The Jester’s Requiem: Yorick Unmasked (IP)

"The Jester’s Requiem: Yorick Unmasked"
By Imogen Ida Nadir, Vanity Unfair

London, 6:45 p.m.
Yorick may have once been the court jester of Elsinore, but today, he’s more a king of reinvention. When he finally breezes into the hotel suite—25 minutes late, naturally—he’s dressed in an impeccably tailored blazer by Gorm the Great, Denmark’s hottest avant-garde menswear designer. A silk pocket square in blood red (subtle, surely) peeks from his lapel. His scent, a limited-edition fragrance by Bjørnsen, hangs in the air: pepper, musk, and, dare I say, a hint of melancholy.

He lounges across from me, cigarette in hand, a tumbler of his newest creation—Yordka, a vodka with "a distinct taste of mirth"—within reach. The bottle, prominently displayed on the table, is striking: frosted glass etched with Yorick’s skull and crowned with a gold stopper shaped like a jester’s cap.

“It’s not just a drink,” he quips, raising the glass to the light. “It’s an existential crisis in a bottle. One sip, and you’ll laugh; two sips, and you’ll cry. By the third, you’ll wonder if any of this even matters.”

On His Memoir:
The vodka is just the beginning. Yorick is here to promote his upcoming memoir, Fooling No One: A Life in Jest, which promises to be a rollicking, bittersweet recounting of his time at Elsinore.

“Everyone thinks they know me,” he says, exhaling smoke in a languid stream. “To most, I’m the man who taught Hamlet his first riddle and left him pondering the void in a graveyard. But I was so much more: confidant to queens, sparring partner to courtiers, and, occasionally, the only sober man in the room.”

The book is, according to Yorick, equal parts tell-all and philosophical treatise. “You’ll laugh, you’ll weep, you’ll question your very existence,” he promises, his grin wicked. “And isn’t that what great art should do?”

On the Royal Wardrobe:
When I inquire about his penchant for designer attire, Yorick dismisses it with a wave of his cigarette. “After centuries as a skull, one likes to remind people of one’s corporeal flair,” he says. He gestures to his blazer. “Gorm understands the intersection of tragedy and style—he calls this piece ‘Memento Chic.’ It felt appropriate.”

Does he miss the motley and bells? “Oh, darling, they were ghastly. The velvet chafed, and the bells—” He shudders theatrically. “You try delivering biting satire when you sound like a cat chasing a wind chime.”

On Yordka:
The vodka, he insists, is more than a marketing gimmick. “You must understand: the Danes have a peculiar relationship with alcohol and existential despair,” he says, pouring me a glass. “I wanted Yordka to capture that tension—sharp, clean, with just a hint of bitterness. It’s a celebration of life’s absurdity.”

The slogan—For Those Who Laugh in the Face of the Abyss—feels quintessentially Yorick. As does his insistence that the launch party will be held at a Danish graveyard, complete with torchlit toasts and live jazz.

On Hamlet’s Legacy:
Naturally, the conversation turns to Hamlet. Yorick leans back, cradling his glass. “People ask me about him constantly. What was he like? Did I see the madness coming? It’s exhausting, really. Hamlet was a boy trying to wrestle with truths too big for him. It broke him. If there’s any tragedy in the tale, it’s that no one told him it was okay to not understand everything.”

He takes a sip, then adds, “But I suppose, without that existential crisis, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about him, would we? Every bottle of Yordka sold owes a little something to the prince. I should’ve made him a partner.”

As I Take My Leave:
The interview concludes with Yorick lighting yet another cigarette, his wit as sharp as ever. “Write something dazzling,” he says, brushing a speck of ash from his sleeve. “Tell them I’m not just a skull, but a symbol. A man who lived, laughed, and loved too brightly for this world.”

I assure him that his story speaks for itself. As I step out into the night, my head spinning from the vodka and the man’s inimitable charm, one thought lingers: in a world so quick to dismiss the jester, Yorick has once again proven himself the sharpest mind in the room.