasure.
So, without further ado, we’re delighted to introduce a new video series here on The Prodigal Guide. We call it Talking Hands and it’s all about having a drink while debating the good, the bad and the ugly (bottom line) of a particular watch.
Our first Talking Hands looks at that most mythic of sports chronographs, the Rolex Cosmograph Daytona. What will our two resident watch fans make of this piece? Will they ever get to the bottom of that bottle of Shiraz? And, more importantly, will you make it to the end of this rather lengthy first episode without smashing your screen in disgust at their inane, drunken drivel? There’s only one way to find out, folks…
Talking Hands: The Rolex Cosmograph Daytona
We’ve been toying with the idea for a while now. It’s not unusual for Straight-Six and The Prodigal Fool to crack open a bottle after a meal and get down to some impassioned watch chat. And when they do, the wit, the insight, the downright genius of these two men is unequalled. If only, we [...]
Our founder and publisher, the self-proclaimed "greatest wit, raconteur and bon vivant of our age", borders on delusional. Over the years, The Fool has squandered more money on fast cars, Swiss watches and electronic gadgetry of all kinds than he – or his bank manager – cares to remember. Come nightfall, he can invariably be found stumbling out of Dukes mumbling “just one more Martini; I could have handled just one mmmmm… [thud!]”
Contact the author