Public school shame

I won the golf. Lets be clear about it, any claims by public schoolboy chaps claiming victory, should be dismissed at once because, as I predicted in this column yesterday, whilst those with girls handicaps claimed to hold the upper hand, their claim to victory is based on the false premise that a real victory can be achieved under these straightened circumstances.

This is appalling behaviour, the kind that even a lowly grammar school where I had education stuffed into me from an early ago would frown upon. The idea of hiding behind women’s skirts to gain an advantage over a male adversary is anathema to me, which just goes to show that much money can be wasted by sending your children to English public schools, unless you want them to end up as scoundrels and ne’er do wells, as is the case with my assailants yesterday. I will not name names here as it is all rather embarressing for those involved, but if I was either Bob Hanka or Mr Clipboard (aka Sir Lunch A lot, aka Mark Gurdon) then I would be hanging my head in shame when reading this.

Imagine children being abused by the various organs of the Catholic church? That was the gist of what a children’s campaigner said on the BBC recently. I do hope that the phrase will not be misinterpreted by my readers. To me, this is a perfect example of, and epitomises what I consider to be one of the dangers which come with following a religion. I commence this theme because I have not heard from regular reader the Reverend Jeff for some time and I need to know he is still alive, and I suspect that this line of discussion might awaken him. He is a dear friend, if entirely theologically misguided, and the laziest man I have ever known, and I expect his defence will be something to do with pastoral care being more worthwhile than the pursuit of worldly goods. However, this does not sit well with a man who was extremely boastful, when we were teenagers, of his MFI golf clubs, until us mere mortals who had to hire clubs in order to play, saw the massive posters warning “these clubs can kill”. They were of course referring to the self same clubs purchased by our friendly neighbourhood religious zealot.

My picture today is of the finished terrace, the building construction over which I have toiled aimlessly diligently over the past few days. The tent like feature is now in place, which may be of some use today if it rains on that nice lady decorators Miglio Jewellery party, to which all girl readers are invited. Us chaps will of course be having a long lunch after tennis, to avoid having to gaze upon the no doubt over priced baubles (actually here, I may side with the Reverend Jeff), or worse still, being pressed into buying them. I am only concerned at what will happen after 4pm, as the wingco has an airport run to do, so there will be no brandy (or perhaps a limited amount?) on his terrace as tradition normally dictates, and I may be homeless for a time.

The new terrace and bar, untested as I speak

After my victory at golf yesterday, we decided that lunch looked good outside in the sunshine on the terrace of Chateau Begude, the scene of my earlier golfing triumph, and as Mr Clipboard was “in the chair” so to speak, due to my impersonation of an estate agent for him when he was stuck in the UK some weeks ago, the lamb cutlets in garlic took my fancy, as did a cognac digestive afterwards. It was the most expensive item on the menu, but if you think I chose it just because it was the most expensive item on the menu, you would be right.

A sundowner to test out the new terrace was required last evenbing, carrying on my habit of thoroughly testing any item in the household likely to come under scrutiny from summer rental customers, and I am happy to report that there were no teething problems at first look.

Chris France