Martin Ellis Jones defied many things. A gentleman who revelled in being a rogue, he defied the convention of his upbringing to become a purveyor of silk top hats to generations of grooms, Garden Party guests and Royal Ascot goers not lucky enough to inherit their own.
A style savant since his youth in the Swinging Sixties, even in his late seventies he defied the smirkers and the muggers to stroll down the King’s Road near midnight wearing a tailcoat and carrying a clarinet like a swagger stick. A bon vivant whose diet of Moules, Montrachet and Hoyo de Monterrey never let up, Martin defied even the Grim Reaper, whose attempts to claim him were repulsed with elan for more than a decade. When I last saw him in June at his eightieth birthday party, though no longer strong, Martin was still going — and enjoying every minute of it. Friends, family and a procession of well-wishers had arrived at his new home in Cheltenham to celebrate with him and his partner, Sandra. As I walked into the crowded sitting room, through a sea of faces and waves of chatter, I heard Martin’s inimitable voice cry out. Though a little reedy, it nevertheless retained its mellow Robert Newton-meets-Duke of Edinburgh timbre, like gargling on Worcester Sauce. The sentiment too was vintage Ellis Jones: “Pincher, you’d better make scarce with that gin & tonic pronto. The other half of it is waiting for you!” Even as a lifetime’s accumulation of bad habits laid him low, Martin’s mind and wit sparkled.
As well as hats, Martin Ellis Jones was the purveyor of tales, some of them as tall as his toppers but all of them very good
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I first met Martin Ellis Jones in the summer of 2000. I had seen an advert for Hetherington Hats in The Spectator and, being one of the hatless many myself, I made an appointment for a fitting at their premises in Chelsea. I had no idea what to expect as I arrived at the basement flat at 25 Walpole Street, but what greeted me was certainly beyond my conception. An apartment, which otherwise might be called “roomy”, crammed from floor to ceiling with antique top hats. Hats stacked on shelves, on windowsills and on the floor. Hats piled high on every table and chair. Hats under the desk and tumbling from cupboards. Hats in the bedroom, atop the wardrobe and on the bed. There were even hats in the kitchen being steamed in the sink. And squeezed in between the toppers, an array of antique furniture, paintings, silverware and other bibelots competed for attention. Meanwhile, Martin and Sandra stood at the centre of it all, dispensing charm, knowledge and strong liquor. That day Martin sold me a hat, hosted me in their little garden, introducing me to an endless stream of exotic and entertaining friends before taking me to dinner at Foxtrot Oscar in Royal Hospital Road. It was the hallmark of Martin’s generosity of spirit — and pocket. He gave up his time freely, and whatever I spent on that hat, he returned a goodly part of it with what he spent on me.
As well as hats, Martin Ellis Jones was the purveyor of tales, some of them as tall as his toppers but all of them very good. And he told them in a style which captured one’s attention and imagination, a sort of watershed Jackanory for grown-ups. He once told me that his favourite dinner party had been hosted by the late Lord Whitelaw in which all the guests had been required to make up obscene limericks whilst being waited upon by a retinue of naked black servants. I was not sure which part of the story to disbelieve because it was told with such vim and colour, but I wanted to believe every bit of it because it seemed so wildly funny. And because Martin really did know everybody. He was one of those rare people that, on hearing any name, could launch easily into an anecdote which, whilst utterly implausible if told by anyone else, seemed entirely authentic when coming from him. And those stories could connect Robin Maugham to Charlie Haughey to Mandy Rice Davies to the Duke of Kent, flowing as lightly and easily as a chalk stream. With Martin Ellis Jones, six degrees of separation was reduced to three. He always promised that one day he would tell something “really, really quite juicy” about Michael Heseltine. But he never quite got around to it.
That story will have to wait a while now. But if there is another land to which we are all called, I am sure that Martin Ellis Jones will await us there, a top hat on his head, a glass in his hand, a sparkle in his eye and a story to make us smile. I think that Hilaire Belloc must have had Martin, or someone like him, in mind when he sat down to begin his Dedicatory Ode: “From quiet homes and first beginning, out to the undiscovered ends, there’s nothing worth the wear of winning, but laughter and the love of friends.”
