Branded Male

There won't be blood

I wouldn't want to be one of those bloggers who constantly write about products sent to them by hopeful PR agencies, but something intriguing appeared in the mail the other day. It was sent to me by a reader who works for Tailormade, a small sales and marketing outfit here in Paris. At first, I was attracted by the retro packaging. And then I read that if you dab the stuff on a shaving cut, the bleeding ceases instantly.

The product is called Bloc Hyalin, and it's basically a block of alum. Known as "alun" in French, this is a chemical compound: its full name is hydrated aluminium potassium sulfate (thank you, Wikipedia). As you may know, it has been used for years as a natural astrigent and aftershave. One source on the web even claims that the ancient Egyptians considered it a "shaving essential".

And no wonder: an alum block is said to calm razor burn, close pores, cauterise cuts and fend off shaving rash. Applied early, it'll combat pimples. It has even been used as a deodorant, because it kills off the bacteria that cause the unpleasant odour. The product I've been sent is 100 per cent natural: the packaging informs me that there are synthetic versions that don't do the job as well.

I'm quietly chuffed with my alum block, and I'll certainly keep it around for use the next time I nick myself while shaving.

Martinis in Barcelona

If you travel enough, you inevitably end up returning to places. Which is good, because there's something deeply satisfying about arriving in a great cosmopolitan city where you do not reside, and knowing exactly where to get a decent drink. It's even better if you know a handful of people who are willing to come and enjoy it with you.

Such is the case with Barcelona, home of one of my favourite families in the entire world, as well as an excrutiatingly cool design agency called Vasava, with whom I worked on a project for Diesel a couple of years ago. And this weekend I somehow arranged it so that we could all meet at a bar called Dry Martini.

It's a Barcelona institution: a place of dark wood, red banquettes and surrealist artworks. The customers range from elderly rakes to young guns in jeans. A local character, a well-known transvestite singer, pops in every night to discreetly proffer CDs of her flamenco performances - or single red roses. But there is no flamenco here. The soundtrack is the smart rattle of ice in a cocktail shaker. The list of cocktails is long, but you can't go wrong with the classic dry martini: gin with a rumour of vermouth, and an olive.

A discreet door at the back of the bar leads to a restaurant called Speakeasy. But unless you know it's there, none of the staff will mention it to you. Book in advance and you can disappear into a slightly more modern, but equally suave environment. Barcelona can be a vibrant, frenetic city: but here, it shows off its more discreet side.

Dry Martini and Speakeasy: Aribau 162-166, Barcelona.

Bachelors and other sharks

Readers, I am getting married next year, and the subject of bachelor parties has already raised its ugly head. Known as "stag parties" in England, these charming events typically involve oceans of booze and liberal doses of pranks, humiliation and strippers. Needless to say, they are thoroughly proletarian affairs and since the dawn of time - or at least, since before I even knew I was getting married - I have sworn that I will never get involved in one.

But my friend Jason suggests that it would be a pity not to mark the passing of my single life with an event of some kind. A recent trip to the cinema provided a potential solution: I now want to swim with sharks.

The movie was the documentary Sharkwater, and it is about the attempts of young marine biologist Rob Stewart (left) to rehabilitate sharks - which are not the maneaters of mythology, but the serene kings of the deep - while exposing the horrific shark fin industry. In the midst of all this, there are lots of extraordinary scenes of Stewart swimming with, stroking and even cuddling his toothy chums.

What is it with guys and sharks? We've always been fascinated by the things, and the screening of Sharkwater was full of fathers and their wide-eyed sons. I think it's because sharks represent the ultimate combat. In mythological terms, they are pure evil: killing machines in constant motion. If you can face down a shark, what else could possibly scare you?

It all started with Jaws, of course. Naturally, I went to see it with my dad. Realising even at the age of ten that I bore a closer resemblance to the nerdy marine biologist played by Richard Dreyfuss, I nonetheless preferred Quint - the semi-alcoholic shark hunter magnificently portrayed by Robert Shaw. This is no surprise: Quint is essentially a pirate, an old-fashioned buccaneer with a spear gun instead of a cutlass. He has evolved to appeal to the ten-year-old in all of us. And he gives sharks a very bad rap.

In Sharkwater, Stewart patiently explains that sharks are not bad guys, and that attacks on humans are incredibly rare. Soda pop machines kill more people than sharks, he points out. Not only that, but the attacks are mistakes: sharks occasionally bite people because they think we are seals, and they back off after the first nibble, having realised their error. The fact is that most of the time we share the oceans with sharks in perfect safety. When Stewart swims with a huge school of hammerheads, they show zero interest in him. On the other hand, Costa Rican customs officials chase him with machine guns. "Human beings," he observes, "are way more dangerous than sharks."

It is perfectly possible to go to Costa Rica and swim with the sharks - I've found web sites for people who organise it for you. However, I doubt my fiancé will be too keen on the idea. So I'll probably end up having a bachelor party with humans, no matter how dangerous they are.

The Officina Profumo Affair

I've never had a cologne to call my own. Like most of us, the first male fragrance I ever sniffed was my dad's after shave, which was called Denim ("For the man who doesn't have to try...too hard," drawled the ad). In my teens, a girlfriend encouraged me to splash out on Fahrenheit. Later, I upped the ante to Acqua di Parma. More recently, I've been sporting the occasional dab of Cerruti Si: it was sent to me as a freebie, but the Branded Female decided she liked it. I wear it so sparingly that it has taken me three years to empty the bottle.

Now minus my Si, I've been casting around for a new odour. I had a vague idea that I wanted woody and sophisticated rather than fresh and boyish, but nothing appealed. That changed this weekend, on a brief trip to Antwerp, of all places. On a quiet back street, we stumbled across a branch of Officina Profumo - Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella, the ancient Florentine apothecary established in 1612. I was instantly captivated by the tiled floor, the air of sedate calm, and the racks of old-fashioned bottles glinting with amber and citrine potions. Not to mention the discreet approach of the curly-haired Italian assistant.

Having pegged me as a potential client, he extracted a box of tiny cologne samples from under his glass-topped counter, and wafted each of the eaux under my nose. I was attracted to frangipane, half-convinced by Cuba, but finally seduced by Santal. This has a heart of sandalwood, obviously, with a hint of bergamot. The Branded Female approved. And as half of the appeal of the brand is its extravagantly vintage packaging, I bought some shaving cream unprompted.

Acqua di Parma, Cerruti Si, Officina Profumo: a pattern is forming here. My sense of humour is British, my taste buds are French, but apparently I like to smell Italian.